under the wraps

Canvas of Denial

"Art reflects belief, but it also exposes absence."

They walked toward the reception desk, crafted from brushed aluminum, flanked by modular red leather benches. The receptionist greeted them with her usual plastered smile—polite, practiced, empty—and with that very smile refused their request to meet her boss, claiming he was out of town on some business trip. However, at Vera's insistence, she allowed them to take a look at the paintings from the current auction.

Mohit: "What will we do here if their boss is not here, ma'am?"

Vera: "Maybe we can find something useful."

Mohit: "But I need to use the restroom."

Vera: "Go. Be quick."

He nodded and left.

Vera moved toward the paintings casually—until one of them stopped her cold. The moment her eyes fell on it, something inside her shifted. A strange pull settled in her chest, heavy and unfamiliar. She couldn't look away.

She stood there without blinking, frozen, until a deep voice broke the silence.

"Do you know what this painting means?"

She turned.

The man was tall, tanned, probably in his early thirties. His attention remained fixed on the painting, not on her, but there was no one else nearby.

"No," she said. "I'm not much into art. It just caught my attention."

She turned to leave, deciding to wait for Mohit at the reception.

"It means God does not exist."

She stopped.

Vera's POV

What?

For a moment, I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.

"This painting means God does not exist," he repeated.

This time, he looked at me.

His eyes were dark brown, framed by lashes that were almost unsettlingly long. There was something deliberate in his gaze—measured, intrusive. He wasn't ordinary. Even his presence said so. The tailored suit, the way he carried himself—it all screamed control.

"God is being-itself," he said evenly, "beyond essence and existence. To argue that God exists is to deny Him."

"You seem to know a lot about art," I said, already regretting the words as they left my mouth.

He stepped closer. Too close.

"You have to," he replied, confidence dripping from every syllable, "when you own a place that deals with things like this."

There it was. That tone. I hated it. The quiet arrogance of men who believed awareness equaled superiority.

"I guess you also own an art gallery," I said, lowering my voice on purpose.

I turned my back to him and walked away, pretending interest in the other paintings—anything to end the conversation.

"Yeah," he said. "The one you're standing in."

The words cut through me.

I turned.

"This one?"

"Yeah."