“Oh my God!” Cece cries out softly, clutching my arm, her nails digging in. “Is that Lily Collins?”
Oui, apparently it is.
She’s in a structured black and white dress that looks like it came straight out of her television show.
Cameras buzz around her.
“Soringarde?*,” Jean says with exaggerated snobbery—the French wordEmily in Parispractically turnedinto a meme.
I laugh softly at the ridiculousness of it all.
An announcement in French and English is followed by the delicate chime of a bell, which ripples through the galleries, signaling that the auction is about to begin in the auditorium.
We descend from the upper levels—past an installation of mirrored panels that catch every glint of jewelry, every swish of couture fabric—into the glass-and-wood amphitheater nestled beneath Gehry’s billowing sails of steel and light. Rows of cream leather chairs await, gleaming softly under the architectural glow.
When the lights dim, the hush is immediate, reverent, as if we’re in a chapel.
Since we’re not going to be bidding on anything, I stand to one side with Cece while Jean tries to impress a model he just met.
The auctioneer takes the podium, and interestingly, the auction is conducted in English—probably because many of the guests are not fluent in French.
The auction unfurls like theater—rare wines that cost more than apartments, contemporary sculptures that look like they belong in a spaceship, a signed Basquiat sketch that makes Cece squeal under her breath.
The numbers are obscene, tossed around the room as if euros were air.
The last item of the evening is the Cimabue, and as if in reverence, the lights shift ever so slightly as theauctioneer’s assistants carry forward a small panel, no bigger than a sheet of paper.
It is the artist’s famedThe Mocking of Christ.
Thirteenth century. Jewel-toned tempera on wood.
Rediscovered only a few years ago, I can feel its impact from across the room, its energy humming with centuries of prayers and betrayals, the gold leaf still catching the light like fire.
The crowd holds its breath. Cece grips my wrist, wide-eyed. “Isn’t it amazing?” she whispers, obviously in awe.
“It is,” I agree.
It’s a historical treasure, priceless in theory—though someone will no doubt price it anyway and sell it for more than I earn in a year.
Paddles go up, and the auctioneer speaks clearly to announce who is bidding.
“We start at two hundred thousand euros to Count de Valois.”
My eyes snap to the man.
How much money does this man have?
Obviously, I know where Gustave is sitting, though Ipretendnot to look.
The price climbs quickly, sharp bursts from the auctioneer’s lips echoing in the glass-and-wood chamber. Another paddle rises across the room, some silver-haired collector in a navy suit, and for a heartbeat the spotlight shifts away from Gustave.
When the light returns to him, he is the image ofaristocratic composure—bidding on one of the rarest works in existence with the same ease one might order a café crème.
Simone’s jeweled hand curls possessively on her ex-husband’s sleeve as she whispers into his ear. His mouth curves faintly. The intimacy of it sends a hot spike through me.
She’s supposed to be his ex, but the way they move around each other says otherwise. Do they still end up in bed? Are they one of those couples who claim to be divorced but can’t seem to break the orbit—circling each other until gravity pulls them back in again?
Across the room, the rival bidder raises his paddle again. The auctioneer’s voice cuts through: “One million euros to Monsieur Baron Hunt.”
