Chapter 29

The envelope was heavy, cream-colored, and smelled of desperation.

It arrived on a silver tray, delivered by Oryn along with the morning coffee. The embossing on the front was gold leaf, intricate and pretentious: The 50th Annual Winter Solstice Auction.

Vespera sat at the glass dining table in the Fortress, bathed in the morning light. She picked up the envelope, weighing it in her hand.

"They're still holding it?" she mused. "I would have thought the social committee would cancel after the scandal."

"The rich don't cancel parties," Cyprian said from the other side of the table. He was reading a report on his tablet—probably the latest casualty list of the Thorne stock crash. "They just change the guest list to exclude the poor."

Vespera slid her finger under the wax seal and tore it open.

Inside was a thick, glossy catalog. The "Gala of the Season." It was the event where the elite of Neo-Veridia pretended to care about charity while outbidding each other for vintage wine, horses, and jewelry, all to launder their reputations.

"Let's see what they're selling off this year," Vespera murmured, flipping the cover.

She turned the pages idly.

Lot 1: A 1962 Aston Martin. Lot 15: A private island vacation in Fiji. Lot 23: A thoroughbred racehorse.

It was the usual parade of excess. Vespera was about to toss the catalog into the recycling bin when she turned the page to Lot 49.

Her hand froze.

The breath caught in her throat so sharply it hurt.

There, on page 32, photographed against black velvet, was a necklace.

It was a pendant—a massive, teardrop-shaped sapphire the color of a midnight ocean, surrounded by a halo of flawless diamonds, suspended on a delicate platinum chain.

Lot 49: The Star of Veridia. Provenance: The Estate of the Thorne Family. Estimated Value: $2,500,000 - $3,000,000.

Vespera stared at the image. The room blurred around the edges.

She wasn't in the Fortress anymore. She was five years old, standing in a cold office, clutching a small velvet pouch. A social worker was talking to a tall, severe woman in a beige suit.

"This is all she has," the social worker had said. "Her parents died in the crash, but they found this in the wreckage. It belongs to her."

Mrs. Thorne had taken the pouch. She had opened it, her eyes gleaming with greed as she saw the sapphire.

"It's far too valuable for a child," Mrs. Thorne had said, snapping the pouch shut. "I'll keep it safe for her. Until she's eighteen."

Eighteen came and went. Then twenty-one. Whenever Vespera asked about the necklace, Mrs. Thorne would scoff. "It's in the vault, Vespera. Stop being so materialistic. You should be grateful we feed you."

It was the only thing Vespera had of her mother. The only proof that she came from people who loved her, not just people who used her.

And now, they were selling it.

"Vespera?"

Cyprian’s voice cut through the memory.

Vespera didn't answer. She couldn't. She just stared at the page, her finger trembling as it hovered over the blue stone.

Cyprian stood up. He walked around the table and looked over her shoulder.

He saw the necklace. He saw the description. The Estate of the Thorne Family.

"That's yours," Cyprian stated. It wasn't a question. He had read her file. He knew about the lost inheritance.

"They told me it was lost," Vespera whispered, her voice sounding thin and young. "Three years ago, when I asked for it to wear to my graduation... Mrs. Thorne told me it had been stolen in a burglary. She lied."

"They're selling it," Cyprian said, his eyes narrowing as he read the fine print. "All proceeds to benefit the 'Thorne Family Foundation.' Which is just a tax shelter for Lysander’s personal expenses."

"They're broke," Vespera realized, a cold fury beginning to replace the shock. "Because of the stock crash. Because of the client exodus. They need cash, fast. So they're liquidating my mother."

She felt a tear slip down her cheek. She angrily wiped it away.

"How dare they," she hissed. "How dare they touch it."

Cyprian placed a hand on her shoulder. His grip was warm, solid.

"We'll get it back," he said instantly.

"How?"

"I'll buy it."

Cyprian straightened up, reaching for his phone. "Three million? That’s pocket change. I'll call the auction house right now and make a pre-emptive offer. I’ll offer double the estimate to take it off the block immediately. You’ll have it in your hands by lunch."

It was the perfect solution. The billionaire solution. Fix the problem with a check.

Vespera looked at the catalog. She looked at the estimated price. Three million dollars.

If Cyprian paid that...

"No," Vespera said.

Cyprian paused, his thumb hovering over the dial button. "No? Vespera, it's your mother’s necklace. I can get it back for you today."

"If you buy it," Vespera said, turning in her chair to face him, "who gets the money?"

Cyprian frowned. "The seller. The Thorne Estate."

"Exactly," Vespera said. Her eyes hardened, the mismatched irises glowing with strategic malice. "If you pay three million dollars—or six million—you are handing Lysander a lifeline. You are funding his legal defense against me. You are paying for Elara’s next fake ultrasound. You are saving them."

She stood up, slamming the catalog shut.

"I will not let my mother’s legacy be used to save the people who abused her daughter."

"Then what do we do?" Cyprian asked. "If we don't bid, someone else will. A collector in Dubai or Tokyo will snap that up, and you’ll never see it again."

Vespera looked at the gold-embossed cover of the invitation.

The Winter Solstice Auction. Saturday Night.

"We go," Vespera said.

"To bid?"

"No," Vespera said. A dark, dangerous smile touched her lips—the smile of the Architect spotting a structural flaw in a building.

"We go to make sure that necklace becomes the most toxic asset in the room."

She walked to the window, looking out at the city.

"Lysander thinks this auction is his salvation. He thinks he's going to cash out and run."

She turned back to Cyprian.

"We are going to walk into that ballroom, and we are going to make sure that when the hammer falls, he doesn't get a dime. I don't want to buy it, Cyprian."

She picked up the invitation and tapped it against her palm.

"I want to steal it back. Legally, publicly, and painfully."

Cyprian watched her. He saw the grief transform into rage, and the rage transform into a plan. He put his phone away.

"A heist," he mused, a wicked glint entering his eyes. "In front of five hundred witnesses?"

"Not a heist," Vespera corrected. "A repossession."

She tossed the invitation onto the table.

"Get your tuxedo, husband. We have a party to crash."