Chapter 117 The Auction
Alexander led me through Mitchell's crowded mansion, with Connor following close behind. I could feel his watchful eyes on us, but I was more focused on scanning the room for security cameras and exits. The charity auction was being held in a large ballroom at the back of the mansion, already filling with New York's elite in their designer evening wear.
"The ballroom is through here," Alexander said, his hand hovering near the small of my back without actually touching me. His face brightened with a genuine smile as he glanced at me. "I still can't believe we ran into each other here."
I caught Connor's subtle movement from the corner of my eye—the quick raise of his phone, angled to capture Alexander and me in the same frame. The soft click of the camera was barely audible over the ambient chatter, but my trained ears picked it up easily. Interesting. Reporting back to his boss, no doubt.
"This is quite the gathering," I remarked, noting the small army of security personnel positioned strategically around the perimeter. "Do you attend many of these?"
"Too many," Alexander admitted with a small grimace. "Uncle Ethan usually manages to avoid them, claiming business emergencies. I'm not important enough to use that excuse yet."
We entered the ballroom, where rows of chairs faced a stage with a podium. An elegant catalog listing the auction items sat on each seat.
"Let's sit here," Alexander suggested, pointing to a row about halfway back. "Not too close to feel obligated to bid on everything, not too far to be considered rude."
Connor moved in first, then Alexander, leaving me on the aisle.
Once seated, Alexander turned to me with an earnest expression. "Miss Morgan—Jade—I wanted to formally thank you for saving my life in Cloud City. I know we briefly spoke about it when we have dinner at the hotel, but I never properly expressed my gratitude."
I flipped through the auction catalog, barely glancing at him. "No need. You paid, I saved your life. Simple transaction."
"My life is worth more than ten thousand dollars," he said, his tone somewhere between joking and serious.
I looked up from the catalog, raising an eyebrow. "Then why was the check amount so small?" I was actually short on cash at the time.
Alexander's confident expression faltered. "I—well—" He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "I'd like another opportunity to repay you properly. Perhaps if you see something you like in the auction, I could—"
"I'm not short on cash anymore," I cut him off, returning my attention to the catalog. "But thanks."
Alexander shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with my dismissal. After a moment, he tried a different approach. "I've been wondering... how did you and my uncle know each other? Connor mentioned you were vacationing in Venezuela when you ran into him."
I glanced at Connor, who nodded slightly. "That's right. Summer vacation."
"I see." Alexander paused. "After you rescued me and I was evacuated from Cloud City, I wanted to thank you in person, but my injuries were quite severe. Uncle Ethan went to Cloud City on my behalf." He studied my face.
So that car outside our apartment that night—it was just Ethan and Connor.
Before I could respond, the lights dimmed slightly, and a well-dressed man approached the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Mitchell Foundation Charity Auction. We're honored to have you all here tonight supporting our worldwide humanitarian efforts."
The crowd applauded politely as the man continued with his introduction. "And now, please join me in welcoming our host and the foundation's visionary founder, Mr. Warren Mitchell."
An elderly man with silver hair and a benevolent smile walked onto the stage. Despite his apparent age, his movements were too fluid, too controlled—the walk of a predator disguised as prey.
Warren Mitchell. The King of Hearts. One of the Shadow Organization's most senior operatives.
I felt my lips curl into a cold smile as I watched him shake hands with the MC and approach the microphone. The ultimate chameleon—his hands were stained with the blood of hundreds, yet here he stood, revered as a humanitarian.
What a performance, I thought bitterly. The butcher playing the saint, the knife still wet with blood hidden behind his back while he extends a helping hand with the other.
"Jade?" Alexander's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Do you know Mr. Mitchell?"
I schooled my features back to neutral. "No. I just got a VIP invitation from a friend."
"Really? Mitchell Foundation invitations are notoriously difficult to come by, even for—"
"Mind if I join you?"
I turned to find Ethan Haxton standing in the aisle beside me, impeccably dressed in a tailored tuxedo. His eyes briefly met mine before shifting to Alexander, whose mouth had fallen open in surprise.
"Uncle Ethan?"
"I wrapped up early and thought I'd stop by." Ethan's tone was casual, but his eyes were alert, scanning the room with practiced efficiency. "May I?"
Without waiting for a response, he slid into the seat next to me, forcing me to move closer to Alexander. Connor, from his position on the far side, caught Ethan's eye and nodded slightly. A small, satisfied smile crossed his face—his boss had received his intelligence and acted on it.
"Focus on the auction, Alex," Ethan said, his tone mild but carrying a hint of command.
Alexander reluctantly turned his attention back to the stage, where Warren Mitchell was still speaking about the foundation's achievements.
Ethan leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Interesting choice of evening entertainment," he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "How did you get an invitation? These events are strictly controlled."
"I added my name to their electronic guest list," I whispered back. "Basic network penetration. Their cybersecurity is embarrassingly outdated."
"Of course you did." There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "And what brings the elusive Jade Morgan to a charity auction filled with New York's wealthiest socialites?"
I turned slightly toward him, our faces now inches apart. "Perhaps I'm developing a social conscience."
"Perhaps," he agreed, his eyes never leaving mine. "Or perhaps you have an interest in something—or someone—here tonight."
The proximity between us meant I could detect the subtle changes in his breathing, the microscopic contractions of his pupils. He was close enough that I could smell the cool mint of his breath.
"Are you here to keep an eye on me, Ethan?" I asked, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly. "Or to help me?"
"Help you, of course," he replied without hesitation. "I'm always at your service."
I leaned even closer, my lips nearly brushing his ear. "And if I decided to blow this place sky-high? Would you help me then?"
Ethan didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a sleek metal lighter, holding it just out of sight between our bodies.
"If you need someone to light the fuse," he said calmly, "I've got you covered."