The Return of the Cannon Fodder Trillion Heiress - Chapter 833

Chapter 833: Chapter 833 Andrew Claude Monet
The sudden sound made Hera jolt, snapping her back to the present. She hadn’t heard anyone approach—not a single footstep. That’s how deep in thought she had been. Her head turned quickly toward the voice, and she found herself staring at a young man—no older than two to four years her senior.

But his eyes… his eyes were sharp and unsettling, as if they could see straight through her. Instinctively, Hera straightened her back and met his gaze, unsure whether to feel intrigued or on guard.

Hera studied the man for a moment. There was a quiet maturity to him, a calm kind of presence that made his gaze feel more introspective than invasive. She didn’t feel awkward under his stare—just strangely disarmed, as if lying to him wouldn’t even be possible.

“Do you like this painting?” he repeated, his eyes now shifting to the canvas in front of them.

“Hmmm… maybe,” Hera replied honestly. She wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t exactly the subject that drew her in—it was something else. A strange sense of familiarity. The brushwork, perhaps? “Do you know Oscar-Claude Monet?” she asked suddenly, the thought slipping out before she could second-guess it.

He turned back to her with a smirk. “Of course. Founder of Impressionism… and my ancestor. Why?”

Hera’s eyes widened—gradually, then all at once, until they were as round as saucers. She’d only mentioned Monet in passing, trying to put her finger on why the brushwork had felt so familiar. Impressionism. That was it. But… ancestor?

She stared at him, blinking in disbelief, not sure if he was being serious or just teasing her.

Then, the man laughed—deep and carefree, as if they were old friends sharing an inside joke.

But the thing was… Hera didn’t even know who this guy was.

Seeing Hera’s stunned expression, the man finally extended his hand with a relaxed smile. “Ah, right. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Andrew Claude Monet. My mother was so obsessed with making sure the world knew we were descended from Oscar-Claude Monet that she nearly named me exactly after him—if my father hadn’t insisted on changing the first name,” he said with a chuckle. “Funny, right?”

Hera blinked, amused. Artists really did have a flair for eccentricity sometimes, but instead of finding it strange, she found Andrew oddly refreshing. There was something easygoing and genuine about him—a kind of calm that cut through the noise of the usual chaotic life around. He didn’t feel out of place beside her, and she didn’t mind his presence at all.

She let out a soft laugh, glancing back at the painting. “Yeah… funny,” she said, still smiling.

Then, as if playing along with his humor, Hera teased with a smile, “Don’t tell me you’re the artist behind this entire art gallery?”

She chuckled lightly at her own joke. After all, although she’d bought the ticket and heard the artist was a rising star, she hadn’t bothered to check their name or face—so even if she did meet the artist, she wouldn’t know it. Typically, the artist or curator would be moving around the gallery, greeting guests in formal or semi-formal attire.

But the man beside her? He wore a trench coat over a simple black T-shirt, paired with dark pants and boots. If anything, he looked more like an actor than a painter. His slightly long hair was loosely tied at the nape of his neck, giving him an effortlessly stylish edge that didn’t scream “artist,” but rather whispered something more enigmatic.

Andrew didn’t answer her question directly. Instead, he gave Hera a cheeky grin, flashing a canine tooth like a mischievous child. Hera blinked, momentarily dumbfounded by his expression—until someone nearby called out to him by name, and then he left.

She turned her attention back to the painting and finally noticed a small display box placed in front of it. There was a label: “Bidding Box.” Only then did it click—this was a silent auction. Anyone interested could place a bid by writing down their name, contact number, and offer. Once the bidding period closed, the staff would open the box, review all the bids, and contact the highest bidder to finalize the purchase.

Realizing this, Hera decided to join in. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to bid on a few pieces. Her grandfather loved collecting art, and these paintings might make thoughtful gifts for others as well. Besides, artworks by promising young artists often appreciated in value—especially when they carried both artistic merit and emotional resonance.

For Hera, it wasn’t just about owning something beautiful; it was an investment, and maybe even a strategic gesture of goodwill if she decided to gift a few of the pieces later on.

Feeling confident in her plan, Hera reached for the bidding slip placed in front of the box. She picked up the provided pen and notepad, then calmly began writing down her offer.

She felt a strange connection to the painting in front of her—it resonated deeply, as if it spoke directly to her. Judging by its placement, size, and intricate detail, it was clearly the centerpiece of the gallery. The brushwork, style, and sheer emotion behind the scene told her that the artist had poured heart and soul into it.

Of course, she knew that in the art world, the reputation of the painter played a huge role in determining a piece’s value. But she also understood that vision, creativity, and technique mattered just as much—especially to collectors who knew how to recognize potential.

Taking all that into account, Hera confidently wrote down a bid of $2.5 million, followed by her name and phone number. She folded the slip neatly in half and slid it into the box, her expression calm but quietly satisfied.

Once she finished her first bid, Hera continued to stroll through the art gallery, taking her time to appreciate the other pieces on display. Whenever a painting caught her attention, she paused to study it carefully, and if it resonated with her, she placed a bid.

None of these, however, matched the grandeur or emotional impact of the centerpiece she had first bid on. For these additional pieces, her offers ranged from $850,000 to $250,000, depending on her personal assessment of their artistic value, technique, and potential.

What Hera didn’t notice was that after Andrew finished speaking with the person who had called him over, he quietly returned and began observing her from a distance. He watched as she moved from one painting to the next, her gaze sharp and focused, examining each work with a critical eye before writing down her bids.

There was something captivating about how deliberate and thoughtful she was, almost like a seasoned collector. His curiosity grew—what was her criteria? How did she determine the value of each piece?

Nearly an hour passed like this, and as Hera finally glanced out one of the tall gallery windows, she noticed the sky had begun to darken. They had visited countless spots around Paris and spent the entire day shopping and exploring without realizing how quickly time had slipped by.

Coincidentally, the silent auction was also nearing its end. Just as the final moments ticked down, Athena returned to Hera’s side after leisurely exploring the gallery and admiring the various artworks. She had placed two bids herself, though on a smaller scale compared to Hera.