Chapter 99
The shattered remains of my phone still lay on the carpet like a fragmented corpse, silently mocking this absurd charade.
Lawrence watched me, the pleasure of total control in his eyes gradually settling into something deeper, more contemplative.
It was a scrutinizing gaze—like he was admiring a piece of art he'd personally crafted, finally revealing its cracks. He seemed satisfied by the fractures yet curious about what other patterns might be hiding beneath.
I met his stare without flinching.
In that moment, I'd shed every pretense. Only the hatred of betrayal and abandonment remained in my eyes—a numb, almost deadened loathing.
Half of it was real. Half performance. The truth and the lie so intertwined I could barely tell them apart anymore.
He seemed pleased by this version of me—enraged yet strangely calm.
He didn't press further. Didn't probe. Just slowly curved his lips into a smile edged with condescending respect.
"Your enemy. You keep her for your own amusement. I won't interfere." He walked to the bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. Ice clinked against crystal. "Tomorrow night, there's an auction. You'll accompany me."
I didn't answer. Just stared at him coldly.
He swirled the amber liquid, dangerous light glinting in the lampglow.
"Don't look at me like that, Emily." A soft laugh, laced with unmistakable warning. "You should learn to be happy. After tomorrow, all of New York will know you're the only woman standing beside me."
This auction was nothing but a stage for him to declare ownership to the world.
And I was his prized trophy.
The next day, I was forced into a black velvet gown he'd selected—the hem trailing like spilled ink across the floor.
Jewelry pressed cold against my skin, heavy as shackles.
The auction hall glittered with wealth and hypocrisy—champagne flutes, designer gowns, and the suffocating scent of money mingling with expensive cologne.
Lawrence's arm tightened around my waist like an iron band, pulling me deeper into his embrace. His scent—cologne and cigar smoke—surrounded me, inescapable.
I was a marionette in designer heels, a practiced smile plastered on my face as I played my part beside him, navigating conversations with so-called high society.
Then several familiar figures appeared in the distance.
The Victor family elders. Clutching wine glasses, sycophantic smiles plastered across their faces, they approached us.
"Mr. Lowe, such an honor to have you grace our humble auction!" The lead elder—Great-Uncle, who'd lectured me so righteously on the phone days ago—now groveled like a dog begging for scraps.
"Indeed, indeed! Mr. Lowe, you're so young and accomplished. Victor family hopes to rely on your support in the future."
Their fawning masks overlapped with the sanctimonious faces they'd worn in that basement. My stomach churned. I nearly vomited on the spot.
Instinctively, I tried to pull away from Lawrence's grip. He sensed it immediately, his arm tightening, fingers digging into my waist in warning.
"You're too kind." Lawrence's smile was warm as spring sunshine, but his words dripped poison. "Victor family has Miss Lily—a leader who knows how to cut out family cancer. Your future's bright. As for Emily—" He lowered his head, nuzzling my temple in a deliberately intimate gesture. "She's with me now. Hope that doesn't offend."
The elders laughed awkwardly, their gazes sliding over me—contempt, pity, and that peculiar melancholy that comes from watching one of your own trampled underfoot.
I swallowed back nausea, about to speak, when movement caught my eye.
Lily stood by a distant column in a crisp white pantsuit, staring at us with hatred that could bore holes through steel.
Our eyes met for an instant. Then darted away.
A suffocating tightness gripped my chest. I pressed a hand to my mouth, face draining of color, body swaying slightly.
"What's wrong?" Lawrence noticed immediately.
"Feeling... sick." I gripped his arm, voice weak. "Think I saw something unclean. Need the restroom."
My words were pointed. Lawrence was clearly delighted.
He glanced at the Victor elders—faces now ashen—then at Lily in the distance, radiating fury. His smile widened.
He released me, tone playful: "Go ahead. Don't keep me waiting long."
I practically fled toward the restroom.
Cold water splashed against my face. I stared at my reflection—heavy makeup failing to hide the exhaustion beneath—and drew a deep breath.
The sharp click of heels echoed behind me. Lily's figure appeared in the mirror.
Neither of us spoke. Just exchanged silent communication through reflected gazes.
I walked into the farthest stall, locking it behind me. Seconds later, soft knocking.
"It's me." Lily's voice barely above a whisper.
I opened the door, pulling her inside.
In the cramped space, her familiar subtle perfume cut through Lawrence's cigar stench still clinging to me. My rigid nerves loosened slightly.
"How is he?" I grabbed her arm, desperate. "Tell me."
This was all I cared about.
Lily's expression darkened. She shook her head, exhaustion and gravity I'd never seen before weighing down her features. "Not good. The explosion's impact, injuries from hitting the reef when he jumped, massive blood loss, persistent high fever. He woke up once yesterday, said a few words, then passed out again."
My heart felt crushed by an invisible fist. I couldn't breathe.
So those words he'd spoken when he woke—they'd cost him everything he had left.
I bit my lip hard to suppress the sob building in my throat, nails digging crescents into my palms.
"Emily." Lily gripped my trembling shoulders, gaze fierce. "Listen. He bet his life on this. None of us can break. The doctor says he's strong—if he gets through the next few days, he'll make it."
She was reassuring me. And herself.
"Take care of yourself," she said, a flash of pain crossing her face. "You're his only hope right now. And the sharpest blade at Lawrence's heart. The more glamorous you look beside him, the more his guard drops."