The first thing Jiang Meilin learned about serving at a charity gala was that trays grew heavier when nobody was allowed to eat from them.
The second was that rich people could look straight through a person.
"Eyes forward. No lingering beside guests," the service supervisor reminded the temporary staff. "If you're asked a question, answer politely. Otherwise, you are here to serve."
Meilin adjusted the black waistcoat over her white blouse. She had spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to tame her hair. A loose curl had already escaped.
"Understood," she said.
"And Miss Jiang? The exhibition coordinator wants a title for your painting before we open."
Meilin's fingers stilled on the silver tray.
A title.
Of all the things she had worried about, she'd forgotten that the painting couldn't hang under Untitled Cityscape, Artist Currently Panicking.
Madam Wen had left a small form at the service desk. Meilin found a pen and stared at the empty line.
She thought of the man behind the car window. The cleaner bending over her broom. The vendor arranging fruit while the sky brightened around people who might not have slept.
She thought, too, of mornings she had wished would never arrive.
Her pen moved.
Morning Comes Anyway.
She read the words once, then gave the form back.
"That's a strange title," the supervisor remarked.
"Perhaps." Meilin smiled faintly. "But the sun has never asked anyone's permission."
The Grand Imperial ballroom glittered beneath chandeliers that must have required a small army to clean. A string quartet played beside the stage; candlelight shimmered in crystal glasses. Every few steps, someone wore a watch or necklace capable of paying Meilin's rent for years.
There were business magnates, old-money families, dignitaries and people who had turned their surnames into empires.
Meilin knew some of those surnames.
She also knew she was currently holding eight glasses of champagne and couldn't afford to spill a single one.
A woman in silk lifted two fingers without looking at her.
Meilin presented the tray.
"Thank you, ma'am."
The woman took a glass and continued discussing an acquisition as though the tray had floated there by itself.
Fair enough. Meilin wasn't here to make friends.
She was here because somewhere beyond those immaculate shoulders, her painting hung in the east alcove.
From her station she could glimpse its frame.
Once, she caught herself leaning sideways to see past a gentleman whose tuxedo seemed determined to obstruct her entire future.
"Miss Jiang," the supervisor called.
Meilin straightened immediately.
"Table six."
"Yes, ma'am."
At the buffet, a chef was arranging delicate pastry shells filled with crab, citrus cream and herbs. The buttery fragrance drifted toward her, sharp with lemon and just enough pepper to make her mouth water.
Oh, that was cruel.
Meilin had three weaknesses in life: handsome men, fast cars and exceptional food.
Tonight's gala was an exceptionally dangerous environment.
Especially after meeting Chairman Zhao.
She nearly stumbled at the thought.
His eyes had been ridiculous. His face, frankly, an offence against ordinary men. When she'd realised that devastatingly handsome creature had been asking her about the painting, her insides had gone embarrassingly soft.
Fortunately, her mouth had continued working.
I wasn't in the car.
She wanted to bury her face in her hands just remembering it.
But what was she supposed to do? Invent an entire life for a stranger because a handsome billionaire had asked?
She had little time left in Xia City. Once she completed what she'd come here to do, this life would end. She had no business making new attachments, especially not to a man so far above the struggling artist everyone believed her to be.
Besides, he probably wouldn't remember her by dessert.
Zhao Jingshen remembered.
Unfortunately, he remembered at the precise moment a foundation trustee was explaining an exceedingly uninteresting seating dispute.
His gaze shifted toward the exhibition entrance.
I wasn't in the car.
He had almost laughed.
Almost.
He couldn't remember the last time a woman had answered him with such unguarded honesty, then proceeded to explain her painting without insisting that her interpretation was the only correct one.
Most people were too eager to impress him. Others mistook a vague answer for something profound.
Jiang Meilin had simply refused to pretend she knew a stranger's thoughts.
That should not have interested him.
It did.
"Chairman Zhao?" the trustee asked.
He brought his attention back.
"The scholarship allocation," the man prompted.
"Approved."
The trustee brightened and moved on.
At Zhao Jingshen's side, Chen Li quietly checked the programme. His employer was rarely distracted during business. Yet those dark eyes had wandered toward the same alcove twice.
Across the ballroom, Lian Fei watched him from among her glittering companions.
She followed his gaze but saw only a cluster of guests admiring paintings.
Meilin completed another circuit of the room.
Two distinguished-looking gentlemen had stopped before Morning Comes Anyway.
One tilted his head.
The other leaned closer to the plaque.
She tried not to look.
She failed.
The men moved on.
Her chest tightened with an unreasonable disappointment.
A little later, a woman wearing a magnificent string of pearls paused before the canvas. She smiled at something her companion said, looked back at the painting and lingered.
Meilin felt hope rise so quickly it almost hurt.
Then the woman drifted away too.
Five minutes later, the space before the painting was empty.
Meilin adjusted the weight of the tray against her wrist.
Of course. This was a gala attended by people with collections worth fortunes. They could acquire masterpieces with a telephone call. Why would they spend money on an unknown artist whose name meant nothing?
Her painting had made it onto the wall.
That alone was more than she'd managed before.
Still, she had hoped.
She was so busy watching that she nearly missed the familiar flash of dark green silk at the next table.
Ling stood with a group of guests, looking effortlessly at ease. She glanced toward Meilin and made a tiny gesture with her champagne glass.
Breathe.
Meilin smiled despite herself.
There would be time to celebrate the exhibition later, even without a sale.
"Chen."
One word.
Chen Li stepped closer. "Chairman?"
Zhao Jingshen didn't look toward the exhibition this time.
"The cityscape."
"Yes, sir?
Chen Li's expression remained composed. Years of service had taught him to reserve surprise for situations in which his employer couldn't see it.
Zhao Jingshen did not reply further. His silence said it all.
"Understood."
There was no need to ask whether Chairman Zhao wanted to negotiate or buy it in his name. The work had been priced openly, and Zhao Jingshen had not asked for a discount.
Chen Li contacted the private art adviser who handled acquisitions for the chairman's collection. The adviser, already attending the gala, would deal directly with Madam Wen.
No photographs. No announcement. No connection to Zhao Corporation on the display card.
Zhao Jingshen resumed listening to the foundation's presentation.
Yet when applause broke out for the scholarship recipients, his thoughts returned briefly to the woman who had said, with perfect seriousness, that she hadn't been in the car.
The corner of his mouth moved.
Chen Li, returning from the side corridor, saw it.
He wisely said nothing.
Meilin was collecting empty glasses when someone touched her elbow.
The supervisor.
"Miss Jiang. Madam Wen has asked me to tell you something."
Meilin felt her stomach drop.
Had they taken the painting down?
"Is something wrong?"
"No. Your painting has sold."
A glass rattled against another on the tray.
Meilin froze.
"What?"
"Full asking price. Thirty-eight thousand yuan. The paperwork will be available after your shift."
For a moment the room seemed to lose its sound. The quartet kept playing. Somebody laughed. Waiters passed behind her with silver platters.
But she heard none of it clearly.
"Sold?" she repeated.
The supervisor's expression softened.
"Yes. Congratulations."
Meilin looked toward the east alcove.
A small card had appeared beneath the painting.
SOLD.
Her eyes blurred.
She had spent so many nights trying to paint a morning worth looking at. Someone had finally decided it was worth keeping.
Ling appeared at her side moments later, having read something important in Meilin's face.
"Well?"
Meilin struggled to speak.
"It sold."
Ling's lips parted.
"All thirty-eight?"
Meilin nodded.
Ling seized her free hand and squeezed so hard it hurt.
"You did it!"
Meilin laughed. A shaky, ridiculous laugh that threatened to become something else.
"No," she whispered, staring at the painting. "Not yet."
Not quite.
One sale couldn't make Jiang Meilin's name the name she'd promised herself it would become.
But it was a beginning.
And for the first time in a very long while, a beginning felt possible.
Across the room, Chen Li approached his employer.
"It's done, Chairman. The adviser will arrange delivery to your private collection."
Zhao Jingshen nodded.
His gaze found the small painting beneath the spotlight, then travelled no further.
There was no reason for Jiang Meilin to know who had purchased it.
He hadn't bought it to meet her.
He'd bought it because the man behind the glass had stayed with him long after he'd left the exhibition room.
And because, for reasons he didn't care to examine, so had the artist's answer.