Chapter 60
Serena
I didn't respond. Instead, I pulled out my phone with deliberate slowness, making sure Vanessa could see the movement.
I found Wesley's contact—still saved in my phone from our relationship, though I'd never bothered to delete it—and started typing.
Chloe leaned over to read what I was writing, and I felt her entire body go rigid.
I'd attached a photo—one I'd taken five days ago at Lance's penthouse, a candid shot of him standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to the camera. The angle and lighting made his identity impossible to confirm, but his silhouette was unmistakably masculine, powerful, expensive.
Below the photo, I'd typed: Don't think you're the only one with a generous uncle. My sugar daddy makes Felix look like a trust fund baby.
"Serena," Chloe breathed, her voice strangled. "Is this... is this really appropriate? And when the hell did Lance become your sugar daddy?"
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
"Well," I said lightly, settling back into my seat as if I hadn't just committed to a fifteen-million-dollar purchase I couldn't afford, "the truth is irrelevant. What matters is the story they believe."
I watched Wesley pull out his phone, saw the exact moment he opened my message.
His face went through a fascinating journey—confusion, then recognition of my number, then shock as he read the words, then something that looked almost like... grief?
He showed the phone to Vanessa, and I watched her face transform. First came the shock, then a flash of what might have been hurt—quickly suppressed—then that horrible, knowing expression.
She said something to Wesley, her lips moving in what looked like "I told you so," and he flinched like she'd slapped him. The humiliation on his face was exquisite—not just that I'd moved on, but that I'd moved on to someone who could apparently drop fifteen million dollars on a whim just to outbid him.
The fact that it was all a lie only made it sweeter.
"Sixteen million," Vanessa called out, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. But there was a tremor underneath it, a hint of uncertainty that hadn't been there before.
I didn't hesitate. "Seventeen million."
The crowd was going absolutely insane now, people standing up to get a better view, phones out to record what was rapidly becoming the auction event of the season.
"Eighteen million," Vanessa shot back, but her voice was definitely shaking now. She was glancing at Wesley, who looked like he was about to be sick.
"Nineteen million," I countered smoothly, my voice steady as a heartbeat.
Then—silence.
Vanessa stood frozen, her mouth slightly open, her face cycling through emotions too quickly to track. The confidence had drained out of her like water from a cracked glass. She looked at Wesley, clearly searching for guidance, for reassurance, for anything that might tell her what to do next.
Come on, I thought, my nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave marks. Come on, you stupid, greedy, desperate fool. Just one more time. Just say it.
The seconds stretched out like taffy. The entire room held its breath.
Then Vanessa's jaw set with visible effort, her pride and rage overriding whatever common sense she might have possessed. "Twenty million dollars," she declared, her voice ringing out with forced confidence.
But the moment the words left her mouth, her expression crumbled. I watched realization dawn across her face—she'd just committed to spending twenty million dollars on a painting that was probably worth five million at best, and all because she'd let me goad her into it.
The look on her face was everything I'd hoped for and more.
The auctioneer's gaze swung to me, his expression a mixture of professional excitement and genuine curiosity. The entire room seemed to lean forward in anticipation, waiting to see if I'd push it even higher, if this insane bidding war would continue climbing into truly astronomical numbers.
I let the moment hang there, savoring it, watching Vanessa's face cycle through hope and dread as she waited for my response.
Then I stood up, smoothing down my dress with deliberate care, and smiled.
"You know what?" I said loudly enough for everyone to hear, my voice light and almost apologetic. "That's getting a bit rich for my blood. If Ms. Holland wants it that badly, it's all hers."
I gathered my clutch, looped my arm through Chloe's, and started toward the aisle.
The explosion of sound behind us was immediate—gasps, exclamations, a few scattered laughs.
"You're just... walking away?" Chloe whispered as we moved down the row, her voice caught between disbelief and admiration. "Just like that?"
"Of course, I can't afford it," I murmured back, my expression perfectly serene. Then, after a deliberate beat: "But they just lit ten million dollars on fire for me."
Chloe let out a soft, delighted laugh. "You're terrible."
"They baited their own hook and swallowed it whole," I said, my smile widening.
"What about the birthday gala though?" Her tone shifted, worry creeping back in. "You were supposed to present Arthur Lawson with that painting."
I lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I'll figure something out when the time comes."
"God," Chloe breathed, shaking her head with a mixture of awe and exasperation. "You're either the bravest person I know or completely insane."
"Can't it be both?"
She let out a soft laugh that she tried to muffle against my shoulder. "I'm genuinely terrified of what you're becoming. And I absolutely love it."