Wave after wave of junk was being auctioned off, and he couldn’t stand to watch any longer. He issued a curt command: “Tell them to stop following. Enough.”
No matter how much money you had, no one wanted to be a sucker for this kind of
scam.
With a gentle touch, he poured a glass of warm water for Joanna, who sat quietly in their booth. “Joanna, don’t b
afraid. Even if everyone else disappears, I’ll always
stay by your side.”
Joanna’s eyes were still rimmed in red from crying, but she wrapped her hands around the cup Lance gave her, comforted by his kindness.
“Lance, you’re the only one in this world who’s ever truly cared about me. I remember every good thing you’ve done. I can’t even imagine how terrible life would be if I lost you.”
Lance felt a rush of warmth in his chest. “You don’t need to worry, Joanna. Whatever you want, I’ll help you get it.”
Her eyes lit up with hope. “Then ?
I could I have that pen on the next lot? Celly love
to draw. If we give her that pen, maybe she’ll actually forgive me.”
Lance brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Joanna, you’re too kind for your own good.”
Joas,
Even after crying, the traces of her makeup smudged,
Was undeniable–every feature refined to perfection. If only he had been the one to help her change her face all those years ago. At least then, those idiots wouldn’t have sago. At least then, those idiots wouldn’t have left evidence behind or turned it into a game.
She gave him a playful, sheepish grin. “Oh, I’m nothing compared to you, Lance.”
Finally, the pen Celestine had been longing for was brought to the stage. The starting bid was one hundred thousand.
She glanced around the room. Not a single paddle was raised.
But in a crowd where most starting bids soared into the millions, a mere hundred thousand was child’s play. For her, though, this was a stroke of luck.
Celestine’s gaze fixed on the pen displayed on the podium–she was certain it was the one her grandfather had given her.
She raised her paddle. “One hundred and ten thousand.”
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The auctioneer, who had been ready to declare the lot unsold, brightened instantly.
Just as the third gavel was about to fall, a new bid came from the neighboring
booth.
Celestine’s brow furrowed. Strange. They’d already lost interest a moment ago–so why were they suddenly bidding again?
She tested a few more bids, and sure enough, the competition became as relentless as at the start. The price was creeping dangerously close to her emotional limit.
In the end, she decided it wasn’t worth pushing further. If the pen found its way to someone who cherished it, she could live with that.
With a sigh of resignation, Celestine lowered her paddle.
The bidder next door, sensing victory, stopped at three hundred thousand–far less than earlier rounds, where a teacup no bigger than her palm had gone for five
million.
Suddenly, two voices rang out at once.
“One million.”
The room froze. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Everyone knew: no matter how exquisite, this was still a modern pen–second–hand, at that. Its only true value was the unique, limited–edition insignia etched into its side. At three hundred thousand, it
was already outrageously overpriced.
Yet now, someone had bid a million–two people, in fact.
Murmurs of disbelief spread across the hall. For that kind of money, you could buy a pen ten times finer than this one.
Celestine saw a flicker of panic in the neighboring box. After a hurried phone call, they started bidding again.
The other two competing bidders were from Paddles 1 and 12. Number 12 was Chester’s secretary.
A chill ran through Celestine. If the pen ended up in his hands, she’d rather see it go unsold.
Paddle 1 was being used by an auction house proxy, relaying bids from an unknown client.
Three parties–locked in a bidding war over a single pen.
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By the end, the auctioneer’s voice was nearly cracking with excitement. “Paddle 12, five million–going once! Paddle 12, five million–going twice!”
“Ten million.”
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