Chapter 74: The Gallery of Secrets
Paris never sleeps in silence.
Even at twilight, when the city folds itself into velvet
shadows and golden glows, there is a low hum—a whisper of creation, art, wine,
and whispered sins hidden in corner cafés. Tonight, it buzzed louder. Tonight,
it pulsed with anticipation, with rumors spreading like wildfire down the
alleys of Montmartre and across rooftops in the Marais.
Tonight, the Ghost of Color was about to make history.
Inside the Maison de Verre—a gallery carved out of glass,
steel, and century-old secrets—the world’s elite had gathered. Critics,
collectors, historians, and artists mingled under chandeliers shaped like
falling stars. Every wall shimmered with Koo’s colors—bold strokes, haunting
silhouettes, and emotions caught mid-scream, mid-sigh, mid-salvation.
And yet, no one knew the artist was already inside.
Not as a shadow.
Not as a whisper.
But as a boy wearing silk and secrets, sitting between two
kings.
Jungkook sat in the private viewing loft of the gallery,
high above the crowd, encased in tinted glass that allowed him to watch without
being seen. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from below and the
occasional flicker of a flame-shaped chandelier. He wore a simple black suit,
tailored to perfection, with his signature mole visible under a soft gloss of
lip balm. No piercings. No dramatic styling. Just Jungkook—quiet and
devastating.
His fingers curled tightly in V’s gloved hand.
Taehyung leaned closer on his other side, his voice velvet.
“They’re falling apart already,” he murmured, nodding to the
sea of guests below. “Some think Koo is a Parisian ghost. Others think it’s
AI-generated.”
“They’ll keep guessing for years,” V added, brushing his
thumb over the back of Jungkook’s hand. “And you’ll keep creating without
having to wear their chains.”
Jungkook smiled softly.
“You’re not mad that they’ll never know it’s… me?”
V’s eyes darkened with a kind of possessive tenderness.
“No,” he said. “Because we do.”
“And the rest of the world doesn’t deserve you,” Taehyung
added, pressing a kiss to the top of Jungkook’s hand. “Not like we do.”
Below, the gallery lights dimmed. A curated voice echoed
through the speakers in soft French and English, introducing The Ghost of Color
and the message of the evening’s collection: Obsession, Memory, Belonging.
The final piece was unveiled at the center.
A tall triptych—three panels that formed a story.
On the left: a lonely boy in crimson shadows, blindfolded,
his chest open like a wound, gold bleeding from it in threads.
On the right: two mirrored kings cloaked in black and smoke,
faceless but towering, hands reaching but not touching.
And in the center: the boy again, now wearing a crown of
paper and flame, sitting between the kings, his wounds glowing like dawn, their
hands finally resting over his heart.
Each panel pulsed under the gallery lighting like it was
breathing.
The crowd gasped.
But in the private room above, silence reigned.
Jungkook hadn’t spoken in several minutes. He just watched
his soul unfold on walls for strangers, yet wrapped himself tighter into the
presence of the only two people who truly understood what the painting meant.
“Did you leave the signature hidden?” V asked quietly.
Jungkook nodded.
Taehyung leaned in. “Where?”
The younger boy smirked faintly, eyes glinting with
mischief.
“In the gold threads of the first panel. You have to tilt it,
look from the left.”
They both turned to stare down through the glass, smirking.
Invisible to the rest of the world. They were gods watching mortals try to
decipher a riddle written in blood and devotion.
Jungkook reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a
thin black card.
A final surprise.
He turned it over and handed it to V.
“What’s this?” V asked, frowning.
“Invitation,” Jungkook whispered. “To the private
after-party.”
Taehyung’s brow arched. “You planned a party?”
Jungkook looked too pleased with himself.
“No. We planned a party,” he corrected. “I just made it…
more interesting.”
—
An hour later
The gallery had cleared. Only a few trusted attendees
remained. A velvet hallway guided them into a private wing of the building—one
that had been renovated into a luxurious salon lounge under Jungkook’s
instructions. Rich mahogany walls, crushed wine-colored velvet couches, and a
bar bathed in amber light set the scene.
There were only thirteen invitations.
Every guest was hand-selected: the Parisian curator, a few
art historians, one media liaison, and six investors. None of them knew what
was coming.
Jungkook entered last.
Flanked by Taehyung and V.
He wasn’t in a suit anymore.
He was in black silk, the top just barely tucked into
pleated trousers, collarbones exposed, and a single earring hanging like a moon
from his left lobe.
The room stilled.
The curator blinked. “Who is—”
“This,” V said smoothly, “is the Ghost of Color.”
Jaws dropped.
But before questions could fly, Taehyung raised a hand.
“You will not be publishing photos. No interviews. No tapes.
This is not for the world. This is for memory.”
The press liaison stammered, “But… the public—”
“Has had enough,” Jungkook said gently, voice low but final.
“Now it’s time for the art to breathe.”
And then he smiled—soft, boyish, a little devilish—and said:
“But if you really want to remember tonight, take a drink.”
—
Midnight
Jungkook stood barefoot on the salon piano, wine glass in
one hand, cheeks flushed, laughter ringing out like crystal.
“You said no cameras,” he teased Taehyung, who stood
watching him with a half-smile and fire in his gaze. “But I didn’t say no
chaos.”
V sat nearby, one hand stroking the rim of his own glass,
eyes never leaving Jungkook’s figure. His voice was low, sensual.
“Let him have his moment. It’s the last time he gets to be
the ghost.”
Taehyung moved beside him, leaned into his space. “You ready
for what’s next?”
V glanced up at him. “What—marriage?”
“We’re already married.”
Jungkook, hearing this from across the room, turned with a
mock gasp. “You mean—I’m married?!”
The whole room erupted in laughter.
But only the three of them knew the truth.
Tomorrow, the papers would report a mysterious figure appeared
at the gallery. The Ghost of Color made their first and last public glimpse.
Then vanished again. A mystery, a myth.
What the world wouldn’t know?
That the Ghost was never alone.
He was a crown worn by three.
—
One Week Later – A Hidden Villa in Tuscany
The vineyard stretched for miles, and the sky blazed a soft
orange. On the patio, Jungkook lay on a lounge chair, sketchbook in lap, both
his husbands beside him with untouched glasses of wine.
He looked up at them, eyes soft.
“Do you think people will remember me?”
Taehyung leaned over, stealing a kiss from his cheek.
“They’ll chase your shadow forever.”
V kissed the other side. “But your light belongs only to
us.”
And as the sun dipped low behind the hills, the three of
them held each other—unbroken, unbothered, and eternal.
—
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