The canvas unfurled—stone paths, paper umbrellas, the misty Pacific Northwest rain, every stroke delicate enough to reveal the bamboo ribs of the umbrella.
It was my father’s painting.
Years ago, when Ryan was amnesiac and hunted by enemies, I had no choice but to sell this piece for his medical bills. Crying, I told him, “One day, we must buy it back.” He had held me then, wiping my tears with his knuckles, and promised, “I’ll remember, Evelyn. I’ll bring it back for you.”
“Fifty thousand.” I raised my paddle, my voice trembling.
Sophia’s face darkened. She whispered something into Ryan’s ear, then raised her paddle. “Eighty thousand.”
“This painting means everything to me,” I pleaded softly. But the hundred million in my offshore account was inaccessible, and even if it weren’t, Ryan would block me.
Sophia only smirked, tracing Ryan’s arm with her finger. “Evelyn, it’s an auction. Compete fairly. Ryan said if I want it, he’ll give it to me.”
“One hundred thousand,” I bid again.
“One hundred fifty thousand,” Sophia countered, leaning closer to Ryan. “Ryan, I love this painting too. Won’t you buy it for me?”