"Two hundred and fifty?—"
"Five hundred thousand."
The room goes quiet.
Even the auctioneer pauses, her finger hovering over her tablet.
Five hundred thousand.
Someone just jumped the bidding by two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
But it's still not his voice.
I know it's not.
His voice would be different.
Colder. More controlled.
"Five hundred thousand dollars," she repeats, looking out into the audience. "Do I hear?—"
"Seven hundred and fifty thousand."
A different voice.
Cold. Precise.
Coming from somewhere in the middle of the theater.
Not him either. But getting closer to that price range. The range where men like him play.
"One million."
The first voice.
The older one.
There's an edge to it now.
Competition. Determination.
My legs are shaking.
I lock my knees, force myself to stand still.
Try not to look at him.
Try not to search the audience for those ice-blue eyes.
But I can feel him watching.
I can feel his gaze like heat on my skin.
"One million five hundred thousand."
"One million eight hundred thousand."
The numbers keep climbing.
