I raised the bidding paddle.
My voice, clear and cold, sliced through the room. "Fifty million."
The venue exploded.
This was a plot of land Victor was determined to acquire; the starting price was only twenty million. The mockery on his face froze mid-sneer.
The auctioneer, trembling with excitement, brought the gavel down.
A staff member rushed over with a card terminal. I rolled up my sleeve, exposing the jagged, hideous scar on my wrist—a brand left by deep-sea decompression sickness. Proof that I had spent the last five years risking my life.
I swiped the card and signed. Fluid. Practiced.
"One more thing." I stuffed the black card back into my pocket and met Victor's stare head-on. "Mr. Sanchez, if you aren't using your eyes, donate them. Get out of my way."
I took the child's hand and turned to leave.
Victor's face darkened like a gathering storm. He signaled his bodyguards.
The main doors slammed shut. A dozen men in black suits blocked the exit.
Victor shoved Elena aside and stalked toward me, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. "You want to leave? Not until you explain yourself. Whose bastard is this?"
He jabbed a shaking finger at the child, eyes venomous. "Here to extort me? I don't mind verifying it right now and making you disappear for good this time."
In the auction house's backstage lounge, a dozen burly men surrounded the boy and me, leaving no room for escape.
Victor lounged on the sofa, legs crossed in arrogant repose, twirling the ring on his pinky. His gaze was pitch-black.
"Speak, Victoria."
A dossier slammed onto the coffee table—a private investigator's report from five years ago.
"Who did you sleep with to get that fifty million? Or did you sell your body to earn it?"
Every word dripped poison.
Elena cradled a teacup, eyes rimmed with red, looking delicate and pitiful.
"Sister, don't be angry with Brother Victor. Just tell us who the father is, and the Sanchez family will give you some money."
Her gaze flickered toward Victor's lap. She lowered her voice just enough for everyone to hear. "After all, everyone knows about Brother Victor's diagnosis... his low sperm count."
"If you insist the child is a Sanchez, aren't you just rubbing salt in his wound?"
She really knew how to twist the knife.
My son laughed. A crisp sound, but cold—unnervingly mature for a child. He unwrapped a piece of gum, chewed twice, and fixed Elena with a steady look.
"Auntie, your perfume is strong. It smells like the insecticide we use in our toilet at home."
Elena's face stiffened. Tears threatened to spill.
Victor shot to his feet and raised his hand to strike the boy.
"Uneducated little bastard! You think you're worthy to speak to her?"
The slap sliced through the air, merciless.
I grabbed the heavy phone from the table and smashed it into the back of his hand.
*Crack.*
The screen shattered. Victor's hand instantly swelled, turning an angry red.
He hissed, clutching his hand as he stumbled back. "Victoria! You dare strike me over this mongrel?"
I pulled the child behind me. My eyes were glacial.
"Victor Sanchez, watch your mouth. Whether this child is a bastard or not, you know the truth in your heart."
Victor was so furious he laughed—a manic, unhinged sound.
"Good. Very good!"
He roared at the bodyguards. "Drag this brat to get a DNA test!"
"I want the results now! I want the entire capital to see what kind of mongrel Victoria Hughes was carrying back then!"
A trembling finger stabbed toward my face. "I will prove my innocence! I will prove that I never touched a bitch like you!"
To humiliate me, he didn't hesitate to announce his own infertility to the public. His logic was twisted beyond redemption.
The bodyguards stepped forward to seize the boy.
My son didn't flinch. He calmly plucked a strand of hair from his own head and held it out.
