Chapter 171 The Tables Turn
The crowd could not help but replay the scene from barely twenty minutes ago.
Back then, the gift list had been read aloud. Next to Amelia's name, the entry was painfully plain—just one word: "cup." No price, no flourish, nothing to suggest value.
A wave of disdain had swept through the room almost instantly.
Who would bring something so miserably modest to Vaughn's birthday? Even for a Martinez family illegitimate daughter, surely she could manage more than a cheap drinking glass. The thought alone had been enough to make several guests roll their eyes.
And then there was Miss Williams. On the surface, she had spoken in Amelia's defense. But every sentence had been laced with barbed hints at Amelia's low birth and supposed poverty, painting her as stingy and small.
Now, the tables had turned so violently it was almost dizzying.
Because the "cup" Amelia had gifted—the silver-inlaid marble flower goblet carved by Ivan himself—was nothing short of breathtaking. Its presence on the display table had stripped the air of sound for a heartbeat.
This was stingy? This was a "cheap cup"? This was poverty?
No. This was an authentic antique worth upward of a hundred million dollars.
Even among River City's elite, the most extravagant gift brought tonight might have grazed a million. Amelia had just casually handed over something worth a hundred times that… and she had done it without fanfare.
More telling still was her earlier admission: she had hesitated between two rare antiques—this goblet and the marble rose vase—before choosing the flawless piece. She had picked not for price, but for perfection.
What did that say about her?
It said she valued Vaughn's happiness over the weight of gold. It said she was not the kind to measure worth in currency when sentiment and meaning were involved.
Someone whispered in awe, marveling at how she had referred to the priceless goblet simply as "a cup."
Amelia's reply was calm, almost amused. "Because it is a cup."
No one could argue with that. And yet, in their world, gifts were about status. Who would take an antique worth more than most homes and wrap it as casually as a street-market glass? Who would write it down on the list without even a price tag?
And when Anna had mocked her moments ago, Amelia had not offered a single retort. She had stood her ground, unshaken, her composure surprising even those who had doubted her.
It dawned on them then—if the authentic marble rose vase was also in Amelia's possession, then she had recognized Anna's version as a fake the moment she saw it. And still, she had said nothing.
Why? Because Anna was Vaughn's granddaughter. Calling her out in public would have humiliated Anna… and embarrassed Vaughn.
The contrast was stark. The supposed country-born illegitimate daughter had shown more grace and restraint than the pedigreed Williams heiress.
And she was not just any woman—she was Bald Eagle, underground champion, national hero.
In the corner, the guest who had started streaming earlier was still filming. His livestream numbers had exploded from a few thousand to tens of thousands, then to hundreds of thousands.
Two years gone, and Bald Eagle's name could still ignite a frenzy.
Most of the online audience had no idea what had led to this moment. They did not care. Seeing her face was enough to send the chat into chaos.
For years, speculation had swirled—was she hiding behind the mask because she was disfigured? Because she was plain?
Now they saw her clearly: her features were sharp yet elegant, her beauty striking in a way that was almost unsettling.
This was not just a fighter. This was a face that could break hearts as easily as bones.
In an instant, admiration for Bald Eagle's skill was joined by something else entirely. Awe. Desire. Fascination.
The atmosphere in the hall shifted like a tide. Anna, who had believed herself in control, who had thought she had cornered Amelia, was watching her own advantage dissolve into dust.
Within minutes, Amelia's identity had been laid bare. Her "cheap cup" was revealed as an Ivan masterpiece. And Anna had been reduced to the role of an unwilling foil.
On the display table, the marble rose vase Anna had presented looked dull, lifeless beside the goblet. The contrast was brutal, impossible to ignore.
Anna's jaw tightened. She wanted to smash the vase, to erase the shame of seeing it diminished so completely.
One of her friends, sensing the awkwardness, rushed to her defense.
"Even if Anna's marble rose vase is fake, her intention was real," the friend insisted. "She paid over a hundred million for it."
"And didn't Anna say that Mr. Emory Buckner himself had authenticated it as genuine? If that's true, how could she possibly have known it was fake?"
Heads nodded. It was a fair point. Even if the piece was counterfeit, Anna had spent a fortune. Her sincerity could not be denied.
And Emory Buckner… he was no ordinary man. Director of the Celestria Cultural Heritage Research Institute. The country's foremost authority in archaeology and antiquities. A man whose expertise had been showcased on national television more than once.
If someone with his credentials had failed to spot the forgery, then the craftsman who made it must have been exceptional. Anna's misfortune could be chalked up to bad luck.
But then, from the edge of the crowd, a voice cut through the chatter—old, steady, and edged with displeasure.
"Miss, I do not know you, nor have I ever authenticated any artifact for you."
"You claim I examined your marble rose vase and declared it genuine. I have no idea where such a statement could have come from."
The crowd turned as one toward the source.
An older man stood at the edge of the hall, silver hair neat against the collar of a dark suit. His posture was upright, his presence commanding.
Gasps rippled through the guests. "Mr. Buckner!"
Emory Buckner had come to Vaughn's birthday in person. And he had arrived just in time to hear the claim.
Before anyone could process it, the young man who had nearly been thrown out earlier—Rocco—stepped forward.
"Grandpa, why are you so late?"
The revelation hit like another shockwave. Rocco was Emory Buckner's grandson?
After learning Amelia was Bald Eagle, the crowd had thought they could not be more surprised. They were wrong.
Of course the name Rocco was familiar—Emory spoke of his grandson often, praising his natural talent in the study of antiquities.
It explained everything. It explained how Rocco had spotted the fake vase instantly, and how he had dissected its flaws with such precision.
Rocco reached his grandfather, but Emory did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on Anna, his brow furrowed.
"Miss Williams," he said, voice cool but cutting, "I have appraised countless treasures in my lifetime. I have never been wrong. And I have never examined anything for you."
"This concerns my reputation. I believe you owe me an explanation."