Ultimate Choice System: I Became The Richest!

For a moment, there was silence. Then the woman spoke again, her voice quieter now, as though she were treading carefully.

"That's… an interesting perspective," she said. "Not one I've heard before."

"It's not about perspective," Noah replied, his tone unbothered. "It's just what's there. Whether you see it or not depends on how closely you're willing to look."

The older man's voice broke the brief silence, his tone a blend of polite dismissal and faint irritation. "Young man, what you're saying… it's certainly a first. I can't deny it's a unique take." He straightened slightly, folding his hands behind his back as if preparing to deliver a lecture. "But what I said earlier isn't just my opinion—it's the interpretation of the top scholars of art. The best of the best. And who, pray tell, would know art better than them?"

Noah stood unmoving, his hands still in his jacket pockets. His gaze didn't waver from the portrait, as though the conversation itself was of secondary importance.

The older man continued, his tone growing more certain. "Your perspective is interesting, I'll give you that, but it's not convincing. I simply don't see it."

Without turning, Noah spoke, his voice calm and steady, devoid of malice or condescension. "You won't see it. You don't have enough skill."

The words landed like a hammer, simple and sharp, cutting through the air with precision.

The old man's mouth opened slightly in shock, but before he could respond, Noah continued, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the weather. "I'm not insulting you, so don't take it personally. I'm simply stating the truth. Recognizing the deeper meaning of this piece requires a level of understanding most people don't have."

Beside the older man, the young woman with golden locks stood quietly, her soft smile betraying no emotion other than faint curiosity. She hadn't expected that response—direct, almost clinical, yet strangely devoid of arrogance. It intrigued her.

The older man, however, wasn't as amused. His frown deepened, his cheeks reddening slightly as he adjusted his posture. "I'm sorry, but your opinion simply doesn't matter," he said, his voice tightening. "My works and my reputation speak for themselves."

He gestured vaguely, as if the weight of his achievements were hanging in the air around him. "You are a young man, after all. I can understand why you would say this—youth often brings confidence that isn't necessarily earned."

Noah finally turned his head, just enough to glance at the old man out of the corner of his eye. His expression was calm, unreadable, as if he were more amused than annoyed by the man's words.

"Ever heard the phrase 'age is just a number?' " Noah replied evenly. "You don't have to take me seriously. But I don't need you to agree for me to know I'm right."

The old man stiffened, clearly thrown off by Noah's composure. He opened his mouth to retort but paused, faltering as Noah turned his gaze back to the portrait, effectively dismissing him.

The young woman stepped forward slightly, her voice light but pointed. "You speak with a lot of certainty," she said, her golden hair catching the light as she tilted her head slightly. "Are you saying your interpretation is the only correct one?"

Noah's lips quirked into a faint smirk, though his eyes stayed on the painting. "No. But I am saying that if you understood the piece as deeply as I do, you'd come to the same conclusion."

Her smile widened, her tone playful but sharp. "That sounds suspiciously like arrogance."

"Not arrogance," Noah said calmly. "Just clarity."

The old man let out a scoff, crossing his arms. "Clarity, he says. As if years of study and expertise are nothing compared to the whim of some young man who happens to have an opinion."

Noah didn't respond immediately, letting the weight of the silence stretch between them. Then, finally, he turned, his gaze locking onto the old man's with a calm intensity that made the latter falter.

"Years of study don't matter if you're looking in the wrong place," Noah said simply.

The young woman's laughter broke the tension, soft and melodic, surprising both men. "Well," she said, her eyes sparkling with interest as she looked at Noah, "whether I agree with you or not, I can't deny you make things… interesting."

Noah gave her a brief glance, his expression neutral. "Art isn't about agreeing. It's about seeing."

The older man bristled but said nothing further, his pride clearly too bruised to continue the debate. The young woman, however, watched Noah with an unreadable expression, her faint smile lingering as if she'd just stumbled upon something far more intriguing than the painting itself.

"What's your name, sir?" the woman asked, her soft voice laced with curiosity, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"Noah. Noah Thompson."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Thompson," she said, her smile widening ever so slightly. "My name is Diana."

Noah nodded in acknowledgment, his sharp eyes taking in her appearance without lingering too long. The woman's face wasn't fully visible, obscured by oversized sunglasses and the shadow of a classic wide-brimmed hat. A light scarf wrapped loosely around her neck completed the look, the kind of ensemble designed to blend in but that, ironically, drew attention in its effort to conceal.

It reminded Noah of the first time he saw Amelia, walking down the street in a similar attempt at anonymity. Diana's outfit wasn't just fashionable—it was deliberate, purposeful, almost theatrical in its attempt to avoid recognition. She wasn't trying to hide completely—just enough to keep casual onlookers from guessing her identity.

But Noah wasn't a casual onlooker.

Her body language, the old man's earlier slip of "your high—," and the way she avoided offering her surname told him enough. He didn't need to ask. He could guess exactly who she was, but there was no point in revealing that.

If she wanted to keep up the act, he'd let her.

"I would like you to accompany me in this gallery," Diana said suddenly, pulling his attention back. She adjusted the scarf around her neck with one gloved hand, her tone polite but direct. "I want to hear your thoughts on some of the art. Is that fine with you?"

For a moment, Noah said nothing. He studied her, his expression calm and unreadable, weighing the request. She clearly wasn't asking just out of curiosity—there was intent behind her words, a desire to see more of what had prompted him to challenge the established opinions of art scholars.

Finally, he nodded. "Sure."

Her smile deepened, and there was something in it—a flicker of satisfaction, perhaps—as she gestured toward another wing of the gallery. "Shall we?"

The old man looked less enthused. He shifted uncomfortably beside her, shooting Noah a faintly suspicious glance but saying nothing.

Noah followed as Diana led the way, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The old man trailed a step behind them, his expression still marked by irritation, though he seemed unwilling to challenge her decision.

As they walked through the gallery, Diana spoke with casual elegance, her voice warm yet precise. "The Regent Street Gallery is one of my favorite places in London. It's small compared to the larger museums, but it has a certain charm, don't you think?"

Noah glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the space. The high ceilings, pristine white walls, and carefully curated collection gave the gallery a quiet dignity. "It's well-organized," he said simply. "They put thought into the layout."

Diana nodded lightly.

They stopped in front of a bold abstract piece—a chaotic swirl of colors that seemed to pulse with energy. Reds and blacks clashed violently against streaks of yellow, creating a visual tension that refused to be ignored.

Diana tilted her head, studying it. "What do you see when you look at this?" she asked, her tone genuinely curious.

Noah stared at the painting for a long moment, his expression calm, his mind already dissecting the layers of intention beneath the surface. "Conflict," he said finally. "Not just external—this isn't about war or violence. It's internal. The kind of struggle you feel when you're trying to hold onto something but know you're losing it anyway."

The old man scoffed softly behind them,

Noah stared at the painting for a long moment, his expression calm, his mind already dissecting the layers of intention beneath the surface. "Conflict," he said finally. "Not just external—this isn't about war or violence. It's internal. The kind of struggle you feel when you're trying to hold onto something but know you're losing it anyway."

Behind him, the old man let out a scoff, clearly unable to keep quiet any longer. He stepped forward slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. "Conflict? No, young man, that's not it at all. In fact, this piece is widely understood to represent liberation. The bold reds and blacks signify the breaking of chains, the destruction of oppression. The yellow—what you call 'hope'—is actually symbolic of triumph, of victory. It's not faint or fragile, as you say. It cuts through deliberately, showing that light will always overcome darkness."

The old man's tone was firm, confident, as if he were reading directly from a textbook. His explanation carried the weight of authority, and he straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing at Noah. "This interpretation has been widely accepted by scholars for years. It's the consensus of the most respected voices in the field. To suggest otherwise is… well, let's call it bold."

The woman beside him said nothing, her head tilting slightly as her gaze flicked to Noah. She seemed genuinely curious about what he would say next, her faint smile betraying a hint of amusement.

Noah, for his part, didn't react to the old man's dismissal. His expression remained calm, his gaze steady on the painting. "Liberation?" he repeated, his tone even. "That's what they think this is about?"

The old man's lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not what we think, young man. That's what it is."

Noah finally turned his head, just enough to glance at the old man, his tone still quiet but cutting. "No. That's what it looks like to someone who's only scratching the surface."

The old man stiffened, clearly taken aback. "Excuse me?"

Noah gestured toward the painting, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're reading it like it's a victory march. A nice, clean story of struggle and triumph. But art isn't clean. This isn't clean. Look at the red and black—they don't just collide. They dominate the canvas, swallowing most of the space. There's no 'breaking free' here. The colors are suffocating, consuming, overwhelming."

He pointed to the thin streak of yellow cutting through the chaos. "And that yellow? It's not triumph. It's survival. It's faint because it's fragile. It's not a victory—it's holding on by the thinnest thread."