Every year, exactly one month after the publication of her latest book, Elena hosts a week-long gathering. It is a rare sanctuary for aspiring artists to connect with one another and catch the eyes of industry titans. For the first two days, the guest list is strictly creative: writers, poets, painters, musicians, and dancers. On the night of the third day, the "Prominent Seven" are expected.
In a typical year, only four of these seven figures attend, with the lineup rotating annually to maintain a sense of exclusive mystery. However, this year is different.
The gathering culminates in a gala where artists showcase their work based on a shared theme, offering them a life-changing audience. The rotating council includes: a nationally renowned music producer, the vice director of an international publishing house, the president of a prestigious dance academy and his wife, the Secretary to the Minister of Fine Arts, a multi-award-winning film director, an heir to a global investment firm, and a reclusive painter whose interviews are the "white whales" of the media.
On the morning of the fourth day, the artists depart, leaving the patrons behind to relax in luxury until the night of the seventh day.
Elena’s status as a bestselling author whose works are frequently adapted for the screen wasn't enough to build this empire alone—especially in the beginning. As an heir to the Hudson family, whose fortune is rooted in the automotive and aerospace industries, she possessed a level of momentum that sparked immediate controversy. Critics often accused her of "buying" her way into the literary canon, claiming her wealth overshadowed struggling writers with better stories. However, the genuine opportunities she provided to new talent each year eventually quieted the noise, aided by her undeniably unique storytelling and visceral character development.
An invitation to Elena’s gathering has become a sacred currency in the art world; simply being invited is enough to launch a career.
Last year’s gathering was abruptly canceled while Elena stayed by her brother’s side during his months of post-surgical recuperation. The disappointment among the guests was palpable, but it has been replaced by a feverish anticipation for this year. Word has spread that for the first time in the event’s history, all seven figures will be present at once—an unprecedented assembly that has the entire industry watching.
Today is the morning of the third day. The artists have cleared the yacht, scattering into the city to find inspiration under the spring sun. The silence on the pier is heavy—a deceptive calm before the evening party, when the full council arrives and the true performance begins.
Alistair, attending for only the second time in the gathering’s ten-year history, remained unfamiliar with the elaborate activities Elena prepared to feed her constant hunger for narrative. His first attendance had been two years ago, held at a secluded castle they once frequented for summer vacations while their parents were still alive.
It was the first time he had stepped foot on the grounds since what the other elite families politely called "the Hudsons' Unfortunate Incident." He had summoned a sudden burst of courage to return, but the estate no longer looked the same. The colors were washed out, the fragrance of the flowers had vanished, and the once-sparkling lake appeared as nothing more than a muddy puddle. To Alistair, the beauty of the place was dead. He had arrived on the first day but fled by the third morning—a day earlier than planned—urged on by John, who had accompanied him. He had spent the trip roaming the property like a lonely, lost soul, waiting to feel the presence of loved ones who had left without a goodbye.
On the night before his early departure, Alistair had stood lost in thought under the stars. Nearby, one of the invited painters was working under the night sky. Another guest approached, kept pestering the artist with a loud, self-important analysis of the work's "deeper meaning." When the painter offered only clipped, uninterested responses, the guest turned his sights on Alistair, who stood nearby in a silent daze.
Unaware of Alistair’s identity—since Alistair had kept to himself from the moment he arrived, too deep in his own thoughts to even interact with Elena—the guest saw him only as a target for his own vanity. He tried to draw him into the debate, perhaps expecting a simple nod or a word of hollow praise for his "brilliant" insights.
Alistair ignored the man’s posturing entirely. He didn't even look at the guest; instead, his eyes fell on the canvas with a heavy, haunted weight.
"A painting depicting parental love," Alistair said softly to the painter, "isn't really suitable for this setting."
Before the painter could find his voice to ask why, the guest’s face flushed a deep, indignant red. He felt slighted by Alistair’s casual dismissal and deeply annoyed by a comment that suggested this stranger understood the "soul" of the estate better than he did. To him, Alistair was just a silent, uncultured intruder who had dared to critique a theme he couldn't possibly understand.
"It seems some of us lack the literary depth to appreciate the nuances of the moment," he remarked, his voice dripping with performative pity. He turned his head slightly, as if addressing the painter, but his eyes remained fixed on Alistair with a cold sneer.
"The uncultured," he mumbled under his breath, just loud enough to be heard over the night breeze, "are here merely to occupy space."
Then, looking directly at Alistair with a mocking sneer, he began to recite the last two verses of a certain poem. On the surface, the verses were a simple tribute to a monarch, but to anyone who knew the country’s history, the subtext was a jagged blade. It was the very poem famously recited by a ' famous idiot'—a man who had performed a poor, unknown poet’s work to flatter the King, only to be beheaded when the hidden message was revealed to be a call for rebellion.
The guest recited it with a smirk, clearly comparing Alistair to that historical fool, someone trying to sound profound while being blissfully unaware of the true meaning of the words he spoke.
The guest likely expected laughter from the approaching crowd or an embarrassed look from the "ignorant" Alistair he had just insulted. Instead, he met Alistair’s focused eyes, which looked past him to catch the twitching, dangerous smile on Elena’s face.
Alistair didn’t need to hear her breaths to know the explosion was coming; he could feel the sudden stillness in her posture. He stepped forward seamlessly, using his tall build to block her view of the guest entirely.
Before she could lash out in front of everyone, he took her firmly by the shoulders. With a quiet, steady strength, he guided her back toward the castle’s stone archway, physically turning her away from the sore sight.
Though she allowed herself to be led away, Elena tried to glance back, her eyes dark with a lingering fury. Alistair reached up and firmly nudged her head forward, forcing her to look straight ahead. As he guided her toward the quiet of the castle, his mind raced with how to keep the situation under control. It was clear she needed to rest and regain her composure before she could face the other guests again.