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His styled blond hair catches beneath the lights.
Black tuxedo.
Bright blue eyes.
A smile so infuriatingly beautiful, it punches through every wall I’ve spent weeks building sky high.
Jack.
He finds me immediately, and his smile doesn’t disappear. It broadens. Sharpens. Easy and confident.
He gives me a small nod and I give one back.
I suddenly feel strangely safe, despite the swarm of butterflies spiralling inside me.
The Gilded Table has arrived.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
JACK
Auction rooms and casinos have a similar pulse. This place is throbbing with the familiar vibe, pounding under the surface of all the bidders in this room.
It’s intoxicating. A lovely new flavour to the one I’ve been feasting on for years.
Casinos announce themselves loudly, full of brash bravado. This place is all about restrained voices and catalogues thick enough to suggest everyone has come for intellectual reasons.
They haven’t. It’s all a load of pretentious bullshit. They’ve come to win.
The paddles are chips. The pieces up for sale are cards. The auctioneer is the dealer. Same format, different backdrop.
I’m already having a fantastic evening, without so much as raising my paddle.
Camilla Stour is sitting to the left of the rostrum, wearing an expression of such highbrow concentration that I’m tempted to wave and flash her a cheeky grin to burst her pompous bubble. I don’t, of course. The Gilded Table has worked fucking hard to earn its place in this room.
I lean against the rear wall, catalogue folded beneath one arm and paddle hanging loosely from my hand.
From here, I can see everything. A great vantage point.
The telephone desks. The online bidding screen. The advisers leaning in and whispering to their clients.
I have a read on the whole lot of them. Such easy tells, thinly veiled.
The people who sit near the aisle because they want a clean view of the auctioneer, and those who hide in the centre so the rest of the room has to turn when they bid. The status hunters.
I spotted Alice the very moment I walked in. Fourth row. Navy dress. Blonde hair pinned back.
She looks beautiful.
She looked as though she was attending her own funeral at first, sitting next to the sack of shit now known as her fiancé. Her shoulders were hunched, and she was statue still. Muted. Oblivious.
Bryce saw me arrive before she did. The relief on his face lasted less than a second, but I caught it, and it raised the game to another high.
Then, when Alice turned, the look in her eyes almost ruined everything.
Almost.
I have to focus on my paddle, because otherwise I’d storm across the room, tear her away from Otley and carry her out over my shoulder. See you later, assholes.
