by Mara Lynne
“And that woman in Mary Etheridge’s right is Mrs. Claire Douglas, widowed at the age of thirty. Her husband, who is a family friend, died of poison.” Paul leans closer to her as though trying to whisper something. “Some people believed she poisoned him. The man is three times her age. They don’t have children, but Mrs. Douglas is said to have affairs with younger males. Now she keeps their fortune all to herself.”
This Mrs. Claire Douglas looks severe and very ostentatious—histrionic as far as Angel could see. Her red dress is flaming and bright, making sure that no one can miss her in this sea of glamorous people.
“How do you know all these people?” she wonders.
“It’s my job, ma’am.”
He must be very useful to Hunter.
“Lastly, Lady Marianne Hamilton, Mary’s cousin twice removed, daughter of an earl and wife of an English politician. You can see now how great the Etheridges’ connection is.”
Yes, she does. No wonder Mary takes pride from it, and she does not think twice using that privilege to terrorize people below her rank. Unfortunately for her, Angel’s not to be counted among those people—not anymore.
A tall, thin man in an exquisite coat and tie walks to the stage carrying a small piece of paper.
“The bidding is going to start now,” Paul tells her. “That is Mr. Price, the presenter of the night.”
The lights go dim, and the people rush to their seats with refined excitement. From the side of her eyes, she could see Mary and her friends clapping their hands, holding their number cards, so ready to raise them any time they want.
Angel knows that Mary is aware of her presence, but the woman just chooses to ignore her.
A cart is being rammed towards the center of the stage by a middle-aged woman who looks exactly like the grandmother living in their neighborhood in the Jersey apartments.
Mr. Price takes off the white linen covering the item on the cart and reveals an image of a bronze Buddha headpiece.
“From Khmer, this item is believed to be one of the rare gems that survived the great fire of 1832. Bidding starts from $30,000.”
Giselle Harrison hurriedly raises her card and exclaims, “Thirty-five!”. And the crowd claps.
“$37,000!” counters a woman who appears to be older than Mrs. Harrison.
“Thirty-eight!” Harrison says.
“$38,000! Anyone going for thirty-nine?” Mr. Price utters, his eyes scanning the room.
“Forty!” says a dark-skinned man at the first table.
Mrs. Harrison stands up and cries out, stressing every word, “Forty-five thousand dollars!”
Gasps fill the entire room. Mary squints her eyes toward her other friends as though telling them that Giselle Harrison is in for the kill.
“Do we go for fifty, Ms. Grant?” Paul asks coolly.
“No!” she readily answers. What will she do with that small headpiece though?
Mr. Price awed, he states loudly, “$45,000! Going once… twice… Sold for $45,000!” And Giselle Harrison sends flying kisses to everyone like she has won the top prize in a beauty contest.
The next item to be auctioned is a torn piece of an Egyptian scroll. On the screen, the piece of the papyrus scroll shows odd inscriptions that could well be hieroglyphics is projected.
In less than two minutes, it is sold at a staggering price of $60,000.
The auction goes on, from the last surviving Edwardian tea set, to Princess Diana’s pair of shoes, to sixteenth-century ink jar. Most of them fill the night with exhilaration and awe, especially for the ladies, but Mary is an exception. She seems to be waiting for something, something a lot grander.
“Are you not so keen on raising your card, Ms. Grant?” the already bored Paul adds.
“I’d rather spend Hunter’s money for the wedding, Paul,” she tells him.
“Perhaps the last item might fascinate you.”
“Paul, why is Mary not bidding?” she asks, directing her gaze at the composed woman.
“If you are going to bid for this one,” Paul answers, “you might go head to head against Mary Etheridge. She always eyes for the best, and she’s known to always go for the last item. Nobody really goes against her.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the most awaited item and probably the most expensive one. And well, because she’s Mary Etheridge.”
Mary really loves the attention.
Mr. Price holds the microphone with one hand as his other hand points at the silver platter being carried by his assistant.
“And the last item for tonight is…” He takes away the white linen from it, and a box with a diamond wreath necklace is revealed. The diamonds are bigger than almonds, and they shimmer as the lights hit them.
Everybody gasps.
Even Angel falls speechless. It’s the first time she has seen such expensive jewelry in person. It could match the English monarch’s jewels.
“The Wreath of Magdalene. It is a diamond laden white gold necklace with two hundred pieces of diamonds. It weighs 1.2 pounds and is estimated to worth five million,” Mr. Price starts. “Its history dates way back to the 18th century. This piece of jewelry is owned by the Duchess of Cornwall, passed from generation to generation until in the 1940s, after the second World War, when the family transferred all its treasure to the East Indies, and history would tell us how General Yamashita looted the Asian countries. The Wreath sank to the ocean together with other looted treasures. In 2008, a Dutch expedition found this, the only one remaining of the ship’s load at the bottom of South China Sea.”
Angel witnesses how Mary was eyeing the necklace, her hands clasped together like she is praying to God to give it to her.
“And now, it is here. Bidding starts from $5 million!”
“$5.1 million!” Mary quickly hoists her card.
A look of incredulity appears on the faces of her friends.
“Anyone going against Mrs. Etheridge’s offer?”
Looks like her offer is way too much for everyone.
Just as victory spreads on Mary’s face, a sudden unexplainable impulse creeps its way into Angel’s mind.
“What does Hunter usually do with the item he bought, Paul?”
“Sell it for a higher price, and the money goes to his charity. What are you thinking, Ms. Grant?”
Out of the blue, she raises her card and blurts out, “$5.2 million!”
Gasps of horror are heard from Mary’s friends as the other guests puff in admiration and surprise.
She is clueless as to where she got the courage to oppose Mary. She’s only doing this because she does not want to leave the night without getting something for the children. She knows she does not have that fortune, but Hunter does, and the man did not say anything about finance restriction. And yes, maybe she wants to piss Mary off a bit.
Paul’s eyes glimmer with pride. This was the action he was waiting for to see.
“My oh my! We’re getting a hundred thousand increase from the future Mrs. Stone! Anyone going for 5.3?”
“$5.5 million!” Mary yells.
“Are we okay for another increase, Paul?” she asks in a whisper.
“Not a problem at all, ma’am!”
When her parents learn of this, they will definitely slap her for being too worldly. She just wants to see Mary embarrassed—that’s all, and she’ll be satisfied. And not to forget the great help she could give to the orphans.
“5.6!” Angel counters.
Mary heaves, taking deep breathes in right after. Her gaze is already throwing flaming arrows at her.
“10 million!” Mary drops her final offer, almost blowing off the roof.
Ten million dollars? Is Mary Etheridge this crazy? What is she even going to do with the necklace? Wear it while she sleeps? With that one on her neck, her neck would break.
“Ten million dollars?” Mr. Price almost chokes.
Whispers from everyone—whispers of fancy, amazement, and envy—rise.
�
��Yes, ten million dollars!” Standing up, with her hands on her waist, Mary makes sure Angel hears her every word.
“Are we going for fifteen?” Paul suggests, about to raise the card.
But Angel stops him, and she simply nods at Mary.
“The Wreath of Magdalene for 10 million dollars. Going once… twice… And it is sold! Mrs. Etheridge for the highest bid of the night!”
Claps erupt from Mary’s table. She holds her chin high and kisses her friends on the cheek.
Angel could only shake her head.
Right, she just wasted the opportunity to help the orphans, but ten million dollars is just too big to be spent for one night. She could think of several ways to help others, and though the proceeds for the reselling of the Wreath will be a huge help, she thinks it’s too much to spend someone else’s money for that. Perhaps, if she has that money in the future, she’d gladly topple Mary down any bidding night.
Today is just not her time.
While everyone celebrates Mary’s victory, Angel gets ready to leave. Paul has already left the building to prepare the car.
However, before she could exit, an unexpected terror takes her down by surprise when the forbidden words were hollered right in the middle of the glitzy crowd.
“Angel Mohr!”
She turns around and sees a woman who looks so darn familiar.
“Angel Mohr, is that you?”
Phoemela Matthews? Cheerleader. Rich kid. Damien’s ex-girlfriend. She was with her in three of her classes in college, and she’s everyone’s royal pain in the ass.
Phoemela eyes Angel with utter suspicion and disbelief.
“I thought my eyes were deceiving me,” Phoemela says. “When I saw your pictures in the newspaper and magazines with Hunter Stone, I thought it’s just another girl who looks like you. But tonight proves me wrong. Jesus! How did you become Angel Grant?”
Petrified, Angel feels her tongue retreating.
Everyone watches them. Even Mary and her friends freeze in anticipation.
“And you’re marrying Hunter Stone! How did a diner girl end up marrying a billionaire?”
“Diner girl?” Mary’s interjection worsens everything. She is there, standing just a few steps away from Angel, getting closer and closer as she walks to her direction. “You work in a diner?” Mary’s scandalous voice is too loud, divulging Angel’s deepest secret to everyone in the room. “Did you say her name is Angel Mohr?”
Phoemela nods.
Mary’s face twitches as the side of her mouth curves into an evil smile.
“You’re not only a great liar but one manipulative gold digging bitch,” Mary tells to her face, losing her manners and finesse.
Chapter 15 – The Gain
Hunter got a lot of information from the private investigator he hired to look into this supposed foreign investor. Norman Crawford, an American who has a steadily growing business in Italy, is quite an ambitious man, and with his influence in the European market, it’s just right not to mess him up.
Without Crawford knowing, Hunter and Damien had already devised a plan to stop him from buying a share in the company.
“They are behind the turnovers,” Damien says, gritting his teeth, as he scans the bulk of paper works on his hands. “Three hundred workers from four of our plantations in the West Coast moved to join him in promises of higher pay and benefits. Not to mention, Crawford is brainwashing them about the existing tyranny in our company.”
It feels unusual for Hunter to hear Damien say “our company” all the time when he is nothing but a subsidiary element. He’s not legally an Etheridge to claim it as his own.
“Crawford has spies in the company as well, Damien.”
“Names?”
Hunter searches through the report, but he only sees numbers and figures.
“No names yet, but there seems to be three. All holding high positions.”
They could have been bought by Crawford to feed him important information about the company or worse, his own employees that he sent for espionage.
“What do we do?” Damien asks. “Fire all the middle managers and announce for emergency hiring? We’re losing a great number of workers. We can’t just sit back and watch Crawford execute his evil plans.”
“No, we’ll not allow Crawford to do that, but we should not be reckless here, Damien,” Hunter answers. “The middle managers we’d fire might be innocent. They will lose their jobs. We can’t be cruel to them and their families.”
“I can’t think of a way to eliminate those bastards, Hunter.” Damien plops down onto his seat, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Just think of how we could ruin the lives of so many innocent employees by terminating them over baseless accusations. The spies could be nesting in the higher echelons and not where we think they could be.”
“You mean they could be stockholders or…”
“Right! Didn’t you say this issue was brought up during the stockholders’ meeting?”
Damien nods. He knew of some familiar faces like Harrison and Tilney. They used to frequent their house to keep his dad posted of the latest happenings in the company. The rest are all strangers to him.
“This won’t be pointed out if none of the stockholders knew about this,” Hunter continues. “The mole knew of Crawford’s plan, and they wanted us to direct our attention to this supposed potential investment, but the truth is he is working his way to the company, stealing employees and product information while we’re busy dealing with this so called venture. Diversionary tactics!”
“Harrison!” Damien rises from his seat, all fired up, as memories of Harrison’s murderous glares rush through his head like a race car. “Harrison was the one who brought this up!”
Damn that old man! Hunter curses in his mind.
How could that fool try to persuade him to take the family business from Damien when he, himself, is doing something shrewd? Selling vital corporate information to a rival company, betraying the company’s values, and even trying to create animosity between him and his brother by convincing ten thousand employees to gain signatories under the guise of gathering support for him. Looks like this signature drive is just a front for a deeper cause. What? Swaying this herd of workers to leave Etheridge and work for Crawford.
Curse that devious Harrison!
“You know what? I’m calling Dad.”
“Hey, stop!” Hunter butts in.
“Dad must know about Harrison.”
“Do you have evidence?”
Damien shakes his head, putting down his phone.
“Do we have the evidence to push the blame to Harrison?” Hunter asks once more as though educating Damien the 101s of corporate competition. “We are just assuming, Damien. Let’s put this to father’s attention when we are one hundred percent sure. You don’t want to be called stupid when our hunch is proven wrong.”
Damien falls back again to his chair.
“What we should do now is investigate Harrison,” he states, pouring wine into his glass,. “Tomorrow, we will meet with Crawford. Pretend that we have decided to accept his proposal. We’ll be there to listen to his offer. But of course, we should not let him know about what we discovered.”
“Then tomorrow it is.”
“Crawford is digging his own grave,” Hunter mutters.
His phone beeps, and a message from the private investigator raises his curiosity. It’s three in the morning, and news is still coming out. This could be worth paying attention to.
“Harrison is coming here tomorrow to meet with Crawford secretly,” he says while reading the text.
“What? Does that mean he’s our prime suspect now?”
Hunter nods. “But we have to make sure that the two are indeed scheming against us. We could not ring father’s alarm yet unless we gather enough evidence about this. Harrison could just be checking on us, and none of this speculation is true.”
“But he could have set a meeting with us and not with Cr
awford! That man is very suspicious. And I don’t like him,” Damien says. Indeed, the way he speaks about Harrison is a portrayal of the utter disgust he feels toward the man.
“We better rest now, Damien. It’s very late. Tomorrow will be a long day,” Hunter says after a long sigh. “Harrison will be surprised.”
As soon as Hunter has reached his room, he takes off his coat and shirt and reaches for the dry towel that is neatly folded on top of the table. The bed is calling him already, but his body aches for the comfort of warm water. How he wishes Angel is with him. His sleep is so much better with her beside him.
After he takes a shower, he instantly scurries to the walk-in closet to get a pair of pajamas. With only the cotton towel hanging on his hips and tiny droplets of water running down his skin, Hunter wonders what Angel could be doing on the other side of the globe.
Is she sleeping now?
It could be around eleven o’clock at Princeton now. He could bet she’s already dreaming about him. He could only smile at the thought of his love ravishing him in her dreams.
He wonders too if she enjoyed the auction party. He knows that Angel is a bit of a hermit, and that she dislikes being around the sophisticated members of the high society. He’s not punishing her by putting her into this. He’s just introducing her to the life she will live once they are married.
His phone rings just before he could put his clothes on.
“Sir?” Paul sounds a little panicky.
“Paul, how’s the auction night?” he asks. “Did Angel enjoy everything? Is she already asleep?”
“Sir, something unexpected happened.”
“What?” The towel drops to the floor.
“Our secret is exposed.”
What is Paul talking about?
“Angel Grant,” Paul continues. “She’s not Angel Grant.”
Jesus! How could he forget about that? He knew that he can’t keep a secret forever, and he was aware of the damage it could cause Angel. He did not care about that initially because he thought everything between them was temporary. The world knows of the woman he will marry as a daughter of some rich businessman, an entrepreneur in her own right, and an editor-in-chief running her own publishing company—a woman whom Angel is not in all aspects.