Chapter 3
At exactly five o’clock, the black Maybach pulled up in front of the mansion.
Eleanor Knight descended the steps, her bag in hand, but her fingers froze mid-air as they brushed the car door handle.
In the passenger seat, Isabella Whitlock cradled a massive bouquet of pink roses, flashing her a saccharine smile. “Madam, I’m allergic to pollen. Would you mind sitting in the back?”
Eleanor’s gaze dropped to the lace seat cushion embroidered with “Bella’s Exclusive.”
“It’s Isabella’s first auction,” Sebastian Sinclair said, rolling down the window, his tone casual. “Be considerate.”
Considerate?
The corner of Eleanor’s lips curled slightly as she turned and opened the rear door.
The car sped into the twilight, the front seats alive with flirtatious giggles.
“Sebastian, try this strawberry cake~” Isabella held out a half-eaten dessert, pouting as she brought it to the man’s lips.
Sebastian took a bite from her fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes brimming with indulgence.
Eleanor turned her face to the window. The autumn wind hurled dead leaves against the glass, a perfect metaphor for her shattered marriage.
The auction hall glittered under crystal chandeliers.
The moment they stepped out, Isabella whimpered, “My heels are killing me…”
Sebastian immediately wrapped an arm around her waist, glancing back at Eleanor. “Go ahead inside. I’ll take her to change shoes.”
In the boutique, the man knelt on one knee, carefully sliding flats onto the girl’s feet, his focus tender—as if handling a priceless treasure.
Eleanor clenched the invitation in her hand.
Two weeks ago, when she’d begged him for water during a 102°F fever, he’d only frowned. “Don’t you have hands?”
Turns out he could be gentle.
Just not with her.
By the time Sebastian and Isabella arrived at the auction, it was already halfway through.
“I want crab~” Isabella pointed at the king crab on the buffet, her eyes sparkling.
Sebastian rolled up his sleeves, his deft fingers dismantling the shell with practiced ease. He piled the meat into a small mountain before her, drawing envious glances from the crowd.
“Three hundred million from bidder number seventeen!”
The auctioneer’s gavel struck, and the room erupted. The emerald necklace now adorned Isabella’s slender throat.
“Mrs. Sinclair is so lucky,” guests toasted.
Sebastian swirled his wine, smirking as he gestured toward Eleanor. “She’s the real Mrs. Sinclair.”
The air turned to ice.
Eleanor sipped her champagne. The cold liquid slid down her throat, doing nothing to extinguish the fire in her chest.
Soon, she’d set them free.
As she left early, the elevator mirror reflected her pallid face.
“Madam.” A sickly-sweet voice called from behind.
Before Eleanor could turn, a stinging pain exploded across her cheek.
