mmediate attention. He strode toward the manager's office, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. "Good morning, Mr. Linton," the manager greeted, swiveling in his chair to f

artist of his time, "He uses mud and sticks to paint, and sometimes if he can't find sticks for painting, he uses sticks... haa! Just joking", Mr. Linton's eyes narrowed. "Hmm." "Only about the sticks," the manager quipped, earning a faint smirk from Mr. Linton. "So, what's the price?" Mr. Linton asked. "We've informed several clients, and we're waiting for the highest bidder. The cur

past her. "How did you get past the guards? What are you doing here?" "I came to visit my beloved brother. Is he home?" Brian asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he hung his coat on the rack. "He's not here. You need to leave, or I'll call the police," Ellen warned, though her voice lacked conviction. Brian ignored her; his eyes drawn to the portrait of Lady Martha. "Ah, my brother's latest acquisition. He's alwa

len picked up the paper, her hands trembling as she read the bold letters. Meanwhile, on television, Brian sat across from a talk show host, his demeanor calm and collected. "What inspired you to write this novel?" the host asked. "The novel explores the three main classes of society-the upper class, the working class, and the lower class," Brian expla