Chapter 2
2153words
"Annabel, at least stay until the auction ends. Please?"
I had no choice but to stay.
The auctioneer, an elegant middle-aged woman, was introducing the third item.
"A limited edition print from Monet's 'Water Lilies' series. Starting bid is fifty thousand dollars."
Someone in the audience raised their paddle.
"Sixty thousand."
"Seventy thousand."
I stared at the painting. The original had once hung in my father's study.
Now it was all gone.
"Eighty thousand, gentleman number eight."
"Ninety thousand, lady number fifteen."
I turned to leave, the numbers suffocating me.
Then.
A deep voice cut through the room.
"One hundred and fifty thousand."
The entire venue fell silent.
Every head turned.
Ethan Pierce stood at the back of the crowd, bidding paddle raised, his face a perfect mask.
The auctioneer blinked in surprise. "One hundred and fifty thousand. Mr. Pierce bids one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
Silence.
No one challenged the bid.
For a print with a starting price of fifty thousand, he'd jumped straight to one hundred and fifty thousand.
"One hundred and fifty thousand once, one hundred and fifty thousand twice..."
"Sold!"
Applause broke out, but beneath it I heard the whispers.
"Is he crazy?"
"Such a ridiculous premium?"
"I heard he has his eye on the Williams girl."
My face burned.
Kate nudged me. "Annabel, he's looking at you."
I looked up.
Ethan was cutting through the crowd toward me, the newly acquired painting in his hands.
*
"Miss Williams."
He stopped before me.
"Mr. Pierce."
My voice trembled.
"This painting is for you."
He held the painting out to me.
Every eye in the room was on us.
"I cannot accept this."
"Why not?"
"It's too valuable."
"For me, this is merely supporting the arts."
His voice was perfectly calm.
"Miss Williams, your museum tour made me fall in love with Impressionism. Consider this my gratitude."
An open, legitimate reason.
But everyone knew it wasn't true.
A "thank you" worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars?
"I really can't..."
"Then consider it an investment in your future career. You'll continue studying art history, right?"
I was speechless.
Kate whispered beside me: "Annabel, just accept it."
My hands took the painting—light as a feather yet heavy as a thousand pounds.
"Thank you."
I heard myself say.
Ethan nodded, turned and left, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea.
And I stood there, clutching the painting, feeling all eyes burning into my skin.
*
The dinner ended at eleven. I stood at the restaurant entrance with the painting, waiting for Kate to bring the car around.
The night wind bit through my thin dress. I had no coat.
"You'll catch a cold."
That voice again.
Ethan stood behind me, a black suit jacket in his hand.
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
He draped the jacket over my shoulders, and warmth immediately enveloped me.
"Who are you waiting for?"
"My friend went to get the car."
"Will it take long?"
"Maybe half an hour. The parking lot is two blocks away."
Ethan glanced at the sky where dark clouds were gathering.
"It's going to rain. Let me take you home."
"No need..."
The first raindrop fell.
Then another.
Then a downpour.
We huddled under the restaurant's awning, but the rain was too heavy, splashing against our legs.
Ethan's car waited at the curb, the driver already holding the back door open.
"Miss Williams, this isn't an invitation—it's common sense."
I hesitated for three seconds.
Then dashed for his car.
*
The car's interior was warm, the leather seats soft. The space suddenly felt very small.
Ethan sat beside me, his leg just inches from mine. I could feel his presence radiating heat.
He gave the driver my address.
I looked at him in surprise.
"How did you know..."
"On the balcony, your friend Kate came looking for you." He turned, his eyes dark pools in the shadows. "She mentioned your street. I remembered it."
He remembered it.
Why?
"You're... very attentive," I said, shifting slightly away to maintain some distance.
"Only about certain things," he said, his voice low.
Rain pelted the windows, blurring the outside world until it was just the two of us.
A closed space.
Darkness.
His presence.
My heart began to race.
"You don't have to do this."
I finally said it aloud, my voice unsteady.
"Do what?"
"Spend one hundred fifty thousand on a painting. Lend me your jacket. Drive me home..." I turned to face him. "What do you want?"
He didn't answer immediately. He just looked at me, his gaze sliding from my eyes to my lips, lingering there.
My breathing hitched.
"Direct." His lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "I like that."
"My father is a fraud. I'm bankrupt. All of New York knows it." I fought to keep my voice steady. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
Silence.
Only the drumming of rain.
His hand fell on the seat between us, knuckles whitening slightly as if he were restraining himself.
"Because I've heard what they say about me behind my back." His voice was low, tinged with self-mockery. "Nouveau riche. Programmer. Uncultured. Not worthy of their precious circle."
He paused, turning to face me, his gaze locking with mine.
"You've heard similar things, haven't you?"
"Fraudster's daughter. Bankrupt. Trading on her looks," I said softly.
"Yes."
My chest tightened.
"So you pity me?"
"No." His hand moved closer to mine on the seat, not quite touching. "Pity comes from looking down on someone."
His voice dropped even lower, as if he were speaking directly into my ear.
"I understand you."
"What's the difference?"
"Sympathy is pity." His finger twitched as if wanting to touch my hand, but didn't. "Understanding is... standing in the same position."
The air in the car suddenly grew thick with tension.
I held my breath.
"I don't want to sympathize with you, Annabel," he said, his gaze unwavering. "I want to..."
He stopped.
"Want what?"
He stared at me for a long moment, his Adam's apple bobbing once.
"Want to stand with you. Against those who look down on us."
My heart raced out of control.
Stand together.
Those words echoed in the darkness.
"As... allies?" I asked, my voice trembling.
His lips curved into a faint smile, but he didn't answer.
But his eyes said something else entirely.
The rain intensified, blurring the world outside until there was only us.
"Have you heard the rumors about me?"
I asked, trying to break the tension between us.
"Which ones?" His voice carried a dangerous tenderness.
"That I'll marry some rich old man to solve my debt problems."
"The version I heard was much worse."
I laughed—a hollow, self-mocking sound.
"As for you, I've heard rumors too. They say you're ruthless in business. Merciless when acquiring competitors. That all your employees fear you."
"That's true."
"Really?"
"I am aggressive in business." He turned toward me, moonlight filtering through the rain to illuminate his face. "But that's because I have no background. No family connections. I can only be tougher than everyone else."
His hand rested on the seat between us, his body angling slightly toward mine.
"But I never bully the weak," his voice deepened, carrying a certain weight. "I'm only tough with those who think they're superior to others."
I looked up at him. He was too close—close enough that I could see my own reflection in his eyes.
"So you're lonely too," I said softly, "even with five billion to your name."
He didn't deny it.
"Money can buy many things," he said, his gaze dropping to my lips for three long seconds, "but it can't buy belonging."
Nor can it buy...
He didn't finish, but I saw his jaw clench.
The car stopped in front of my building, but neither of us moved.
The air between us crystallized.
"Annabel."
He said my name, his voice low, carrying something I couldn't quite identify.
"Can I call you that?"
My heart skipped.
"Yes."
"Call me Ethan," he said, his gaze locking with mine. "Don't call me Mr. Pierce. That's too distant."
Distant.
He didn't want distance between us.
"Okay... Ethan."
His name on my tongue felt strange. Personal. Like an intimate secret.
His eyes darkened.
"Say it again."
"What?"
"My name," his voice roughened. "Say it again."
My face burned.
"Ethan."
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. His hand clenched into a fist, then deliberately relaxed.
"Damn it," he whispered.
"What?"
"It's nothing." He pulled back, creating distance, his manner becoming businesslike again. "I have a sponsorship event for an art project next week. Would you like to come as a consultant? There will be compensation."
"You're helping me."
"I'm hiring a professional," he said, though his voice remained unsteady. "You're an art historian. This is your expertise."
He pulled a check from his pocket.
"Five thousand dollars. As a deposit."
I stared at the check. Five thousand dollars—enough for a month in my temporary apartment.
"Why?"
"Because you're worth it."
I took the check, my hand trembling.
"Thank you."
"Friday night at seven. I'll send a car. I'll text you the location later."
I nodded and opened the car door.
The rain had stopped. The air smelled of wet earth.
"Annabel."
I looked back.
"We can help each other, remember? What I said on the balcony."
His gaze set my heart racing.
"I remember."
I closed the car door and watched his car pull away, standing by the curb long after it disappeared.
Something was taking root in my heart.
Perhaps.
Maybe I wasn't alone after all.
*
I opened the door to my apartment—this place that would no longer be mine in twenty-seven days.
The lights were dim, boxes stacked in the corner containing my already-packed books and clothes.
I leaned Monet's painting against the wall and slipped off Ethan's jacket.
His scent still clung to it—crisp, like the air after rain.
I suddenly realized this was the first time I'd felt warm since my father's arrest.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Miss Williams. Good evening."
The voice was unfamiliar, with an uncomfortably polite tone.
"Who is this?"
"My name is William Devonhill, and I believe we need to discuss your father's debt."
My hand froze.
Devonhill?
I'd seen that name on the list of creditors provided by the lawyer.
The largest creditor.
"It's midnight."
"I apologize for the disturbance, but this is urgent. Your father owes me eighty million dollars."
Eighty million.
I sank onto the sofa, my legs giving way.
"The court will handle all debts—"
"Court? Dear Miss Williams, what your father owes me isn't a regular debt."
His voice suddenly turned cold.
"This is a personal debt. A gambling debt. The kind that exists outside the law."
Gambling debt.
Father gambled?
"I didn't know..."
"Of course you didn't know. But now you do. And debts transfer to family members—that's our rule."
"That's not legal."
"Who said anything about legal?"
I heard him laugh.
"You have three choices, Miss Williams."
"First, pay back eighty million dollars."
Impossible.
"Second, work in my business for ten years in your father's place to pay off the debt."
What business? I didn't dare ask.
"Third."
He paused for a long moment.
"Marry me."
The world stopped.
"What?"
"Marry me. The debt will be written off, and you can continue living your high society life. A win-win, wouldn't you say?"
My stomach churned.
"I'll send a car for you the day after tomorrow. We can meet to discuss the details. I'll send you the address."
"I refuse."
"You can refuse to meet, but you cannot refuse the debt. Think it through carefully, Miss Williams."
"By the way."
His voice suddenly grew colder.
"I saw the news. You were with Pierce tonight? A clever choice, but he can't resolve my debt."
How did he know?
Was he monitoring me?
"Don't try to escape. Don't call the police. There's no evidence. I have all the records of your father's gambling debts."
"Goodbye, future Mrs. Devonhill."
The call ended.
I sat in darkness, my phone slipping from my fingers to the floor.
My heart, which had been warm just moments ago,
instantly froze.
Ethan's jacket still draped over my shoulders.
A five-thousand-dollar check in my hand.
Monet's painting leaning against the wall.
But all of this.
Couldn't save me.
Because a devil
was waiting for me to walk into his trap.
I looked at my phone screen as a text message came in:
"The day after tomorrow, 3 PM, Warehouse No. 3 at the dock. Be there. —W.D."
In twenty-seven days I would lose this apartment.
In two days I might lose much more.
I curled up on the sofa.
The rain outside started again.
Heavier this time.
