It wasn’t a restaurant. Or an office. It was a private hall made of gold-tinted glass, guarded by men in black suits who didn’t even blink as we arrived.
“Matteo?” I asked quietly when he helped me out. “Where exactly are we?”
He didn’t answer. Not even a glance.
He simply guided me inside.
The lobby was alive with sound—laughter echoing off marble floors, glasses clinking, music humming softly in the background. People in tuxedos stood in clusters, women shimmering in expensive gowns, champagne flowing under crystal chandeliers.
My fingers tightened around his sleeve.
“This… is a gala?” I tried to smile. “You could’ve just told me—”
We stopped.
Right in front of a stage.
My breath caught.
Screens flashed numbers. People murmured into phones. A host stood at the center, voice lowered as if the room itself demanded secrecy.
“Lot Forty-Seven,” he announced. “A rare piece tonight.”
Confusion crept up my spine. I turned to Matteo, expecting an explanation.
But he was already looking at me.
And I didn’t recognize his eyes.
Cold. Detached. Empty in a way I had never seen before.
Then he spoke.
“She’s the lot.”