08

Mia's POV

Just then, the auctioneer walked onto the stage and tapped his gavel.

The clear sound suppressed the noise in the banquet hall, and guests returned to their seats as the small auction began.

The first lot was a Cartier vintage brooch, leopard-shaped, set with emeralds and diamonds, starting at one hundred thousand, stopping at four hundred fifty thousand after several rounds.

The second piece was a Qing Dynasty famille rose vase, painted with entwined lotus flowers, colors preserved extremely well, finally selling for one million two hundred thousand.

The third piece was a 19th-century Dutch landscape painting, identical to those Dutch school works I had seen in textbooks five years ago.

I tried to focus my attention on the auctioneer, watching him raise the small gavel high, watching him smile as he surveyed the room, watching him call out numbers I might never earn in my lifetime.

This worked at first. When I stared intently at the spotlight in the center of the stage, the figure in my peripheral vision temporarily faded into a blurred outline.

But soon this trick stopped working. I clearly felt a gaze directed at me, pressing heavily on my face.

I couldn't stand it anymore.

I turned my head directly and met Calvin's eyes.

He didn't look away. This was the first time Calvin had looked at me directly tonight.

I saw myself in his eyes—slightly panicked expression, flustered appearance.

Calvin, is this what you wanted? To drive your prey to your territory and then admire its helpless appearance?

No obstruction, no pretending to look elsewhere, no guerrilla tactics with peripheral vision, just looking straight at me like that.

"Lot 47. 'Lady with a Fan,' 20th-century oil painting, provenance re-examined, condition good. Starting price, one million five hundred thousand pounds."

The auctioneer's voice interrupted our "standoff," and I turned back to look at the stage.

"One million eight hundred thousand." Someone in the front row raised a paddle.

"Two million." Another voice from the right side.

Calvin raised his number paddle. His movement was unhurried, raising the paddle to shoulder height with a slight flick of his wrist.

"Two million five hundred thousand." Calvin's voice wasn't loud, but the entire room fell silent for a moment.

The auctioneer smiled as he surveyed the room, the small gavel suspended in mid-air. "Two million five hundred thousand, first call—"

The entire room was silent as death.

"Two million five hundred thousand, second call—"

I looked down at the gold-embossed number paddle in front of me. It had been lying quietly next to my plate all evening, untouched. My rational mind was screaming at me not to be impulsive—

Mia, you're crazy. You don't even have a fraction of this amount in your account. You're just representing Ethan. You might not even be qualified to bid!

But my hand was already acting on its own, mysteriously raising the paddle in my hand.

"Three million."

The entire room erupted. Hundreds of gazes hit us like spotlights. No, hit us.

In everyone's view, this woman sitting next to the Rothschild patriarch had an extraordinary background, actually competing with him.

Calvin put down his paddle and turned his head.

This time he didn't hide it, looking straight into my eyes.

The distance was too close. His pupils were like two deep wells. I could almost see my own panicked reflection clearly.

His lips moved without sound, but I read that lip shape.

"You win."

The auction gavel fell, shaking my heart violently as well.

Three million.

I had just used a paddle that didn't belong to me to call out a price I could never repay in my lifetime, taking a painting he had bid on first.

I must be crazy, driven mad by his "the dress fits well" and that piece of steak, driven mad by his not saying a word all evening while refusing to let me go.

The next second, Calvin leaned toward me.

His forward lean wasn't large, but our distance was already only a palm's width apart, and this crushed the last line of defense.

His knee pressed against my skirt under the tablecloth, the cedarwood scent pressing down overwhelmingly like a net, airtight.

"Mia Sterling," Calvin's voice was extremely low, with a hint of playfulness, "Three million. How do you plan to pay?"

I opened my mouth, my throat seeming blocked with cotton, unable to speak, my scalp tingling.

Of course I couldn't come up with that much money. My bank account balance wasn't even a fraction of this amount. I had completely acted on impulse when I raised the paddle to bid.

The commotion around us was becoming increasingly obvious. I could hear people asking "who is that," "what's the background of that woman at the main table," "what's her relationship with Rothschild really."

These voices flooded into my ears from all directions like a tide.

Calvin ignored all the voices.

His knee was still pressed against my skirt, his gaze traveling from my eyes to my hand gripping the paddle, then back to my eyes.

"Tomorrow at noon, come to the Rothschild Foundation. Tell me why you lied back then."