axelxreeves
AXEL REEVES
A man who is totally a business man is a stylite who never comes down from his column. He must have thoughts, feelings, eyes, ears, nose, taste, a sense of touch and a stomach only for Business. The business man knows neither father nor mother, neither uncle nor aunt, neither wife nor children, neither the beautiful nor the ugly, neither the clean nor the dirty, neither hot nor cold, neither God nor devil. He is wildly ignorant of letters, art, science, history, law. He must recognize and know only Business.
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List of Axel's Character Tropes
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"To cut your hours in half?" he asks back, smile teasing against his lips. This venture is a 24/7 commitment, and her joke is seen as exactly that. There's no other way for him, and he's been pleased to see it's the same for her. It's what has earned her a glass of champagne with him at this late hour in an empty office, the celebration that equals partnership in all but writing.
His eyebrows raise in answer while he pours out her share, the bubbles fizzing before holding it out to her. Signing wasn't required. To the party he brought information to, the preference was not to leave a papertrail. Wise, considering what was brought to his attention. "The question is with who," he tells her, rights the passage for her, makes it easier for her. He won't make her guess. The name alone holds enough weight to it that it's worth skipping past the game.
"Edmund Astor."
AXE.
It’s not blood; it’s the taste of the kill he’s found on his palette. The hunt. The victory. The feeling of the gladiator being able to walk out of the coliseum with the lion’s head being grasped by its mane. The memories are few and far between these days, but moments like this parallel to how Xavier Reeves would come back home with the night’s dinner. His son understands the feeling. His first real hunting trip. Cleaner. Not barbaric. Transactional. He doesn’t return with a rack of meat still smelling of entrails; he’s immaculately kempt with a bottle of champagne and glasses to split it with.
He wants only one person tonight to share the spoils with. She’s the same person he knows is committed to staying in the office at this hour of the night. The same person who’s as tireless as she is pretty. The closest thing he has to a partner in business for a man whose venture is named after him. It’s what earns her his smile the moment he’s pointed out.
“This is an event,” he informs, lips spreading further before he flips over the dangling flutes from between his fingers, a performance of a host entertaining his guest of honor. Upright and bases resting now against the desk she’s sat herself at, his eyes return to her. “Tonight is the night we take the next step.”
she pulls the papers she was working on into a stack, capping the pen that was set out to edit them when she sees what he’s brought with him. the sparkling clean glass speak to some kind of celebration that she’s not quite sure she understands, but is already flushed with excitement to be a part of. the sort of toasting events that might have populated an otherwise normal life has thus far eluded her. carrie and neil always found something to pop a bottle of champagne over, but they rarely remembered to invite their daughter down to the living room to join them. in practice, she was the type to clean up the party, not be its sole guest— hanging on every word, waiting for the reveal.
“establish a formal night shift?” it’s the closest she ever seems to get to a joke, the type of statement that isn’t so much funny as it might be true. still walking cautious edges of some unknown propriety even as her heart flutters in her chest. she watches his movements, unsure what she should do to match, if just watching is participation enough for a moment. “or…” she searches through the files of her brain, trying to parse out something big enough to require champagne, something that she alone could have done to help. “did you sign a deal?”
#a little blackmail has gone a long way#emmareevcs#and also def DEF helped get luis cancelled#so adding that onto the emma conscience
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He could say it's because of the empire he's built. The very foundation of it is built over a mass grave; but that's not the whole truth as to why he watches them. That empire wasn't built by relaying truths, and it won't be decorated with it now. Here, it doesn't get him closer to the business he has with her. The information isn't ignored. It's filed. She's seen a cancellation. Not recently. It tells him it's getting too close for comfort. It never was far away to begin with. Her own data doesn't lie. It's why it retains its value so well.
"You see the potential," he rounds out for her amidst the questions that begin to flow. Of course she does. He's offering unlimited access. No catch. The smile in his eyes is a guarantee.
"The same thing you are," he answers back to the question that comes closest to some hesitation. He has none. For the same reason she hasn't seen a cancellation recently is the same reason why she'll say yes. "Accuracy. We'll see how every point counts. It's not hope. I know we'll see every correlation. Together."
AXE.
“Never?” He’s curious. What is life like growing up in the household of a contract? Myles Delaney has never shown signs of being present enough to dictate what plays on a television screen in front of an impressionable young girl at midnight. She must have seen at least one. Everyone has.
“Martin was only the first,” he tells her as if this knowledge is common with their partnership. If it’s not for her, it will be. “I’m offering full access to Axed’s analytics.” Axe’s eyes meet hers. Blue for blue. “For your research,” he goes on, “and for your eyes only.”
“not…never.” that would be a bluff, from anyone. they were as inescapable as getting caught in the rain. the chances of being in a place where the tv channel could flip without warning, displaying the latest of the cancellations. “not recently.” which correlated with the downward trend of their broadcast. it didn’t help the numbers on her screen to try and associate them with people that she knew, guests at her fifth birthday party, people who shared parts of her genetic make up. logically, death was a statistical inevitability.
she took a sip of her drink, bitter and strong, nearly enough to shock the thought from her mind if his next words hadn’t wiped both completely. she just manages to suppress the cough that comes from her hasty swallow, eyes widening. “full access? that’s—” she searches his own expression, unsure what she could possibly find there to make sense of what she was being offered. “that’s unheard of.” she finally finishes, glances fluttering from bloodstain back to axe, as though there is something to make a connection with between the two. something that she’s just missing.
“i don’t even know if one person could parse all that data.” but her mind is already configuring algorithms to tidy the sets, to search for what was needed in a given projection. “have you been keeping records since you incorporated? have you—” just as the tunnel of her work starts to close, she makes it back to the painting again, remembers the party around them, the red tape that snakes around everything. “what are you hoping to find?”
#a little subliminal messaging happening.... we work together.. and together we help your dad...#who could say no to that#chloedmiller
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Two Names One Ship Meme
AxelxSylvie
Sylvie's understanding nature would be exploited, making her an unintentional enabler to Axel's endeavors in spite of her attempts to recalibrate his moral compass. She'd spend most of her time trying to unravel where his motivations come from versus actually making progress in changing him. Axe, meanwhile, uses Sylvie's psychology background to manipulate her into gaining additional insight into those he speaks to. It wouldn't be too far removed from his relationship with Emma, but in some ways an improvement in his eyes; Sylvie has something to offer him currently whereas Emma only used to.
Sylvie may not mind the relationship, though she wouldn't be at her happiest. She might interpret Axel's gifts as signs of affection and attribute them to his love language. In spite of any feelings towards Micah, she'd be loyal, and in turn it's possible Axe might as well, given that her support and interest might be enough to center him away from infidelity. Maybe.
@sylviedewitt
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It's not blood; it's the taste of the kill he's found on his palette. The hunt. The victory. The feeling of the gladiator being able to walk out of the coliseum with the lion's head being grasped by its mane. The memories are few and far between these days, but moments like this parallel to how Xavier Reeves would come back home with the night's dinner. His son understands the feeling. His first real hunting trip. Cleaner. Not barbaric. Transactional. He doesn't return with a rack of meat still smelling of entrails; he's immaculately kempt with a bottle of champagne and glasses to split it with.
He wants only one person tonight to share the spoils with. She's the same person he knows is committed to staying in the office at this hour of the night. The same person who's as tireless as she is pretty. The closest thing he has to a partner in business for a man whose venture is named after him. It's what earns her his smile the moment he's pointed out.
"This is an event," he informs, lips spreading further before he flips over the dangling flutes from between his fingers, a performance of a host entertaining his guest of honor. Upright and bases resting now against the desk she's sat herself at, his eyes return to her. "Tonight is the night we take the next step."
@axelxreeves (flashback)
the title of her job seems to grow murkier each day, as though there isn’t a word big enough to encompass everything that she does for axed!, everything that she wants to do. each slash of her red pen across copy, extra cup of coffee poured, seemed to be for something. she had learned early in life that unbridled optimism left people with nothing but foolish stories. the insurmountable wall of debt that her parents were still climbing while she shrugged off their asks for money with college loans and internship wages. there was no flooding joy in the work she was doing, her feet stayed planted firmly on the ground.
but there was a cautious confidence with each new article, that perhaps not everything that had her name attached to it was simply smoke and mirrors. emma hawn was structured in solid research and valuable sources, and she continued to work deep into the night, stagnant coffee and ink smeared pages cluttering the space around her laptop still aglow. a mess she privileged for herself alone. at least that’s what she had assumed.
“what are you doing here?” the blond figure outside the conference door broke her self-rumination, pulling her from both work and thought with an easy smile. “i thought i was the last one for the day.” as though it were a competition that she needed to win, to prove some inextricable thing for herself and the company. “no events that needed your attention?”
#glad to see his double meanings hasn't been a new thing#but I have a little easter egg surprise here for this thread and I hope you'll enjoy it when I drop it hkjfh#emmareevcs
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"Never?" He's curious. What is life like growing up in the household of a contract? Myles Delaney has never shown signs of being present enough to dictate what plays on a television screen in front of an impressionable young girl at midnight. She must have seen at least one. Everyone has.
"Martin was only the first," he tells her as if this knowledge is common with their partnership. If it's not for her, it will be. "I'm offering full access to Axed's analytics." Axe's eyes meet hers. Blue for blue. "For your research," he goes on, "and for your eyes only."
axelxreeves:
This isn’t his. He’s paid for it. It makes it his. To say it aloud will ruin her concentration on the main course he’s serving her. He watches her simply instead. The gears behind the irises stir. She shuffles through her database. The smart girl with a computer for a brain, cross-referencing what has been uploaded to her programming to find the solution he’s asked of her. She comes back with the result he’s been holding onto before he’s pressed the return key.
“It was,” he tells her, a congratulations of sorts, an easy smile for her hard work. “I was told the cancellation was filmed in front of this for poetic justice.” He would know. Wasn’t it Axed! that broke the story first about Martin’s habits? Weren’t they the ones responsible for the justice their founder mentioned? Didn’t she, too, have a hand in it like him? She was the computer. He was the user. “I like to think this was our first collaboration, Chloe.”
collaboration. of course she knows the word, can define it in multiple languages, who is to say what it means to agree with another. but this feels like something else, perhaps because of her own perspective. the weight all ascribed to status, the heaviness understood by justice. after all no one would miss idris, it was the designation of bad choices and bad decisions.
“proof of concept” she finally says, as though that will bring some color back to her complexion, undone what has been done in the good faith of numbers versus words. “i don’t watch them” there’s a strike of nerve, as though it’s vulnerable to admit that cancellations do not rank highly on he’r television, or even her phone. she wonders if its obvious. if it’s too soft.
“poetic by your standards is enough for me.”
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chloedmiller:
one word replaces the other, she changes the perception of who is in charge of the upkeep for the paintings, not their actual positioning. there is an element of control handed back to people who curate their own works, they do not need the input of others, they choose to take it into consideration. there are no chances of what she’s suggested now, she scratches the thought.
in front of them now stands another odd one, too bright, a spring theme that does not match with the rest of the gallery. flowers in the reeves collection might have connotations that others could theorize, but she will stop at the fact that nothing else is daisies. “this isn’t yours either.” the obvious is stated, though she has a feeling that was supposed to be intuited at this stage. she will still take the mark. daises, red splattered across. her files of cancellations open in her mind, searching for potential details. it takes longer than it should, she specializes in numbers that keep people alive, not details of how they died. not usually. “was this martin?”
This isn't his. He's paid for it. It makes it his. To say it aloud will ruin her concentration on the main course he's serving her. He watches her simply instead. The gears behind the irises stir. She shuffles through her database. The smart girl with a computer for a brain, cross-referencing what has been uploaded to her programming to find the solution he's asked of her. She comes back with the result he's been holding onto before he's pressed the return key.
"It was," he tells her, a congratulations of sorts, an easy smile for her hard work. "I was told the cancellation was filmed in front of this for poetic justice." He would know. Wasn't it Axed! that broke the story first about Martin's habits? Weren't they the ones responsible for the justice their founder mentioned? Didn’t she, too, have a hand in it like him? She was the computer. He was the user. "I like to think this was our first collaboration, Chloe."
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emmareevcs:
of course hums through her mind but does not make its way to her lips, a thought half-formed, too untoned to be a part of the the conversation. they circle around profits, font sizing, gruesome details relayed in demure typeface. she would have offered to write the article before, hopped on the opportunity to be the front page byline. but she does not need the credit, she turns to her husband as he rests his hand on her leg. she does not want the validation. a switch has flipped, the gust of wind blown through her cold and sharp, the fervor of news replaced with distrust of ease.
“who could be.” she replies finally, the words falling inharmoniously. she thinks of their possible message, the aching reminder that they have worked until they could get to this point. how she has climbed her way up to greatness right beside him, the helping hand of ceo. doesn’t it mean that it’s she who was risen next to him. doesn’t it mean they’re the only two in the world that could be so alike in understanding. doesn’t it. “i’ll get started on it first thing.”
He remembers her fire. She had everything in herself to get anything done. He was the man who not only earned the empire they built but the girl he married. She has been coasting on this memory ever since. An investment that gave return is now teetering towards bankruptcy. He feels it underneath his hand. Silk can't mask what's dead. There's a coldness underneath that surface-level warmth that comes from his radiating touch. Brisk, bone-chilling traits of a cadaver. One hand tightens into the steering wheel (not even the engine covers up the pores sticking to the leather, the sound of annoyance funneling to one source over the alternative). His other squeezes into her leg (silent, determined, shielding her from his left side). An artery must lie in there somewhere where life can be pumped back into it, a pulse coaxed by his thumb.
"There's time." He doesn't say this lightly. He rarely does. Time is money. What is love if it doesn't cost? "After we celebrate."
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chloedmiller:
finally the answer is given, the work has been corrected and returned, showing that her calculations were right. she does not know art work, she doubts that this crash course will be enough to hold her up in a conversation. but she knows which painting was the odd one out among the collections. it’s a start. if she had the time she would be able to sort the entire gallery, come up with a fool proof equation for who chose what. but her thoughts are stopped short by his reach, the contact against her shoulder perhaps one thing she could not have gauged for. he says she should come, and she does. there is no other choice.
“you’ve got competing tastes.” some might go so far as to say dissonant but she’s not the type to choose something hostile. far be it from her to know the ins and outs of someone else’s marriage. people were supposed to be different, balanced everything out properly. “there’s not already a curator for this?”
"Advisor." One word difference that is amended for her over his shoulder, the type of difference that separates collector from investor, where one outweighs the other when the closing bell tolls. A mere collector would entertain this route of conversation, meander through it; the investor serpentines his way through it to find the value. "You should've known the chances of that." He's joking. His smile to her is the proof. There is nothing to question.
Another painting is viewed. It's theme does not fit what surrounds it. There is a field illuminated by the sun, and a girl with blond hair is in the center of it with flowers in her arms. She stares at her observers like visitors, a daisy held in her hand for someone to take it. It's raining. The drops are a muted red. This is not rain. This is not paint.
"This is recent.” One the advisor proved herself on. “Do you recognize it?"
#i have plenty of backstory#belonged to a contract that obviously got cancelled on it#this happened under chloe's points analyst job so she's lowkey responsible but so is axe because look#the contract was a bad dude and that's legitimate for once fhkjdh#maybe he did some molestation or something very worthy of being cancelled over#but they kinda cancelled him together and that's partnership right there#see guys cancellation is not all bad#chloedmiller
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norascwyer:
her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth, glib and childish just as his own sentiment had been. “the true romantic.” there’s an eye roll, the distinct reminder that she is just playing a game where one of them will eventually lose. she reminds herself that sometimes it will simply have to be her— the manageable loss over the disproportionate blindside it could have been.
there are plenty of things that can be stretched out over long luxurious periods of time, but it seems this conversation is not destined to be one of them. “the planner and financier.” certainly there are negatives for pointing the spotlight on a family name as big as the one she’s pointed to. but felix has made his bed by falling in love with every blonde haired-blue eyed ice princess he sees. and more importantly, he does not pay her. “hearst certainly had the money set aside to spend on this sort of event, and bellamy just so happens to have the vision boards.” out in the open finally, no take backs to the details she’s given. a twisted focus from the wedding itself to the tension that must surround it, keeping romance dead last on the public’s mind. “you’d think after their fallout, there must be some tension.”
Romantic. Even in the facetious light, it casts a shadow of hilarity and something else. Something sickly. It doesn't bring laughter, but it does make him smile. She knows better. He's quick to remind her. "Now isn't the time to get choked up about it." And last time he checked, it was becoming habit. Save it for later.
This is business. He takes the Hearst name in with no surprise to show. The connection is known, but it's nice to tie it back to something more. The eligible bachelor and the bombshell contract, a relationship that fragmented in sharp pieces. Who would have guessed? The Hearst brand should have had more class.
He takes one last sip of his drink, leaving it with a few more left to spare. "Is that everything?"
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norascwyer:
his understood is met only by another slight sip of her drink, one that might not have even counted at all except in the purpose of furthering their conversation. there’s no need to pretend an actual agreement has been reached. when has one ever? the only promise that’s ever between them is equal measure threat. best to not bother with seeing who would be ruined first, not when they’re being so amiable. he garners a small breath of a laugh for his efforts, perhaps even that is too generous.
“must i always keep the lights on in your offices?” there’s the obvious, the sort of tell that she’d expect the usual run of the mill journalist to keep up with. it’s not hard to draw attention to yourself when you’re an a-lister. and though bellamy is quite the expert, she alone is not much of a story in this instance. “do you have one name or two.”
"I only turn them off when you visit, Nora." This is casual conversation, skimming over thorns, delivered with smiles and sharp eyes. He is curious. Not desperate. The word in itself disgusts him, poised like a dagger at the throats of those on a level that he steps over. She's confirmed only one thing: two instead of one. It's a fact that changes his face in the most minute way, pulling at the corner of his lips while he considers. Jade Bellamy and... Interesting.
"Any longer, and you'll convince me you have neither for me."
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chloedmiller:
she puzzled through his answer, though her expression must give away some of the confusion that she’s felt. there is no reason that she needs to be tested at a party, it’s true. and yet it didn’t feel as though they were just having a friendly conversation. there was some pressure to produce correct answers to the questions he asked, although it might have been internal. did she just want to impress, to prove she belonged, to make sure that he knew he was not dealing with a delaney? “no.” it sounds more like a question than a statement, a shaken hope rather than firm declaration. but it’s all she has in return.
his next question is far easier, answer leaping forward with far less hesitation. “not necessarily. it is a personal collection.” meaning that it should contain whatever the particular whims of an individual might want. there need not be rhyme or reason to what makes up the paintings that hang on the wall. and yet for the most part there is, with the slightest offsets. but of course this isn’t just axe’s house, she was remise to forget such a detail in her data. “did you pick it?”
The gallery is not evenly split. It has the appearance as though it might be, but even some that hang on the walls of his wife's side are picked by his hand, messages that are better suited for what she needs, reminders in forms of oils and canvases instead of post-its like lesser marriages share. She contributes what she can, even when the fresh pair of eyes from Chloe Miller can spot when it meets bare minimum.
"Emma did." His answer comes with a smile, its own flashbulb, but pride in the fact is not attached. It doesn't exist. It serves its purpose in only proving a point that goes unsaid. She doesn't try. It's why it doesn't fit. There is nothing more to say about Mrs. Reeves. There is even less to say about her effort.
"Come this way," he reminds her of the tour she's won, hand gesturing out to meet her at her shoulder, a guidance. "I should have you pick the next piece to the collection.” A new grin. A joke. A slap to a figure outside the peripheral. A dangling carrot. “You already know what I like to see."
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chloedmiller:
why would he do it? that’s the sort of question that deserved more thought, but it was all speculation. general behavior could be predictable, but the inner-workings of a particular mind were subject to change. if someone rigged a data set was the answer hubris or simply, “as a test.” she answered finally. as though he’d asked her to solve for x in an equation, calculation completed. there was no sure bet it was the right answer, given her situation she could not land on another one.
before she has a chance to try and reset the variables and think of a different answer, he’s asked her another question, although this one is slightly harder to discern. why does the hopper stand out, her eyes glance from painting to painting, trying to figure out what makes it possible. “age.” she doesn’t know much of the work in room, speaking to the actual age of the paintings is impossible, but there’s a certain modern sensibility to it. “it’s more twentieth century than the rest— like it was picked out by a different curator.”
"Not everything is a test, Chloe." He smiles at her and the open window to her mind. The perception she looks out from is mirrored back to her in that growing expression, glinting back at her in white teeth that begin to show. "I didn't think I needed to with you." Axe's eyes are focused on her. Crystal clear. No haze from gin in his hand can touch them. "Should I?"
He doesn't gesture to the Edward Hopper: the painting of current topic. It will remain hanging in the section that will continue to be off-center from main attraction. His feet are grounded where they are in front of the Caravaggio. It is easier to be in the presence of decapitation than marital reflection. "Are you suggesting it doesn't belong?"
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chloedmiller:
if there is something clever to say about art for art’s sake it escapes her, slipping through her fingers as though words were suddenly water. she has nothing in retaliation, the value of ownership is undeniable in weight, the assessment that paintings were a separate kind of art was entire false. in the absence of anything to say, she finds herself only able to answer the question that’s been posed to her.
“it’s the one that people look towards the most.” as though she’s suddenly been called on in the middle of class to answer the equation that’s she’s daydreamed through. “given people are in here quarterly, there must be a set list. so enough people are familiar with the gallery. you probably told them which one to be on the lookout for.” there was still room accounting for people rushing towards their favorites, circling over the great masters, searching out faces in a crowd they hoped to see rather than art work. but they were always turning back to see what was new. “it’s like having a new student on the first day of class.” the analogy halts her speech for a moment as though she’s unsure whether it fits the string of numbers that tells her the exact percentage of people looking at it now. wandering eyes would always seek to figure out the unknown, trying to decide if they liked it or not, if it was worth trying to interact with. “people always give away the odd one out. they can’t help it.”
"Did I?" Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn't. The answer is not revealed in the smile that kindles across his face, building slowly, the kind of fire that's controlled only by professionals. "There's a probability that I gave everyone else the answer but you, Chloe? Why would I do that?" His tone is toying with facetiousness and sincerity at once, straddling the razor-thin line between joking tease and serious questioning. She is full of analytics on every variable. He is no exception.
He tastes his cocktail, but it's barely a sip. There is more of an appetite for the intangible. Something about her metaphor is latched onto. The initial impression carries novelty until it becomes the second or the third. A new student sounds more and more like a new contract. "You noticed the Edward Hopper first," he reminds, making his smile slightly uneven around the words. "What makes it odd?"
#you know what makes it odd to her? that the husband and wife are able to stand being in the same room together#that's wild#chloedmiller
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emmareevcs:
there is a bloodstain on her dress. the crimson stain does not stand out against the fabric, how could it. but it is there all the same, staring defiantly back at her, marking her as one who has seen. she was present, and of course, she had only watched, sat there as another contract was pulled from the middle of their life and sent off. she remembered when she used to run, copies in hand, eyes bright as she announced what had happened, what was going to pull their paper from obscurity. but whatever feeling had spurred such reactions was gone now, she was left with nothing but a cold sick feeling spreading in her lungs. when had contracts become real tangible people, trapped instead of volunteered.
“dinner and a show.” she says, there is no humor to the line, and she has not enjoyed the time. she would have preferred a night in with her husband, the coziness of a meal across their kitchen table, nothing to interrupt them. it would have been the first time she’d be able to look across at the man she married and see him, really see him. the less the world intrudes on her, the nicer she was finding her life. but instead they had been focused on the imminent story. “this will have to be dry cleaned.” she says in her cold quiet voice, she thinks it will have to be thrown out, the kind of stain that when gone she will not be able to unsee. there is no reason to wear this dress again.
The engine makes its presence known. It stamps the air with not just the Bugatti logo but the Reeves name. It's as fitting as wealth and power, a match that's better than any marriage that's encapsulated behind its two doors. The night bleeds in through the glass. Los Angeles' streetlights flicker over passenger and driver alike, a highlight of differences that a tinted windshield doesn't betray to any outsider. You can hear the reverberation of the cancellation inside, how it translates through the pedal of the car, the heavy decompression of the second seat.
"Dinner and tomorrow's headline," he corrects with the corner of his lips upturned. His mood is colored in crimson. It matches Emma's dress. It's emphasized in a few of the threads. There are traces of it on the jacket he put around her shoulders. A dose of it feels to be shot in his veins. Not even the tone she has chosen can kill the buzz.
"It can join what you spilled tomato sauce on." His smile is thrown to her from the profile-view. What separates a stain from what she cooked from what they watched? A good night. It's a mark of action, an action that she had no hand in, could never have. "You can't see it unless you're close enough," he goes on. And it is not consolation. Not for the sake of the dress. Not when his hand wraps around the silk that covers her thigh. "There's no one else that would be this close, Emma."
#I just like the idea that the bloodstain on him was like nah I'm going to dress my wife in all of it#and that's just called love#emmareevcs
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chloedmiller:
her face twists in confusion for moment, not used to having her math questions so abruptly. was that a sign of confidence or complacency? did it matter so long as the answer was the same. she was right about the painting, she looked around the room again, recounting the bodies, calculations spinning around before she takes another sip of her drink. she was right, and there was nothing more to say about it. but she steps forward anyways, takes the closer look.
“why?” there’s a disconnect to his logic. someone has to paint the masterpiece in order for it to be valued at anything. of course, art was not like other assets. the appreciation of it was a factor. the rarity as well. “it’s not a mutually beneficial relationship?”
He looks at the painting. There is the widow Judith, her maid, and the general Holofernes. The latter is being slayed by his own sword, wielded by the hand of a loyal wife. The message has a place in the Reeves Palace, but it's the artist's name attached that has earned it a place in the gallery. His eyes may be on this painting, but there are others in his peripheral. And then it is Chloe's turn. Looked at in the same manner as what is hanging on a wall, smile and all.
"Value comes from ownership. Not creation." It's a lesson. Simple business. Supply and demand. Supply is worthless without demand. Demand is priceless without supply. "How did you decide on the Caravaggio?" he asks. Pure interest. "Walk me through your process."
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