Chapter 132
Elizabeth's gaze followed the sound, and her pupils contracted sharply.
Jacob was here.
He wore a tailored black suit, his posture ramrod straight, his features severe. An intimidating aura radiated from him, a clear warning for strangers to keep their distance.
Leon followed closely behind him, while several other bodyguards dispersed into the crowd, their eyes vigilantly scanning their surroundings.
As Jacob stepped onto the deck, his sharp gaze swept across the area, as if searching for something.
When his eyes passed over the corner where Uri and Elizabeth were standing, they abruptly came to a halt.
Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat.
Jacob's gaze had landed on her.
More precisely, it had landed on her back.
In that instant, Elizabeth could almost feel his stare piercing through the air, through the crowd, through the mask on her face, and stabbing directly into her soul.
"Who is that?" Jacob asked a nearby waiter in a low voice.
The waiter followed his line of sight and answered respectfully, "Mr. Smith, those are people from the Nightfall organization. That gentleman is the leader of Nightfall, Noah. The lady beside him, wearing the mask, is his companion."
'Nightfall?'
Jacob's brow furrowed slightly. He took a small step, seeming to want to approach them.
Elizabeth's heart leaped into her throat.
Just then, a waiter approached Uri and gestured respectfully. "Mr. Noah, your private suite is ready. Please, follow me."
Uri gave a slight nod and, taking Elizabeth's arm, turned to walk toward the ship's interior. Elizabeth matched his pace, her back straight, her steps composed. She did not look back.
Yet, just as she was about to step into the cabin, she could feel the searing gaze from behind, still locked tightly upon her.
"Mr. Smith?" Leon inquired softly, noticing Jacob had stopped moving.
Jacob retracted his gaze, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes. Why did that silhouette look so familiar? But he couldn't see the face beneath the silver mask.
"It's nothing," he said, his voice deep. "Let's go inside."
He began walking toward the cabin, but his eyes couldn't help but drift back toward the end of the corridor where she had just disappeared.
The leader of Nightfall and his companion.
Who was that woman?
Why did her silhouette remind him so much of Elizabeth?
Impossible. Elizabeth was at the manor. How could she possibly be here?
Jacob suppressed the inexplicable unease in his heart and followed the waiter to his own private suite.
He had no idea that not far behind him, the very woman he was so desperate to protect was wearing a mask, adopting an entirely different identity, and stepping into the same perilous situation as he was.
Inside the auction hall, guests took their seats one by one, their low conversations filling the air with a delicate mixture of money and power.
On Uri's arm, Elizabeth was led by a waiter into a VIP suite on the second floor.
The location was superb; through the one-way glass, they could clearly see every detail on the auction stage below, while those on the main floor could not peer into the suite.
She removed her mask, her gaze passing through the glass to land on a familiar figure in the front row below.
Jacob.
He sat there, his back perfectly straight, exuding a coldness that kept everyone at a distance.
Leon stood behind him, vigilantly scanning the surroundings. The nearby guests seemed to feel the oppressive atmosphere, maintaining a subtle distance from him.
Elizabeth's fingers tightened slightly on the armrest.
"Noel," Uri said quietly, adjusting the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose. "Down there, in those seats… Pacquiao's men, Vincent's, and a few of Sawyer's subordinates are all sitting around Jacob. If they decide to team up to drive up the price, Jacob will be in a very difficult position tonight."
Elizabeth nodded, her eyes still fixed on Jacob.
"I know," she said softly. "So, when they raise, we'll push it down."
The auction officially began.
The first few items were jewelry and antiques, and the atmosphere was lively but not intense. It wasn't until the auctioneer cleared his throat and solemnly announced, "Next up is tonight's Lot 27—a privately collected old file, containing witness testimony and related physical evidence from an incident twenty years ago. The starting bid is one million dollars."
The atmosphere in the hall changed in an instant.
Countless gazes, some overt and some hidden, turned toward Jacob in the front row.
The moment the auctioneer finished speaking, a voice called out from a corner. "Two million dollars."
Elizabeth looked toward the sound. It was one of Pacquiao's men.
"Three million dollars," came another bid from a different direction, an agent for the Moretti family.
Jacob didn't move, merely casting a cold glance at the two bidders.
"Five million dollars," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly throughout the hall.
"Six million dollars," Pacquiao's man immediately followed.
"Seven million dollars," Vincent's man added, not to be outdone.
"Ten million dollars." Jacob's voice remained calm, but Elizabeth could see the fingers of his hand on the armrest tighten slightly.
"Eleven million dollars."
"Twelve million dollars."
The price climbed at an astonishing rate, quickly surpassing the fifty-million-dollar mark.
This was far beyond the intrinsic value of the file itself—but everyone knew that tonight's bidding wasn't about the file. It was about Jacob.
Elizabeth watched the coordinated siege against Jacob unfolding below, watched him being cornered by their joint efforts, watched him raise his paddle again and again only to have the price driven higher each time.
An uncontrollable surge of anger welled up inside her.
Did they think they could trap him like this?
"Sixty million dollars," Jacob bid again, his voice now tinged with a suppressed ferocity.
"Sixty-one million dollars," Pacquiao's man followed with a smirk.
Elizabeth hesitated no longer. She pressed the bidding button in their suite.
An electronic voice, altered by a modulator, emanated from the suite's speaker. "One hundred million dollars."
The entire hall erupted in an uproar.
Every head snapped up to look at the mysterious VIP suite. Behind the one-way glass, they could only make out the faint silhouettes of two people, their faces obscured.
"One hundred million dollars!" The auctioneer's voice trembled slightly. "The distinguished guest in Suite 7 has bid one hundred million dollars! Are there any higher bids?"
Pacquiao's and Vincent's men exchanged glances, clearly not expecting a third party to crash the scene.
They looked toward Sawyer, who gave a slight shake of his head; he hadn't arranged for anyone to be in that suite.
Jacob, too, looked up, his gaze sharp and focused on the suite. The one-way glass blocked his view, but he could feel that the person inside was watching him.
"One hundred million, going once!"
"One hundred million, going twice!"
"One hundred million, sold!"
The gavel fell with a crisp crack. "Congratulations to the distinguished guest in Suite 7 on winning Lot 27!"
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, letting out a long breath. She looked down at the hall. Jacob was still sitting there, his back straight, but his gaze remained locked on her suite.
Uri stood up and straightened his suit. "Let's go, Noel. It's time to inspect the goods."
Auction house staff respectfully led Uri and Elizabeth through several heavily secured doors, arriving at a VIP room in the deepest part of the cruise ship.
The moment the door opened, Elizabeth froze.
Inside the room, there was no file cabinet, no stacks of documents, nor anything else she had expected to find related to an old archive.
There was only a hospital bed.