Chapter 58
Serena
The moment Vanessa's voice cracked on "five million, two hundred thousand," the auction hall erupted.
Not with shock—with excitement. I watched the energy shift through the crowd like an electric current, heads turning in anticipation, whispers multiplying with the gleeful edge of spectators settling in for blood sport. This wasn't about the painting anymore. Everyone in this room knew it.
"Oh, this is getting good," someone behind us murmured, barely suppressing their delight. "Nothing like watching two women go to war over a dead emperor's portrait."
"My money's on Holland," a man's voice floated from two rows back, casual as if discussing the weather. "Vance is practically bankrupt. This is just... sad, really."
"Sad?" His companion—a woman whose diamond choker probably cost more than my childhood home—let out a delighted laugh. "This is entertainment. I haven't seen a good catfight at Christie's in years."
"The Vance name used to mean something," another voice chimed in, this one tinged with performative sympathy. "One of the Four Pillars, for God's sake. Now? The surname's probably the only asset they have left to liquidate."
I felt the weight of their stares, the judgment thick enough to choke on. Three years ago, this would have destroyed me—the public dissection of my family's downfall, the casual cruelty of strangers picking apart my worth. I would have shrunk into myself, desperate to disappear, convinced they were right to dismiss me.
But that girl was gone.
I stretched languidly in my seat, letting the silence build, savoring the tension coiling tighter with each passing second. Then, without even glancing at Vanessa, I raised my paddle.
"Five million, three hundred thousand."
The room went dead silent.
Every head swiveled toward Vanessa now, the collective attention shifting like a spotlight. I could practically hear the unspoken question hanging in the air: What are you going to do now, Holland heiress?
Vanessa's face flushed a mottled red, her jaw working as if she were trying to force words past some invisible barrier. Beside her, Wesley looked worse—his expression a cocktail of shame and panic, his shoulders hunched as if he could physically shrink away from the scrutiny. I caught the tail end of his whispered apology, his hand reaching for hers in a gesture that screamed desperation.
She jerked away from him, her eyes blazing with humiliation and fury.
The auctioneer, who'd been watching the entire exchange with thinly veiled amusement, cleared his throat. "Five million, three hundred thousand dollars, going once..." He paused, his gaze landing squarely on Vanessa, his tone almost coaxing. "Do I hear five million, four hundred thousand?"
It was a blatant prompt, an invitation to continue the show. He wasn't even pretending to maintain professional neutrality anymore—he wanted to see how this played out. The entire room did.
Vanessa's mouth opened, then closed. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white.
"Oh my God," Chloe breathed beside me, barely containing her laughter. "She's actually out. Five million, two hundred thousand was her limit.”
I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. "Looks like it."
"Five million, three hundred thousand, going twice—"
"Well, that was easier than I expected," Chloe continued, her voice light with victory. "Congratulations, Serena. You just secured your golden ticket into the upper echelon. Arthur Lawson is going to love you when you show up with this."
I was about to respond, a laugh building in my chest, when the double doors at the back of the hall swung open.
A tall, impeccably dressed man strode in, his movements purposeful and unhurried despite the disruption his entrance caused. He didn't acknowledge the sea of curious stares tracking his progress. Instead, he walked directly to Wesley and Vanessa's row, bending low to speak into Wesley's ear as he placed something—a card—into his hand.
My stomach dropped.
"What the fuck?" Chloe hissed, her earlier amusement evaporating instantly. "Who is that?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My eyes were locked on Wesley's face as he listened to whatever the man was whispering, watching the transformation unfold in real time. Shame melted into shock, then morphed into something far more dangerous: triumph.
The man straightened, gave a slight nod, and exited as quickly as he'd arrived.
For a moment, nothing happened. The auctioneer hesitated, his gavel hovering mid-air, clearly unsure whether to proceed or wait.
Then Vanessa rose to her feet.
Her earlier humiliation had vanished, replaced by an expression of such smug satisfaction that my skin prickled with warning. She smoothed down her dress with deliberate care, taking her time, letting the anticipation build. When she finally spoke, her voice rang out clear and sharp, cutting through the hushed whispers like a blade.
"Ten million, ten thousand dollars."
The room exploded.
Gasps. Exclamations. A few people actually stood up to get a better view, as if proximity would somehow help them process what had just happened. The auctioneer's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline, his professional mask slipping for a split second before he recovered.
"Ten—" He cleared his throat, visibly struggling to maintain composure. "Ten million, ten thousand dollars. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a bid of ten million, ten thousand dollars."