Chapter 12 - The Auction BlockThe grand theater of the Aethelgard was designed like an ancient Roman colosseum, wrapped in red velvet and dark mahogany. High-net-worth buyers sat in private, shadowed opera boxes overlooking a central illuminated stage.
Adrian sat in Box 7—the Whitmore family's designated suite—leaning forward in his plush velvet chair. His pulse hammered like a war drum against his ribs, but his face remained a mask of arrogant disinterest.
On the stage stood the auctioneer: a sleek, bald man in a white tuxedo holding an ivory gavel.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer's amplified voice resonated through the theater. "We move to Lot Four. A unique offering from our political and intelligence portfolio. High security, exceptional access to corporate keys."
Two large security guards pushed a heavy steel cage onto the center stage.
Inside sat a woman.
Her hair was tangled, her silk dress torn and dusty, but her chin was held high in defiant refusal to break. Even under the harsh spotlight, her eyes flickered with a fiercer flame than her captors could ever extinguish.
Anna.
Adrian’s breath hitched. He gripped the gilded armrests of his chair so hard the wood groaned under the pressure. Over the comms, he heard a ragged, painful gasp from Scott.
"Adrian..." Scott choked out, miles away in the mountain cabin. "That's her. God, that's her..."
"I see her," Adrian whispered, his voice trembling with controlled rage. "She's alive, Scott. She's strong."
"Lot Four," the auctioneer announced, tapping his gavel. "Starting bid: ten million dollars."
A light flickered in Box 12 across the hall. "Ten million," the automated voice speaker announced.
"Twelve million," called out an old Russian oligarch sitting in Box 3, swirling a glass of vodka.
"Fifteen," another voice chimed.
Adrian didn't wait. He pressed the digital bidding console built into his armrest and typed in a number designed to suffocate the room.
Fifty Million Dollars.
The digital scoreboard above the stage flashed bright red: BOX 7: $50,000,000.
A collective gasp echoed through the theater. Heads turned toward Box 7, trying to pierce the shadows to see who was throwing around such absurd sums.
Across the room, in Box 3, the Russian oligarch—a notorious arms dealer named Nikolai Krasnov—glared at Adrian's box. Krasnov slammed his fist on his console.
BOX 3: $60,000,000.
"Seventy," Adrian instantly countered, pounding the button without a second's hesitation.
"Eighty," Krasnov barked into his mic.
"One hundred million," Adrian shouted directly into the open air of the auditorium, his voice cutting through the hushed silence.
The auctioneer paused, his gavel hovering in mid-air. "One hundred million dollars to Box 7. Going once... going twice..."
Krasnov stood up in his box, his face red with fury, staring hard at Adrian. "Who is that?" Krasnov spat to his aide. "Verify Box 7's liquidity! No one drops a hundred million for a political asset unless they intend to burn the house down!"
BANG.
"Sold to Box 7 for one hundred million dollars!" the auctioneer declared, striking the block. "Representative of Box 7, please proceed to the transaction vault on Deck One for transfer and settlement."
Adrian stood up, buttoning his jacket.
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"Adrian, be careful," Scott warned over the comms. "Krasnov isn't letting this go. His local network is making calls right now. You just put a giant target on your back."
"Let them come," Adrian said, walking toward the private exit. "I'm bringing Anna home."
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