The auctioneer's voice was a rhythmic chant, driving the price of the Midnight Orchid higher with every breath.
"Ten million. Do I hear twelve? Twelve million to the gentleman in the front."
Imogen stood in the shadows near a pillar, her earpiece hidden by her hair. "Sasha, what's the status on the transfer?"
Still pending, Imogen. The bank's compliance algorithm flagged it. Give me ten minutes.
"I don't have ten minutes," Imogen hissed.
"Twenty million," the auctioneer shouted.
On the mezzanine, Branson lifted his paddle lazily. "Thirty million."
The room gasped. Heads turned upward. Branson didn't even blink. He needed that painting. Intelligence suggested it contained encrypted data trails leading to a rival's hostile takeover attempt. It was a corporate security imperative.
Imogen's stomach tightened. She couldn't let him have it. If Branson Reeves took that painting into his R&D lab, it would be x-rayed and the ledger discovered and destroyed within a week.
"Thirty-five," she whispered into her mic.
A proxy bidder on the floor raised a hand.
Branson looked down, annoyed. Who was bidding against him? He raised his paddle again. "Forty million."
Imogen, don't do it, Sasha warned in her ear. You don't have the liquidity yet.
Imogen looked at the painting rotating on the velvet pedestal. It was her children's future. It was their justice.
She stepped out of the shadows. She grabbed a spare paddle from a waiter's tray.
"Forty-five million," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room.
The spotlight swung to her. The pink sequins flared under the harsh light.
Branson leaned over the railing. His eyes widened. It was her. The woman with the gaffer's tape dress. The woman from the school.
"She's bluffing," Branson said to Quentin. "She's trying to drive the price up to get a cut, or she's insane."
He raised his glass in a mock toast to her, then signaled the auctioneer. "Fifty million."
Imogen's phone vibrated. A text from the bank: Transaction Declined. Account Frozen for Security Review.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She stood there, the paddle heavy in her hand. She couldn't go higher. If she bid and couldn't pay, she'd be arrested. Her cover would be blown. Her children would be taken.
She lowered the paddle.
"Sold! To Mr. Reeves for fifty million dollars!"
The gavel banged. It sounded like a gunshot.
Imogen turned, her face burning. She needed to get out. She needed air.
She made for the stairs, but the crowd was thick. By the time she reached the lobby, Branson was coming down the grand staircase. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea.
He stopped right in front of her. He was tall, looming over her, smelling of cedar and expensive scotch.
"An ambitious bid," Branson said, his voice dripping with condescension. "For someone who had to cut up a thrift store dress to get in here."
Imogen looked up at him. Her eyes were dry, burning with a cold fire. "You have no idea what you just bought, Reeves."
"I know exactly what I bought," he said. "And I know people like you. You think if you make enough noise, someone will pay you to be quiet. It's a bad investment."
Imogen laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. She stepped closer, invading his personal space. "Guard that canvas with your life," she whispered. "Because things have a way of disappearing when you're looking down your nose at everyone."
She shouldered past him, knocking him slightly off balance.
Branson turned, watching her storm toward the exit. He felt a strange buzz in his chest. Anger? Or something else?
"Is she threatening you?" Quentin asked, appearing at his elbow.
"Find out who she is," Branson said, his eyes narrowing. "I want to know who sent her. No amateur bids forty-five million dollars."
Outside, Imogen pulled out her phone. Her hands were shaking, not from fear, but from rage.
Plan B, she texted Sasha. I need the schematics for the Reeves Tower's climate control system. I'm going to trigger a fire suppression test.
