“That depends,” he replied, his voice calm, almost indifferent. “Maybe the artist intended for you to feel both.”
I smiled, undeterred by his aloofness. “Interesting perspective,” I said, meeting his gaze with a flicker of mischief. “But I don’t think you’re here just to ponder abstract art, are you?”
Lachlan’s brow arched slightly, the faintest sign of intrigue slipping into his gaze. He didn’t reply immediately, just studied me with that unsettlingly intense stare, as if I were a puzzle he was assessing before bothering to solve.
“And you are?” he finally asked, his voice still smooth, but laced with a subtle edge.
“Emery Hayes,” I replied, letting my name hang in the air. “I’m with The Metro Review.” I watched as a flicker of recognition passed over his face, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly.
“Ah,” he said, a hint of skepticism coloring his tone. “A reporter.”
“Is that a problem?” I challenged, tilting my head, unfazed by his guardedness.
“I’ve been wanting to learn more about GrayTech,” I replied, keeping my tone steady. “Your innovations have changed the tech industry, but I’m fascinated by the man behind it all.”