The auctioneer was excited that someone had offered such a high price for the item.
He asked if anyone was going to offer more. Then, when no one answered, he eventually announced that the mysterious bidder from the private box won.
Someone who could get a private box at the auction must be a person with unmatched power.
Helena turned her eyes to the upper floor. The private boxes kept their secrets well, but behind the velvet curtain, she could still spot the faint outline of a solitary figure.
There was something magnetic about that presence, a force that radiated authority.
Curiosity gnawed at Helena as she wondered who the mysterious bidder could possibly be.
As she finally let her fist relax, she saw the deep crescent marks left behind by her own nails.
She was torn between relief that Charlee had lost and a new wave of anxiety about how she would ever get that item back.
Still, the important thing was getting it back, and she was willing to go to any lengths to make sure of that.
She was ready to stand up, intending to approach the mysterious bidder herself, when the manager arrived, trailed by an attendant holding an elegant box.
All around her, people murmured in curiosity.
Smiling, the manager stepped closer to Helena, dipping his head politely before speaking.
"The gentleman who got the item asked that I hand you this emerald sculpture in person. He also wanted me to tell you this—keep chasing your dreams, and may you find success in all you do."
Noise exploded throughout the hall—a tangle of whispers, jealous glances, and stunned expressions swept over the crowd.
"Isn't she Mr. Davies' wife? Why is that man sending her a gift?"
"Who knows? Maybe that man is trying to get on Mr. Davies' good side by doing this."
"That is unlikely the case. Out of everything tonight, why choose this piece? I'm starting to think there's more going on between Mrs. Davies and the mysterious bidder than anyone wants to admit."
Every word reached Bryson's ears clearly.
A shadow fell over his face as he glared at Helena. "Helena, what is really going on between you and that person upstairs?" he asked.
Helena met his gaze with calm indifference. "I have no idea who he is."
"That's a lie!" Bryson shot to his feet in anger, grabbed her wrist, and squeezed until her skin went crimson.
Helena winced but couldn't break free. "What are you doing? Haven't you stirred up enough trouble already?"
Bryson barely seemed to hear her. His grip tightened as he pressed, his voice edged with desperation. "Tell me the truth. Who is that man to you? For all the years we've been married, I've given you everything you ever asked for. Nothing was too expensive. Why are you doing this to me now?"
All at once, Helena saw his game—turning the blame, pretending to be the perfect, selfless husband.
A cold smile spread across her face. "Why are you acting up like this? Do you feel guilty of something, and is that why you are so defensive?"
She shot a loaded glance at Charlee, who lingered at the edge of the chaos, enjoying the scene.
Bryson looked as if he had been struck, surprise and something close to panic flickering in his eyes.
"Helena, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant at all. I shouldn't have lost my temper over someone you don't even know. It was a mistake on my part." Emotion cracked Bryson's voice, and he looked away, struggling to steady himself. "There's nothing between Charlee and me. She's only here tonight because she helped me with work before. Please believe me."
He then shot a quick look toward Charlee.
At once, Charlee dropped her head and began to cry, her voice trembling through quiet sobs. "I really tried to keep my distance from Bryson. I never meant for you to misunderstand us..."
Before Charlee could keep going, Helena had already yanked her hand free, her expression showing only contempt.
Her words were cold as she said, "Whatever is going on between the two of you, it's no business of mine."
Then, she accepted the emerald sculpture from the attendant.
She sent a quick glance at the now-empty private box, then turned her back on the crowd and left without hesitation.
She still didn't know who that mysterious bidder was, but after everything was settled, she would make a point to find the person and thank him in person.
Outside, rain began to fall, the gusts of cold wind slicing through the air.
Stepping out of the building, Helena hugged her arms to herself against the sudden chill.
She started to reach for her phone to order a ride, but before she could do that, someone's hand gripped her shoulder from behind.
She turned and found Bryson struggling to catch his breath, Charlee trailing just a step behind. Her face clouded over instantly.
No matter where she went, these two refused to leave her alone.
Oblivious to the storm brewing in Helena's eyes, Bryson let his voice take on a pleading edge. "Helena, you know how much Charlee wants this sculpture. Would it be possible for you to let her have it?"
Charlee lingered behind him, her gaze sharp and gloating, every bit of her pleasure impossible to hide.
Desperate to sway Helena, Bryson rushed to add, "I'll buy you anything else you want. Just let Charlee have this."
Hearing that, Helena felt a cold pain twist inside her chest.
It was astonishing—Bryson could stand there, bargaining with her like this, yet conveniently forget how he had once promised to recover every piece of her father's lost items.
Without another word, Helena lifted her hand and struck him, the slap ringing out sharp and clear.
The sound drew gasps from the crowd nearby.
Charlee rushed over to defend Bryson, her voice thick with feigned concern. "How could you treat your husband like that?" she said to Helena.
Bryson turned his face, his expression dark.
Never in his wildest dreams had he thought Helena—always patient and gentle—would ever humiliate him in public like this.
Had she uncovered something he'd kept hidden?
Anger burned in him as his hand unconsciously tightened on her shoulder.
Helena felt the pressure growing, pain spreading through her arm. She scowled and readied herself to break free.
"What do you think you're doing?"
At that moment, a deep, commanding voice rang out, cutting through the scene.
Bryson was caught completely off guard by that, his bloodshot eyes darting up in surprise.
A man stood nearby, half-shrouded by shadows. His suit was crisp and black, his posture composed, almost regal. Cool detachment marked every line of his face as his gaze swept over the scene.
Only when the man moved closer did Bryson's grip loosen. The rage twisting his features slowly gave way to unease he could not hide.
"Callum? When did you return?"
