"Thank you."
Countless words ultimately boiled down to this one simple phrase.
Michael finally pulled himself back from the emotional edge and regained some composure.
"Next time, I hope I have the chance to thank you in person—it would be my honor."
Anson, without any pretense, took the opportunity to joke, "You treating?"
Michael immediately caught on to the humor.
The painting had been priced at $5,000, but the final sale price added an extra zero.
Clearly, Anson was teasing about the situation in a lighthearted way.
Michael glanced at Annie. He now understood why people said Anson was so charming. Annie, however, looked back at Michael, confused.
Michael didn't explain, just nodded with a bright smile, "Of course, I'll treat. I can definitely manage that, 100%."
The call didn't last long.
Michael turned to Annie and Thomas, the smile on his face widening. "He liked my work."
That one sentence was enough.
Annie and Thomas both hugged Michael, cheering and celebrating together.
Meanwhile, on the other end of the call, Anson hung up and immediately noticed the curious gazes from Nora and Lucas. Though they said nothing, their eyes were full of curiosity and concern.
Anson felt a little helpless. "Just a friend."
Nora raised an eyebrow. "A friend?"
Her tone was full of intrigue.
Initially, Anson wanted to explain the whole situation, a coincidence worth sharing as a fun story. But seeing Nora's look, he suddenly didn't feel like explaining anymore.
"Ms. Nora, what's with that look?"
"What look? My look is perfectly normal."
"Hey, your look is definitely implying something."
"What? Hmm? You tell me, what did you think you saw?"
Bzzzz, bzzzz.
The sound of a vibrating phone interrupted the exchange between Nora and Anson.
Nora turned and glared at Lucas. "We're only on the third course."
In other words, dinner had barely started, and Lucas had already taken five or six calls.
Lucas, who had been quietly sitting on the side, didn't argue. He instinctively glanced at his phone, then looked around.
"Mom, it's for you."
Nora: ...
Next to them, Anson burst out laughing.
Nora looked exasperated but didn't say anything further. She silently took the call, not even checking the caller ID.
"Good evening, this is Nora Wood."
On the other side of the table, Lucas and Anson secretly high-fived under the table.
Nora noticed but didn't have time to deal with the two brothers. She focused on the call, listening attentively and communicating briefly.
After hanging up, she didn't speak right away.
Anson felt a bit concerned. "Mom, what happened?"
Nora glanced at Anson, her expression a little strange. "I'll need to go back to the gallery after dinner."
Lucas also sensed something was off. "What's going on?"
Nora shrugged slightly, trying to find a more accurate way to express herself. But it wasn't easy, so she simply said it directly.
"More than a third of the artworks in the gallery have sold."
There was a moment of silence.
Lucas exhaled calmly, looking unfazed.
Anson, on the other hand, was in disbelief. "Are you sure?"
Nora's smile grew wider. "Yes."
"So, I'll need to go to the gallery later to confirm everything. It all happened so fast, just within a few hours. We need to double-check the buyers and the offers to make sure everything's in order, and maybe even consider whether we need to launch a new round of promotion."
It all seemed unbelievable, even surreal.
Even after confirming it multiple times, the reality still felt a little out of reach—like a shock that kept reverberating in the mind.
In contrast, Lucas remained calm.
"There's no need."
"Anson is the best promotion. From the moment he showed up, it only took a few hours for the market to respond positively. If we push for promotion now, it might seem forced, making people think everything was staged. The commercial aspect would be too strong, and it could turn people off. Instead, we should be patient and let word of mouth naturally spread."
Nora looked at Lucas, clearly impressed.
Lucas remained expressionless. "Mom, you should've seen the crowd outside the gallery today. If they could, they wouldn't mind tearing Anson's clothes apart and each grabbing a piece."
Anson raised an eyebrow. "Luke, do you want one too? If so, I've got plenty in my wardrobe—you can help yourself."
Lucas: ...
Nora, however, had already snapped back to attention and looked at Anson again, her face full of pride. "Sorry, Anson, I doubted your influence this afternoon."
Her tone was genuine, straightforward, and warm.
Anson, on the other hand, felt a little embarrassed. Even he hadn't expected things to unfold like this, catching him completely off guard.
So, he made a joke. "I feel like I've been sold and am still counting the money. Is that normal?"
Lucas was right—
No promotion was the best promotion, or rather, the correct kind of promotion.
A week later, the buzz around the East Village art gallery began to spread across New York, catching the attention of the New Yorker.
Without any invitation or planned collaboration, The New Yorker sent a columnist to the gallery—not to interview or promote Anson, but to truly appreciate the exhibition and see what kind of show had attracted Anson's attention.
A "pretty face" is often thought to mean something with style but no substance.
But over the past few years, Anson had been gradually revealing a different side.
From films, acting, and music to fashion... bit by bit, Anson was showing depth, taste, and personality, slowly breaking the stereotype of just being a handsome figurehead and revealing more of who he was as a person and an artist.
Of course, conspiracy theories persisted:
That it was all orchestrated by managers and PR teams, with Anson merely acting as a puppet for someone else's genius. The so-called depth was nothing more than an empty shell.
This was exactly what The New Yorker aimed to explore.
If Anson had a carefully constructed image, why choose this exhibition? Shouldn't he attend more prestigious shows with better reputations? If it was all part of a strategy, there was no need to take such a risk.
But what if the exhibition was Anson's own choice? What could we learn from that?
Putting Anson aside, The New Yorker also believed that giving these independent art exhibitions more attention was necessary to help nurture the art scene.
And so, quietly, more eyes turned toward Anson.
So, what about Anson?