Diamond Dust Novel - Chapter 10

With a promise to see me later, the passenger quickly disappeared up the ivory-colored stairs, following the Director.

The sight of the two well-built men in high-quality suits ascending the marble stairs was visually striking, but one was too abstract, and the other was too plain. Not that their essence was that way, but their intuitive image was.

And both were people living in a world irrelevant to mine.

After leaving the book in the office, I hurried up to the second floor and saw that more than half of the fifty or so VIP guests who had RSVP’d seemed to have already arrived. As I had heard beforehand, they were all quite dazzling people at first glance.

A somewhat loud round of greetings was taking place around the Director and the passenger who had just arrived. I also saw the teacher and Yuni-ssi, each attending to small groups of people.

Juhan-ssi was manning the temporary desk.

“What happened?”

“I put it in Director Han’s bag in the office.”

Juhan-ssi’s eyes widened briefly as he looked at me. Then he nudged me with his elbow and smiled.

“This guy, he’s more thorough than he looks.”

I briefly debated whether I should take that as a compliment and just offered an ambiguous smile.

The main ceremony hadn’t begun yet. People seemed more busy spotting familiar faces and greeting each other than appreciating the art. The atmosphere was most vibrant around the Director.

“We invited about fifty VIPs, and those VIPs can bring two or three guests each. They could become new clients. It’s not even 3:30 PM yet, and we already have over thirty attendees… so today is off to a pretty good start.”

That was Juhan-ssi’s assessment as he scanned the file containing the list of attendees.

In the hall just in front of the stairs, long buffet tables were set up against the railing overlooking the first-floor lobby. Finger foods and desserts were attractively arranged on the tablecloths that reached the floor, along with floral decorations. Catering staff in uniform moved among the lavishly dressed guests, serving food and refilling champagne glasses.

The party had a relatively free atmosphere, rather than a stiff one, and a few simple refreshments and drinks were set up on the temporary desk Juhan-ssi and I were manning.

I first picked up a bottle of water with an unfamiliar label and quenched my thirst.

“The people here right now account for over 70 percent of our gallery’s sales, but they don’t come here because they genuinely have an eye for art or because taking a break from their busy schedule to drink tea and appreciate art is their only joy.”

Juhan-ssi leaned closer to me, chewing on a bite-sized sandwich.

“See that person in the wide-brimmed hat? The one who just arrived.”

Following Juhan-ssi’s gaze, I easily spotted a man ascending the second-floor stairs accompanied by two people who appeared to be his staff.

“That man is the magazine editor-in-chief who wrote the book you bought, Yihyun-ssi.”

The man, who appeared to be in his mid-to-late forties, was short, had a fleshy white face, and was highly expressive. He seemed to be quite close with the Director, as the two greeted each other with a French-style cheek kiss.

“Kuhn, congratulations on the opening. Why are you so busy? I can never see your face.”

The Director smiled gently as he led the disappointed man toward the inner exhibition hall. Since he was a great looking man, his smile was certainly handsome, but it was also a mechanical smile, as if printed out. Since this event and situation were his work, it wasn’t a point to criticize.

“That’s Monsieur A, a fashion magazine. It’s a subsidiary of a major corporation, and it’s a powerful magazine coming from a company that publishes over ten magazines. That man isn’t just a simple editor-in-chief; he’s related to the group through marriage. It’s like a distant in-law relationship, but you can’t dismiss it.”

Juhan-ssi swallowed the sandwich in his mouth, washing it down with champagne in a tall, slender flute.

Thanks to the guests who were busy exchanging greetings and being introduced to new people, the temporary desk was very quiet. No one came to pick up a pamphlet.

“We focus on fashion, living, and luxury magazines rather than art journals. Honestly, the gallery scene in Korea is saturated right now. You don’t need a license; if you have money, you can open a gallery, so big and small, the number is enormous. Naturally, many places close down after failing to last a few years. On the surface, it seems sophisticated, hanging up paintings and talking about the artist’s unique style or the work’s message is part of the job, but the competition is fierce here. If you start with the idea of, ‘I have some family money, let’s get a fancy gallery owner business card,’ you’ll quickly be pushed out by people who fight tooth and nail. The power of already established, large galleries is undeniable, of course. The market is small, so there’s no room to break in.”

He finished his explanation and pounded his chest, seemingly choked. I offered him my share of the champagne. With a grateful nod, Juhan-ssi emptied the glass in one gulp and then picked up a cookie.

Today, the piercing on his lip and the one on his ear were connected by a chain. It seemed like it would be inconvenient for drinking or eating, but Juhan-ssi himself looked completely comfortable, as if it had already become part of his body.

“So, our Director decided to attract people who hadn’t been spending money on paintings until now.”

Hearing that, I roughly understood why the gallery’s main clientele consisted of people from the fashion and entertainment industries.

“This market is mostly based on social relationships, so it’s not simply a matter of going to a gallery and buying whatever painting catches your eye at the moment. It’s incredibly difficult to pull in customers who already have an established gallery they deal with, so he targeted people who have capital but haven’t really bought art before.”

Juhan-ssi made a circle gesture with his thumb and index finger, symbolizing money.

“The result, as you can see, is huge success. We even moved to a building like this in Samcheong-dong.”

Juhan-ssi shrugged his shoulders lightly, as if it were nothing, or perhaps with a touch of pride, and tossed the remaining piece of the cookie he was eating into his mouth.

To be honest, I had initially suspected that Phantom might be one of those galleries started with the mindset Juhan-ssi mentioned: “I have some family money, let’s get a fancy gallery owner business card.”

Not for any other reason, but because the Director of Phantom exuded the impression that he was born into a family wealthy enough not to need to aim for self-made success. Also, his attitude toward customers now showed no hint of the unavoidable, business-like servility that stems from desperation.

A polite and friendly service smile lingered on his face the whole time, but that was all it was.

If anything, the people surrounding him were showing him stronger favor, and those who seemed to have weaker ties with him were looking for an opportunity to approach him further. That atmosphere was remarkably clear, even to my less-than-keen eye.

Putting aside his prickly attitude towards me since yesterday, I silently apologized to him for the image I had vaguely presumed in my mind, ‘a young master who easily gets everything handed to him through his parents’ money.’

I didn’t think it was inherently wrong to start something based on parental or family wealth, but it was also true that I believed the value was different from achievements built solely on one’s own power.

Whether he brought Phantom up from the absolute bottom or if there was some degree of family aid, I couldn’t know for sure. But it certainly didn’t look like a sandcastle easily built with only massive capital and inherited connections.

For the first time since I arrived at the desk, someone took a pamphlet. It was a woman wearing large sunglasses that covered half her face. Upon closer look, her face was just small, not that the sunglasses were large. I might not know who she was, but she could be an actress or a singer.

The woman, who took the pamphlet and then called out a name in a welcoming voice as if she’d spotted an acquaintance, disappeared into the inner exhibition hall. Juhan-ssi told me her name, saying she was a popular actress nowadays, but it was still a name I hadn’t heard before.

“Anyway, because of the Director’s operational style, he’s seen as a complete maverick, a trouble-maker, or even Satan in the art world. They say the blue-eyed Golden Alpha is seducing people with pheromones to sell paintings and dragging the dignity of art down to the floor. One critic even spouted nonsense, calling him a male prostitute who sells art with his body.”

Juhan-ssi, picking up the thread of the earlier conversation, raised his fist at the air as if to grab the neck of the critic who had said such things. His expression showed he was still indignant at the thought.

Yet, the central figure of the story, the Director of Phantom, was surrounded by many people, smiling like a painting himself.

This was a gallery for exhibiting and selling artworks, but most people here seemed more interested in the man than the paintings.

A middle-aged woman in a tweed suit subtly flaunted her closeness by lightly linking her arm with his, and flashes of envious jealousy crossed people’s eyes. Their emotional expressions were so direct that it briefly reminded me of my elementary school days, when I tried desperately to get the teacher’s attention even once more.

The Director of Phantom was skillfully and pleasantly managing the atmosphere, acting as though he was completely unaware of the complex desires tangled around him.

Or perhaps, he precisely understood the intensity and direction of those desires and was orchestrating the entanglement itself.

Regarding the belated point about the critique of the ‘blue-eyed Golden Alpha who sells paintings by seducing people with pheromones,’ his eyes weren’t just a simple blue. They were closer to a pale blue, as if they had been tanned by the sun or their pigment had thinned from too much crying.

Not the deep blue that suggests a clear color like a jewel but lacks vitality, but a color that looks more delicate and alive… like the foam of a wave Morae would stand up on a board to ride. As if it could break and disappear at any moment.

That color, in fact, was quite contradictory to his otherwise arrogantly strong impression.

“But our Director never releases his pheromones. I don’t know what he’s like in his private life, but never normally. His control ability is maxed out, to the point where even Golden Omegas can barely sense it. Ah, maybe you know? About Golden Alphas… that sort of thing?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Not interested?”

There are few people among the countless Betas who aren’t interested in talk of Alphas or Omegas. Sometimes out of curiosity for those with a secondary gender, sometimes out of admiration for those generally known to have striking looks and outstanding talent, and sometimes out of simple, light interest in the unusual.

Since I, too, felt a curiosity about whether he might be a Golden Alpha, despite finding him a little ‘obnoxious,’ colloquially speaking, due to his unique presence, I answered that I wasn’t uninterested.

That’s right. He was indeed a Golden Alpha. The result matched my prediction almost trivially. His physique was large, powerful, and beautiful enough to serve as the mascot for Golden Alphas.

But he never releases his pheromones? That was a topic I had no prior knowledge of.

“Alpha and Omega ultimately boil down to reproductive capability… well, it’s not something to talk about in detail here. Anyway, the Director is not at the level where pheromones leak out against his will or where he reacts uncontrollably to the pheromones of others. Many Betas discriminate against Alphas and Omegas, calling them beasts who give up their humanity, ruled by instinct, but when you reach the level of a Golden Alpha, they can control their pheromones and even their Ruts, so there’s no basis to criticize them for that. And yet, they still criticize. With eyes closed and ears plugged. Seeing them still go on and on about how it’s ultimately pheromone-selling, I swear… I really wonder who is commenting on whose dignity.”

Morae was the only Alpha I knew closely, but she wasn’t the type to discuss her Alpha nature in detail. Nor was I interested enough to search for information about Alphas and Omegas.

The information about Golden Alphas and the Director of Phantom would be well-known stories in this industry, so whatever Juhan-ssi was talking about was clearly just time-filling conversation, safe enough for a temporary part-timer who was essentially an outsider to know. Yet, more than half of what he said was information I was unaware of.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? They say being a Golden Alpha isn’t just about being born that way; over 50 percent of it is completed through personal training. So, he must have consistently trained to control his instincts since puberty to reach that level. He smiles easily, as if everything is simple… but he’s seriously tough.”

Saying that, Juhan-ssi sipped his champagne, fixing his gaze on the Director over the rim of the tilted glass.

Following Juhan-ssi’s gaze, the man was still dominating the atmosphere as the center and host of the group. Skillfully, and sweetly.

As the owner and host of this party, his smile was equally distributed to everyone, yet it held a temperature different from an ordinary smile, enough to deceive someone not immune to it.

I tried to imagine him, this man who was so amiable and fair to every single attendee, in stark contrast to the hostility he’d shown me, secretly pushing himself and undergoing lonely internal training in places people couldn’t see, but it was difficult.

Right beside me, I heard Juhan-ssi crunch on another cookie.

“But I like that kind of thing, you know. Becoming utterly relentless to get what you want. Appearing relaxed on the surface, but underneath, grinding your teeth and kicking furiously to seize your greedy desires.”

Crunch, crunch. Juhan-ssi smiled widely, chewing his cookie resolutely.

Was that truly the case?

Were there such desperate struggles, such frantic flailing, underneath the surface for him too?