Chapter 252

ELLA

Back at the hotel, I had lunch in the restaurant. The salmon was perfectly cooked, but I barely tasted it. My fork moved mechanically while my thoughts stayed fixed on the auction. The thousand-year ginseng. Jack's treatment depended on it.

After lunch, I returned to my room and tried to rest. The pillow felt too soft, the sheets too crisp. At five, I gave up and started getting ready.

The charity auction required masks. A themed event for wealthy donors who wanted to feel mysterious while writing checks.

I chose a white fox mask from the hotel's collection. The porcelain felt cool against my fingertips. It covered the upper half of my face, leaving only my mouth and chin visible.

Marcus picked a plain black one that made him look even more intimidating.

"Mr. Sterling said to bid on multiple items," he reminded me, adjusting his cufflinks.

"I'm only here for the ginseng."

"He was very specific about bringing things back." His tone suggested Jack had been more than specific.

"Marcus, I'm not wasting money on things we don't need."

He didn't argue. Smart man.

We arrived at the venue at six thirty. The ballroom stretched before us, chandeliers throwing rainbow light across marble floors. Men in tuxedos clustered near the bar. Women in evening gowns drifted between display cases, their jewelry catching the light. Everyone wore elaborate masks—peacocks and ravens, lions and butterflies.

The auction started promptly. A painting appeared on the enormous screen. Then sculptures with twisted forms. Antique furniture that looked uncomfortable. The prices climbed steadily, numbers flashing across the display. Hundreds of thousands. Then millions.

I waited, my auction paddle resting against my thigh.

Finally, lot forty-seven appeared on the screen. The thousand-year ginseng root sat in a glass case under special lighting, its gnarled form resembling a miniature tree.

"Authenticated as the oldest ginseng specimen in North America," the auctioneer announced, his voice carrying through the speakers. "Starting bid is one million dollars."

Hands shot up immediately. The price jumped quickly, the auctioneer's voice maintaining its steady rhythm. One point two. One point five. Two million.

I stayed still, watching the other bidders reveal themselves. No point in entering too early.

The bidding slowed at three million. A pause. Then it picked up again, two determined voices pushing higher. Four million. Four point five.

At five million, only three bidders remained. Two men in the front rows, their paddles rising with practiced ease.

I nodded to Marcus.

He raised his paddle, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Five point one million."

Every head in the room turned toward us. The masks made it impossible to read expressions, but I felt the weight of their attention.

The other two bidders dropped out. The auctioneer's gavel started to descend.

"Five point five million."

The voice came from across the room. Female. Familiar. Something in the cadence made my shoulders tense.

I turned. A woman in a gold mask stood near the front, her champagne-colored gown catching the light. Her posture—spine rigid, chin lifted—gave her away. The way her hand moved when she gestured. Amelia Jones.

Of course.

"Five point six," Marcus said quietly, his paddle already raised.

"Six million." Amelia didn't hesitate, her voice carrying a sharp edge.

"Six point one."

"Seven million." Her voice rose slightly, losing some of its control.

"Seven point one."

A man in a dark suit approached Amelia. He leaned close and whispered something, his hand hovering near her elbow. She shook her head hard, the movement making her earrings swing.

"Eight million," she called out, her voice echoing in the sudden silence.

The room went quiet. That was well above the estimated value, according to the catalog Marcus had studied.

Marcus looked at me, his expression unreadable behind the mask. I nodded.

"Eight point one million."

The man beside Amelia grabbed her arm. She yanked free, the movement sharp enough to make nearby guests step back.

"Are you trying to sabotage me?" The man's voice carried across the room. "Who the hell are you?"

Marcus didn't respond, his posture unchanged.

"Do you know who Miss Jones is? The Moore family owns half this city. You're making a serious mistake."

"We're following proper auction procedures," Marcus said, his tone flat.

"The Moore family doesn't forget insults."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Amelia pulled the man aside, but their argument was loud enough for nearby guests to hear, heads turning to watch the spectacle.

"You said no one would challenge me."

"Miss Jones, eight million is already too much—"

"I don't care. I want it."

"Your grandfather set a budget—"

"Then I'll use my own money."

"You don't have eight million in liquid assets." The man's desperation was palpable now.

While they argued, Marcus raised his paddle again, the movement deliberate.

"Eight point two million."

Amelia spun around. "Nine million."

Gasps rippled through the crowd, the sound like wind through leaves.

"Miss Jones, please." The man looked panicked, his hand reaching for her arm again. "That's beyond reasonable—"

"Are you questioning my decisions?"

"Your grandfather will—"

"My grandfather isn't here. I am."

Marcus waited, giving the auctioneer time to process. The man looked between us, his gavel poised.

"Nine point one million," Marcus said.

"Ten million." Amelia's voice shook with anger, the words almost breaking.

The entire room erupted in whispers, the sound building like a wave.

The man beside her grabbed her arm again, his grip tight enough to leave marks. "Absolutely not. I won't authorize—"

"You work for me."

"I work for your grandfather. And he'll have my head if I let you spend ten million on a ginseng root."

"Then I'll tell him you failed to properly identify my competitors. That you let someone humiliate me in public."

The man's face went white beneath his mask.

I leaned toward Marcus, my voice barely audible. "One more."

"Mrs. Sterling—"

"Just once more."

He raised the paddle, his movement final. "Ten point one million."

The man physically blocked Amelia from raising her hand, his body forming a barrier.

"Our budget ceiling is ten million," he said urgently, his voice low but carrying. "Exceeding it will alert your grandfather immediately. If you want to join Moore Corporation, you cannot make this kind of mistake."

Amelia's hand dropped. Her entire body shook with rage, tremors visible even from across the room.

"Find out who they are," she ordered, her voice tight. "I want names. Addresses. Everything."

The auctioneer's gavel fell, the sound sharp and final. "Sold for ten point one million dollars to paddle two-seventeen."

I stood, smoothing my dress. "I'm going to wait for the jewelry lots."

Marcus followed me to a quieter corner of the room. We sat through another hour of bidding. Watches. Necklaces. Rings. I bought a diamond bracelet for eight hundred thousand. Something to justify my cover story to Jack.

At nine o'clock, Marcus confirmed the ginseng would be delivered to our hotel within the hour.

"Let's go," I said.

We headed for the exit. The parking garage was mostly empty. Our car waited near the elevator.

Marcus opened the passenger door.

Black-suited men appeared from behind pillars and parked cars. A dozen of them. Maybe more. They formed a loose circle around us, their positions chosen to block every exit.