The Collector

Henri Delaume was a man who owned everything — galleries, hotels, even the silence of those who owed him. His penthouse on Avenue Foch was filled with art he barely looked at anymore. Paintings worth millions hung like trophies on walls that smelled of old wine and loneliness.

One night, he hosted a private auction — ten guests, ten glasses of champagne, and one painting no one was supposed to see. It was said to be cursed, stolen from a family during the war. Henri didn’t care. To him, history was just another thing money could erase.

But when the bidding began, something in the room shifted. The air felt heavier, colder. The lights flickered. The painting — a portrait of a woman with sad, knowing eyes — seemed to stare straight at him. Henri blinked, but her gaze didn’t move.

He laughed it off, sold it for a fortune, and raised his glass. Yet that night, he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face — the woman from the portrait, standing in his room, her dress wet, her skin pale as marble.

By morning, the servants found the apartment empty. The champagne still fizzed in his glass, untouched. The painting hung back on the wall, perfectly centered — except now, the woman’s expression had changed.

She was smiling.