Page 44

FORTY-FOUR

Auction

Vivianne

Paul and I leave the squawking crows behind, but not the Alps. There’s no way to truly leave behind the mighty, jagged peaks that rise from the earth, sculpted by wind and water over the ages. The mountains make me feel small and insignificant, even as the man beside me makes me feel priceless and cherished. We navigate hairpin turns, winding our way down to the valley floor.

Paul enjoys the Mercedes, putting it through its paces. As we descend, deep snowdrifts give way to patches of alpine grass until the snow fades completely, revealing vibrant fields. The landscape shifts and my heart feels lighter with each mile, as if I’m shedding my fears along with the melting snow.

As we round a bend, Lac Léman comes into view. From our elevation, the lake looks like a flawless mirror. The silver-blue water reflects the clouds above, capturing this magical moment as if time itself is frozen.

I never want this journey to end.

Sometime later, we pull onto a road angling toward the water. The lake lies perfectly still. Tall pines reach down to its edge, pausing as if in reverence. There’s no breeze, no ripples across the surface—everything is suspended in serene stillness.

My gaze lingers on the crystal-clear water. Beneath the surface, boulders crouch like silent sentinels, patiently enduring the ages. Across the lake, a honey-colored chateau rises between rolling hills, its stone towers reaching skyward, evoking every fairy tale I’ve ever read.

The late afternoon sun bathes the chateau in a golden glow. Straight walls give way to circular turrets, and the gray, slate roof slopes down in cones and angles.

Built right up to the lake’s edge, a stone dock runs along the water. It’s smaller than the Faulks estate, which is easily twice as big.

The chateau’s beauty is undeniable, but it lacks the grandeur of the Faulks estate—an estate that commands attention with its sprawling size and manicured perfection. Though larger and more ostentatious, my family’s estate doesn’t carry the same weight of history as this place.

The chateau feels ancient, steeped in the echoes of generations past, its stones speaking of untold stories and secrets whispered through time. Whereas the Faulks estate feels curated. This place is raw and real—a testament to survival rather than wealth.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, pointing to the chateau.

“That’s our destination,” Paul replies.

“It is?” I glance at him, surprised. But then, how many chateaux line Lac Léman?

“There’s still an hour’s drive left,” he says. “Getting around to the far side takes time.”

“Who owns it?” I ask, curious about who orchestrated an illegal auction of priceless treasures.

Paul doesn’t answer. Instead, he downshifts, stepping on the gas to pass a lumbering truck. I grip the armrest, bracing for any oncoming car hidden from view, but the Mercedes roars with power, and Paul easily maneuvers us around the truck. There’s no traffic ahead, and I relax back into my seat.

We follow the road along the lake, passing quaint buildings—taverns, shops, and homes with a blend of French and Swiss character. We pass by decaying castles and ancient battlements, their worn stone facades watching us silently, relics of an era long gone.

Eventually, we circle the lake and approach our destination. Paul pulls off the highway onto a gravel lane. The chateau seems to spring from the earth, eager to touch the sky. It’s grander than many palaces I’ve visited, with oversized, cathedral-like windows gracing its front.

The tires crunch on the gravel as Paul slows the car, following the lane to a grassy parking area. Men in dark suits stand at a booth, directing us to park among rows of luxury vehicles. Paul stops, turning off the ignition, then looks at me.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He reaches for my hand, his fingers warm as he lifts it to his lips. His kiss is gentle, lingering on my knuckles. “You’re going to be fantastic.”

My fingers drift to my neck, touching the mother-of-pearl cameo. “I hope I don’t mess this up.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against my cheek. “As for that,”—his gaze dips to the necklace—” you wearing it will surprise them. They know my proclivities but won’t expect you on my arm. Your name, your family—they’ll talk, which will only add to the mystery.”

“Really?” My heart quickens.

“Absolutely. And more importantly, they’ll see that.” He fingers the cameo, his thumb tracing the carved swan. “Stay close to me. Phrase everything with deference and respect. It adds to the story and deepens the illusion. Trust me—the more they talk about us, the easier it will be to do what we came here for.”

“I’ll try not to make too many mistakes,” I murmur, fidgeting with my shawl.

“It’s okay if you do,” he says, his voice gentle. “Mistakes give me a reason to correct you. They’ll see it as a power exchange, and that will distract them from our true purpose.”

I nod, taking a deep breath. “About that,” I start, my mind circling back to what’s at stake. “I want to bid on Dr. Gachet .”

Paul’s brow furrows. “To what end?”

“I can keep it safe. Return it to the Musée d’Orsay . It kills me to think it might be lost forever.”

“There’s more at stake here, ma chére .”

“I know, but at least one piece will be saved today.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You won’t be allowed to bid.”

“But I have money to burn,” I argue, frustration bubbling up.

“No,” he says, finality in his voice.

Paul exits the car, and I wait for him to come around. From the look of the parking area, we’re fashionably late—only the attendants in their dark suits remain outside. Paul offers his hand to help me out, and I accept it, grateful for his support as I navigate the gravel in my heels and the uneven stone leading to the entrance.

The doorman greets us, checks Paul’s name against his list, and then waves us inside. I’m relieved to be out of the chilly evening air. The sun sets over the mountains, casting long shadows, and with it, the temperature drops.

Inside, warmth envelops me, wrapping me in comfort. A roaring fire crackles in a massive stone fireplace large enough for a person to stand inside, its heat radiating outward and caressing my skin.

The rich and earthy scent of burning wood fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of beeswax from the candelabras. The burnished oak floors glow, reflecting the firelight, and I’m surprised to find them warm beneath my feet. Their heat steadys me in a way cold stone never could.

Upholstered in luxurious velvet and leather, antique furniture is scattered around the room, bathed in the flickering amber glow. The fabric feels inviting, almost begging to be touched, while the polished wood frames glisten in the fire’s light.

Sconces line the walls, their illumination softened by old-fashioned electric replicas of candles, casting gentle, golden pools of light. In the corners, candelabras hold real tapers, flames dancing and licking up their wicks, adding a flickering warmth that brings the entire space to life.

The room exudes opulence—everything is designed to delight the senses, comfort, and impress its guests.

The low hum of conversation echoes from down the hall. An attendant approaches, offering to take my shawl, but I shake my head, declining.

“ Monsieur et Mademoiselle, vos cellulaires, s’il vous pla?t. ” She holds out a lockbox.

“ Mais, oui, ” Paul responds. He turns to me, “Personal cell phones aren’t allowed inside.”

He pulls his cell phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and drops it into the box. I follow suit, removing mine from my clutch purse and adding it to the collection.

“ Merci, ” the woman says, her voice clipped and professional.

I hold back my questions, not wanting to appear unknowledgeable about the proceedings. Her gaze meets mine briefly before she turns and picks a different phone from a stack of identical devices.

She shuts the box’s lid, taps the phone to an electronic lock, and seals our phones away with a soft click.

“You are familiar, then,” she says, her gaze now on Paul, “with the electronic bidding software, monsieur ?”

Paul nods, taking the device from her hand. “I am. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she replies, her lips barely twitching into a smile. “At the end of the event, this device will unlock your secured box. You’ll be able to retrieve your phones then.”

Paul nods once more before guiding me away from the attendant. His hand presses gently against my lower back, directing me down the hall. Once we’re out of earshot, I lean closer and ask, “Why did they take our phones?”

“Security,” he says, his tone steady. “Bids are placed using their electronic bidding software. Once I input my personal code, this device will sync with my bank account. I can bid as I please, and if a purchase is made, the software initiates a withdrawal from my funds.”

I purse my lips. “Ah,” I murmur. I’ve seen similar setups at charity auctions, but I’ve always used my cell phone. Using a burner device adds more sophistication—or perhaps control.

Paul activates the device, his fingers moving confidently over the screen, entering a string of digits. As he finishes, he takes my hand and leads me deeper into the building.

The hall ahead is dim, lined with ornate sconces that cast golden light against the walls. The scent of aged wood and faint cologne lingers, grounding me in this unfamiliar yet luxurious environment.

The soft strains of classical music drift toward us, making my skin prickle. Something about the gentle notes—something refined and elegant—calms and heightens my anticipation. My breath snags halfway in my chest, and I realize I’m holding onto Paul’s arm a bit too tightly.

Over the soft melody, low voices blend and ripple in the distance, like the gentle hum of a stream just out of sight, barely audible but unmistakably there. A hazy chatter mingles with occasional bursts of laughter.

It almost sounds normal—almost like one of the countless high-society parties I’ve attended in my father’s world. A familiar mix of frivolous conversation, laughter, and the tinkling of glass.

Paul’s grip on me tightens—a silent reminder to stay close, to remain vigilant—as we draw nearer to the crowd.

We pass a set of tall windows. Outside, the sun sinks below the mountain peaks, draining the sky of warmth. The last golden rays of daylight are slipping away, and the shadows lengthen, reaching across the grounds and swallowing the gardens.

The air outside is hushed, caught in that brief stillness before night takes over. I imagine crickets beginning to chirp, their song echoing through the approaching darkness, and owls stirring from their day’s sleep.

Paul guides me forward, and the world beyond the windows disappears from view. My heart begins to pound in my chest, a staccato rhythm of anxious energy as the murmur of the crowd grows louder.

Just breathe, Viv. Just breathe.

I scold myself for letting the nerves surface—for even allowing them a place in my thoughts. I have to be composed. Controlled. We’re here for a reason, and I cannot afford to lose focus.

Paul and I cross the threshold into a large room, and all at once, the noise dips. Conversations pause, heads turn, and a wave of whispers ripples through the space.

I’ve been taught how to command attention, how to make an entrance—it’s second nature by now. I lift my chin, straighten my posture, and offer the faintest of nods, acknowledging the stares. Vivianne Faulks, daughter of a master manipulator, strides into the room filled with her father’s future prospects.

For the first time since Paul began sketching me at his chateau, the thought of Prescott and the life awaiting me out there slips into my mind. It twists my stomach into a tight, uncomfortable knot, the stark contrast between the two men overwhelming.

Prescott—my fiancé, my future—feels like a heavy chain binding me, while Paul feels like freedom, a fleeting breath of fresh air. I wish there were a way to stay here with Paul, to prolong these stolen moments, but deep down, I’m afraid that can never happen.

A wave of sadness washes over me, raw and aching, because this might truly be my last evening with Paul—my last few moments of feeling this alive.

My father, the master manipulator, a thief wrapped in a bespoke suit, is not much different from these people. They’re all thieves, all willing to do whatever it takes to maintain their wealth, to acquire more.

Our family’s fortune may be built on stolen opportunities, secret deals, and manipulation, but at least we hide it behind polished facades and charity galas. These people, however, wear their ambitions openly, like badges of honor.

The thought makes my stomach twist, a mix of revulsion and resolve. I belong here as much as they do, no matter how much I might wish otherwise. And tonight, I need to remember we all play the same game—just with different rules.