The Return of the Cannon Fodder Trillion Heiress - Chapter 835

Chapter 835: Chapter 835 Accepting The Gift
“At first,” Andrew continued, “when you stood in front of the ‘Ragnarok’ painting, I thought it might’ve been simple admiration—just a coincidence. But when I spoke to you and stepped away, I watched you wander through the gallery. You didn’t just glance around. You sought out paintings I had hidden among the others—the ones that came directly from my dreams—and you picked them one by one, as if something was guiding you to them.”

He met her gaze. “That’s when I remembered what my mother always told me: some people and things are bound by fate. And now… I think she might’ve been right.”

“So, in short,” Andrew said with a faint smile, “everything I said earlier was just… pleasantries. I didn’t know how to explain any of this without sounding childish.”

He leaned back slightly, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his teacup.

“When I was five, I told my mother about what I saw—what I felt. But she brushed it off, said it was just a fever dream, something my delirious mind conjured up. Honestly, I believed her. For years, I doubted myself. I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. My dreams felt so vivid—so raw—with emotions that didn’t feel like they belonged to a child.”

His eyes lowered for a moment, lost in a memory.

“I didn’t know what to do with everything inside me, so I started painting. Every dream, every image, every feeling—I poured it all onto canvas. That became my outlet. And strangely enough, the more I painted, the lighter I felt. Like I was slowly exhaling something I’d been holding in for too long.”

He gestured to the space around them.

“This exhibition—it’s for charity, to help children. And since people often say children are like angels, I chose the theme of angels and devils. I added a few new pieces, but most of what you see here are the paintings that came from those dreams. And just like that, I had an art gallery full of memories I never quite understood.”

He ended with a shrug, casual on the surface, but Hera could sense the quiet storm beneath. His tone may have sounded dismissive, almost indifferent, but there was no mistaking the years of inner conflict buried just beneath the calm.

Hera didn’t know what to say. It felt as if she’d been struck by a thunderclap—stunned into silence by a revelation she couldn’t fully process. Her thoughts swirled in a chaotic storm of possibilities.

Was it too dramatic to think that this wasn’t just coincidence? That maybe, just maybe, this was connected to the world she had originally suspected?

Andrew’s dream had sounded less like a fever-induced hallucination and more like a prophecy—like he’d glimpsed fragments of a future he couldn’t understand and captured them in paint. The images he described felt like a riddle wrapped in symbolism. The weeping girl, the six guardian angels, the madness driven by greed and pride—it all seemed far too specific, too aligned with things that were written in the novel they lived in now.

She found herself mentally replaying every word, trying to decipher the hidden meaning. Who was that girl in chains? What was her significance? And why couldn’t the angels see her? The deeper Hera thought, the more the lines between coincidence and fate began to blur.

As Hera stood there, visibly dazed, Andrew could tell the gears in her mind were turning. She was genuinely thinking deeply about what he had said—and for some reason, that made him feel… happy.

It was a rare reaction. Most people he had confided in before only offered surface-level interest, quickly brushing off his dreams as childish delusions or the muddled thoughts of someone who couldn’t distinguish between dreams and reality.

But to Andrew, those dreams had always felt different. They didn’t fade like typical memories upon waking—they lingered, vivid and urgent, as if carrying a message meant for him to decipher. At times, he even experienced strange moments of déjà vu, where the present overlapped with some hazy fragment of his dreams.

It was like walking through a script he’d read before, knowing what might happen next—yet powerless to stop it or change it. And then, just like that, the moment would pass, leaving him with nothing but that same, nagging feeling that everything had meaning… but the meaning remained just out of reach.

Sometimes, Andrew wondered if he was going mad—paranoid from everything he had been through. That uncertainty only added to his eccentricity.

And yet, now, he wasn’t sure why he was telling Hera all of this. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was the sense of safety he felt around her, the way she listened without judgment, humored his quirks, and treated him with a rare openness. Somehow, their conversation had made him feel seen—and in that moment, it felt natural to share.

Hera, on the other hand, felt a sudden lurch in her chest as she listened. Her mind was racing with thoughts, but she kept her expression composed, her smile polite and understanding. Years of practice allowed her to maintain a calm exterior even when her heart was stirred.

They exchanged a few more words before swapping numbers. Hera graciously accepted the gift Andrew had given her—since he refused to take any payment, she had no choice but to accept it sincerely.

However, instead of having the paintings sent to her hotel, Hera discussed the logistics with Andrew and requested that the artwork be delivered to her penthouse at Green Dragon Manor, back in her home country. She was even considering using her private plane to transport them—but Andrew quickly offered to handle everything.

He explained that he had trusted contacts who specialized in art transportation and could ensure the paintings’ safety. Hearing this, Hera could only leave the matter in his hands. After all, Andrew clearly had far more experience in handling valuable artworks than she did.

By the time their conversation ended, more than an hour had passed. Athena and the others had already finished whatever they were doing and were now patiently waiting in another room. When the staff realized they were with Hera, the group was promptly given warm hospitality—served tea and an assortment of snacks.

Minerva, who had been nibbling and snacking throughout the day, suddenly puffed up her cheeks in mild frustration and turned to Athena with a groan.

“Athena, we’ve been eating non-stop today! Aren’t you even a little worried about getting fat?” she complained, pinching her own cheeks dramatically.

Athena burst out laughing.

“Minerva, what’s the point of dieting all day if you can’t enjoy food once in a while?” she said, shaking her head with a grin. “It’s called rewarding yourself! And besides, we’ve been walking around all day too. Snacking helps replenish our energy—unless you want to pass out on the street just to keep your waistline?”

She raised her brows, giving Minerva a look as if she were the most ridiculous person in the room.

Minerva could only pout harder. She wanted to argue, but she had no comeback—because, annoyingly, Athena was right.

“Besides,” Athena added with a teasing grin, “it’s not like a little extra flesh would suddenly make us look fat. If anything, it just makes you look softer—more huggable, even adorable in front of a man. If that’s what you’re so worried about.”