The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
Bianca looked down at her glittering dress as if it were made of radioactive waste. "But... Clotilde said..."
Clotilde stepped back, holding up her hands. "I... I was told it was a custom piece! I had no idea!"
Preston Hayes released Clotilde's arm. He took a step away from her. Association with a counterfeit scandal was bad for business.
Richard Schmidt cleared his throat, trying to pivot. He walked toward Elza, a strained smile on his face. "Well, clearly my daughter has inherited the family eye for quality. Elza, darling—"
Barron stepped in. He wrapped his arm around Elza's waist. His hand was warm against the velvet. He pulled her flush against him.
"Back off, Richard," Barron said, his voice low and dangerous. "Five minutes ago you were apologizing for her. Don't pretend you know her now."
Richard stopped, his face darkening.
Elza looked up at Barron. His jaw was set, his eyes hard. He was defending her. It was possessive, yes. It was about his own ego, yes. But it was a shield.
Bianca burst into tears and ran from the room, her crystals jingling ridiculously.
Clotilde was cornered. She needed to regain control. She caught Victoria's eye.
Victoria nodded. She raised her voice, pitching it to carry. "It is amazing, truly. But one does wonder... how does a girl with no access to her trust fund afford a priceless prototype? I've heard rumors... about certain private clubs she visits."
The implication hung in the air. Escort.
The crowd gasped. The sympathy shifted back. Of course. She sold her body for the dress.
Barron went rigid. His grip on Elza's waist tightened to the point of pain. "What did you say?"
He was going to kill Victoria. He was going to tear this whole gala down.
Elza placed her hand over his on her waist. Stop.
She stepped out of his embrace. She walked over to the table where Victoria had set her drink.
Elza picked up a full glass of champagne.
She turned to Victoria. She didn't throw it. That would be trashy.
She simply turned her wrist and poured the champagne onto the floor, directly onto Victoria's satin shoes.
It was a libation. A drink for the dead.
She looked at Victoria with eyes that said: You are dead to me.
Then, she turned her back. She walked toward the stage where the auctioneer was setting up.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, trying to break the tension. "We are moving to the main event. The North Lot of the Schmidt Estate."
Elza stood at the front. She reached out and took a paddle. Number 707.
She raised it.
