It wasn’t a restaurant. Or an office. It was a private hall made of gold-tinted glass, guarded by men in black suits who didn’t even blink as we arrived.
“Matteo?” I asked quietly when he helped me out. “Where exactly are we?”
He didn’t answer. Not even a glance.
He simply guided me inside.
The lobby was alive with sound—laughter echoing off marble floors, glasses clinking, music humming softly in the background. People in tuxedos stood in clusters, women shimmering in expensive gowns, champagne flowing under crystal chandeliers.
My fingers tightened around his sleeve.
“This… is a gala?” I tried to smile. “You could’ve just told me—”
We stopped.
Right in front of a stage.
My breath caught.
Screens flashed numbers. People murmured into phones. A host stood at the center, voice lowered as if the room itself demanded secrecy.
“Lot Forty-Seven,” he announced. “A rare piece tonight.”
Confusion crept up my spine. I turned to Matteo, expecting an explanation.
But he was already looking at me.
And I didn’t recognize his eyes.
Cold. Detached. Empty in a way I had never seen before.
Then he spoke.
“She’s the lot.”
For a second, my brain refused to understand what I heard. I let out a short, shaky laugh, because surely that was the only reasonable response.
“You’re kidding, right?” I whispered. “Matteo… stop.”
He didn’t even blink.
“You’ll bring a high price,” he said flatly. “I need the money. You’ve always known your face and name could be used for value.”
My stomach dropped.
“What… are you saying?”
He turned away from me, addressing the host instead. “Begin.”
Everything happened at once.
Hands grabbed me before I could even step back. I struggled, panic rising as I was dragged forward.
“Matteo!” I screamed, voice breaking. “Stop this! Please—what are you doing?!”
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t even look at me.
The lights hit me as they pushed me onto the stage. Faces blurred in the crowd—watching, judging, as if I wasn’t a person anymore.
Just something to be priced.
“Two million starting bid,” the announcer called.
Laughter followed. Then raised bids.
“Three million.”
“Four.”
My vision blurred.
“Matteo!” I cried again, voice raw. “I’m your wife!”
Only then did he look up.
A faint curve touched his lips—not warmth, not affection… something tired, almost indifferent.
“I told you, Aria,” he said calmly. “We were never on the same side. And I need the funds. That’s all.”