Chapter 188
Ryder got out first, walking around to the other side to open the car door.
Wilder emerged from the car in an impeccably tailored suit, spine ramrod straight, his gaze sweeping over the reporters and onlookers at the entrance, his face displaying perfectly calibrated composure and authority.
Camera shutters instantly clicked in unison, flashbulbs nearly blinding.
"Mr. Mellon, are you confident about securing the Ross Manor today?"
"How much money has the Mellon Group prepared this time?"
"Why isn't Dahlia here today? There are reports of internal disagreements within the Mellon Group—is that true?"
The reporters' questions fired like a barrage, microphones nearly shoved into Wilder's face.
Wilder didn't answer, only nodding slightly before striding into the auction house with Ryder's accompaniment.
His steps were steady, spine straight, each footfall planted firmly.
But only he knew how fast his heart was racing.
Thirty-two million dollars.
This was the Mellon family's final bargaining chip.
If they lost—
No, they wouldn't lose.
Wilder didn't dare continue that thought. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the auction hall.
Almost simultaneously, another black sedan stopped at the entrance.
Rupert stepped out, also in a sharp suit, his face wearing a confident smile of certain victory.
He was twenty years younger than Wilder, his stride quicker, his bearing more forceful—like a leopard poised to strike, radiating an aggressive aura.
The reporters' lenses immediately swung toward him, flashbulbs lighting up again.
"Mr. Getty, how much capital has the Getty Group prepared today?"
"Who do you consider your biggest competitor?"
"There are reports the Getty Group's cash flow is tight—will today's bidding be affected?"
Rupert's steps paused. His gaze swept over the questioning reporter, lips curving into a faint smile.
That smile carried several parts contempt, several parts smugness.
"The Getty Group's financial situation doesn't need to be reported to anyone." He spoke slowly, voice not loud but clearly audible to everyone present.
"Today, I only want to say one thing." He paused, each word deliberate and resounding. "The Ross Manor—I will have it."
With that, he strode into the auction house, leaving an uproar in his wake.
Reporters excitedly whispered among themselves.
"Rupert's talking big!"
"Wilder's inside too—this is going to be good!"
"Come on, let's get inside and grab seats!"
Inside the auction hall, quite a few people were already seated.
The hall was lavishly decorated, an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling, illuminating every corner bright as day.
At the very front stood an elevated platform with an auction table, the auctioneer organizing materials.
On the large screen behind the platform displayed the Ross Manor's aerial photograph and various parameters.
The center front row seats were reserved for the Mellon and Getty families.
This was auction house protocol—important bidders were always arranged in prominent positions, convenient for reporters to photograph and for mutual scrutiny.
Wilder and Ryder had already taken their seats.
Wilder's expression was calm, gaze fixed straight ahead on the auction platform like a statue. Ryder, however, looked around, surveying the steadily arriving crowd, his eyes carrying the restlessness and wariness of youth.
When Rupert walked in, he immediately spotted Wilder's back.
His steps paused, lips curving into a cold smile.
Old fool, sitting pretty steady.
He strode over and sat in the seat beside Wilder—specially reserved for him by the auction house, right next to the Mellon family, as if deliberately placing these "sworn enemies" together.
"Dad, you're here quite early." Rupert turned slightly, his tone casual as if making small talk, but the antagonism in his words couldn't be hidden.
He and Harper weren't divorced yet, so he continued treating Wilder as his father-in-law.
Wilder glanced at him, saying flatly, "I'm old. I sleep less, wake early."
"Perfect timing then—the early bird gets the worm." Rupert smiled, his words loaded with meaning. "Though today's worm might not be so easy to catch."
Ryder couldn't help interjecting, "Rupert, what are you implying?"
"Nothing in particular." Rupert leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs, posture relaxed as if in his own living room. "Just reminding Dad that in bidding, one should know one's limits. If you don't have enough money and can't back down gracefully later, how embarrassing that would be."
Ryder's face flushed red. He was about to retort when Wilder raised a hand to stop him.
Wilder's expression remained calm, even carrying a trace of a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
That smile didn't reach his eyes, yet was more unsettling than any display of anger.
"Rupert makes a good point." He spoke slowly, voice steady as if chatting casually. "In bidding, one should indeed know their limits. Especially young people—they're prone to impulsiveness. Once impulsive, they get carried away. Throwing in their entire fortune only to realize they can't pay the balance—now that would be truly embarrassing."
The smile on Rupert's face froze momentarily.
Age brings wisdom.
Wilder's words struck right at his Achilles' heel. The Getty Group's funds were indeed scraped together from various sources. If the bidding got too fierce, even if he won, the balance payment would be problematic.
But he quickly recovered his composure. "Don't worry. Since I dared to come, I'm not afraid to spend money."
"That's good then." Wilder nodded, saying no more.
Both stared ahead at the auction platform, neither looking at the other.
The air seemed to carry a faint smell of gunpowder. Those around them sensed it, excitedly whispering among themselves.
Just then, another commotion arose at the hall entrance.
Everyone turned to look, only to see a slender figure slowly walking in.
Harper.
Today she wore an elegant off-white coat, her long hair loosely pinned up, her face free of heavy makeup—only light, natural cosmetics.
She looked clean and pure, like a white magnolia blooming in winter, completely out of place among the hall full of suits and jewels.
Behind her followed Alaric.
Alaric today wore a dark gray coat, tall and upright, his expression indifferent.
Unlike Wilder and Rupert in their formal attire, he was dressed casually, yet simply standing there, he commanded an aura impossible to ignore.
The kind of composure and certainty only true leaders possess.
They walked in one after the other, looking at no one, heading straight for a corner position.
An inconspicuous spot, far from the center, far from cameras.
Harper sat down in a chair by the edge. Alaric sat beside her.
From beginning to end, they didn't spare Wilder or Rupert even a glance.
Rupert's gaze, however, followed Harper the entire time. The smile on his face gradually disappeared, replaced by complex emotions difficult to articulate.
Anger, jealousy, unwillingness, and a trace of embarrassment he himself wouldn't admit.
How could she be so calm, sitting beside a strange man?
Don't forget—they weren't divorced yet!
How could she act like nothing had happened?
What gave her the right?