“Oh no.” Lucie shakes her head. “That’s why I already commissioned a special case to store the one I’m planning to buy next week.” She turns to me. “Are you going?”
“I’m…not sure. I didn’t even know about this auction. What do they have?” The idea is intriguing. I’ve seen movies with exciting auctions, but I’ve never been to one.
“Some really interesting pieces. And you can go to the exhibition before actually buying anything. I thought you might like to because they’re going to have a few of your mother’spaintings up for sale. Apparently, a couple of them have never been seen by the public before.”
Mom’s work is being sold?“Really? My mother’s art? Since when?”
Lucie looks at Yuna. “I don’t know. Over the past ten years or so? But your mom’s paintingsareactively sold at auctions.”
I grind my teeth. I had no idea, and nobody was going to inform me of anything in Nesovia.
The sales are likely Doris’s doing. Based on our increasingly hostile relationship, she must’ve figured she needed a backup plan in case she couldn’t get me to marry Rupert. The next best thing would be to sell all the antiques and paintings that aren’t part of my trust behind my back. That would give her money she could hide from me.
Guess nobody told her that those items belong to me, and it’s an act of theft to dispose of them without my permission.
Is this why Doris tried to get me to sign the agreement, giving her ownership rights to my “trash”? She’ll try to dispute who owns what, tying everything up for years. After all, it’ll be all hearsay, and she can get Vernon and Rupert to testify I threw those things away. And my public eccentricity would work against me in court.
Greedy, greedy bitch.
“I want those paintings, but I want to see them first.” I want to make sure they’re really works that my mother left for me before I report Doris for theft and sue her. There’s aminisculepossibility Mom gave some to Doris.
“It might get pretty pricey if you plan to buy them all,” Lucie says. “I’ve heard rumors that there will be about five pieces, and your mother became very popular recently. I think the latest work was auctioned for almost two million, and it was a fairly small painting.”
So if all five were sold for the same price, that’d be ten million. Not a terrible amount of money for Doris and her family. Not as nice as sixty billion, but not bad—although terrible for me, since they’re pieces of my mother’s legacy.
The stress of dealing with my relatives’ greed is suddenly crushing, weighing me down until my shoulders bow. I want to bury my face in my lap and close my eyes and pretend the world doesn’t exist.
“What’s wrong?” Yuna asks.
“You want your mother’s paintings,” Lucie says.
I nod, a hand still covering my face.
Lucie lets out a sympathetic noise. “And let me guess—the trust is still tied up?”
I nod again.
“Well, it’s an easy problem to fix. Just get your husband to buy them for you.” Yuna pats my back gently. “After all, his money is your money.”
“No…” His money is definitely not my money. Ethan’s almost done with our prenup. He said it was taking a while because my assets are extensive and he wants to be thorough. But I’ve read an earlier draft. According to the agreement, anything bought belongs to whichever spouse that financed the purchase, unless it’s designated as a gift from the very beginning and documented as such.
Which I suppose means I won’t be taking anything from the studio, either. But that’s okay, since the portrait’s a gift for Ares.My mom’s paintings, though…
“Oh, come on. If you think he’s going to object to the amount, just rub him like a genie.” Yuna waggles her eyebrows. “Unlike the usual cheapo genies who only let you rub them three times, your man will give you what you wanteverytime you rub. Hehehe.”
“Exactly. Works like a charm.” Lucie giggles. “And you can add some kisses for better results.” She purses her lips and makes a kissing sound.
I give them a wan smile. Easy for them to say, since their husbands are apparently crazy about them. Mine is…well…
Mine is complicated.
That night, I stay up until Ares comes home at one. He raises his eyebrows when he sees me.
“Hi,” I say. “I was waiting for you to come home.”
He smells of alcohol and something smoky. Not cigarettes. Cigars? Was he at a business dinner and had to return to the office? I press my lips to contain the questions. They aren’t as critical as what I want to say.
“Did you need something?” he asks. “You should’ve texted.”
