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Chapter_26
Whitney stood frozen, her mind racing to make sense of the words. The man’s cold gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she realized he wasn’t joking. It was clear from his tone that he was serious, and the weight of his words hit her harder than she expected.
“You’re a street thug,” Whitney muttered under her breath, her eyes flicking toward the man’s handsome features.
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze became colder, his demeanor more distant.
With a cold smile, Whitney added, “I suppose the hospital did wonders on that face of yours.”
Monica, who had been watching the exchange with a smirk, quickly interjected, “Sis, did you come here to bid on landscapes today? But I heard you’re short on cash now, and with a thug boyfriend, I don’t think you’re in the right position to be spending money.”
Simon’s eyes darkened as he shot a glare at Whitney. The crowd around them started murmuring, casting curious looks in Whitney’s direction. “What? Whitney’s with a street thug now?”
Monica feigned innocence, trying to downplay the situation with a sly smile. “Oh, don’t be so quick to judge, everyone. Maybe my sister just made a mistake. It happens.”
The gossip spread like wildfire, and Whitney felt the sting of their ridicule. “To associate with such riff-raff is to tarnish your family name,” someone whispered.
Monica’s voice rang out again, challenging Whitney with a thinly veiled insult. “Roselyn, didn’t you see Whitney flaunting her purchases at the boutique the other day? Maybe her thug boyfriend is actually loaded! Sis, why don’t you introduce him to us?”
Roselyn quickly joined in the mockery, “A thug worth meeting? With you barely scraping by and bidding on a million-dollar painting? I don’t think you even have enough money to start the bid, do you, Whitney?”
The socialites around them laughed, their judgmental eyes boring into Whitney.
Just as the auction began, the lights dimmed, and the attention shifted to the first item: a landscape painting from the late Renaissance. The bidding began at a million dollars. Simon wasted no time in raising his paddle. “Two million!”
The crowd gasped in admiration. “Simon’s so generous, doubling the bid just to win Monica’s favor!”
Monica smirked, content with the outcome she’d predicted, but Whitney didn’t raise her paddle. She knew she didn’t have enough cash to compete—only $800,000 from Tiana, which was far from enough for the starting bid.
Monica stood up, her voice ringing out through the microphone, “Come on, sis, place your bid. I’m sure you want to!”
The spotlight shifted to Whitney, all eyes on her. She remained motionless, refusing to be intimidated.
Roselyn seized the opportunity, taunting her again. “Well, Whitney, isn’t your thug boyfriend here? Or do you not even have a million dollars to your name?”
The socialites laughed even harder now.
“If you can’t afford it, why not step aside and save us the trouble?” Roselyn added, her voice dripping with contempt.
The auctioneer, clearly irritated by the delay, turned to Whitney. “Are you bidding or not? If you can’t afford it, we’ll have to escort you out. We can’t let you disrupt the auction.”
Monica chuckled softly, already savoring her victory.
But just then, a smooth and chilling voice cut through the tension in the room. “She bids five million.”
Everyone froze. Whitney turned, her heart skipping a beat as she recognized the voice. A tall figure moved through the crowd, his presence commanding attention. His broad shoulders and confident stride contrasted with the murmur of disbelief that spread across the room. The man wore a mask, but his aura was undeniable—powerful and enigmatic.
Whitney’s eyes widened in surprise. He was here.
The man approached her and gently took her wrist in his large hand, sending a shiver down her spine. His cool breath tickled her ear as he leaned closer, his eyes scanning her face with a mix of concern and intrigue.
“Am I late?” he asked softly, his voice laced with an intensity that made Whitney’s heart flutter.
She blinked, momentarily speechless, before shaking her head. “No, you’re not late, Sir.”
He settled into his seat beside her, exuding calm and grace. He raised his paddle without hesitation, his voice ringing out, “No one else is bidding? Six million!”
The room erupted into shock. The socialites, stunned by his audacity, whispered in disbelief. “Is that the thug Whitney’s with? He’s so tall and handsome!”
Roselyn, visibly rattled by his presence, quickly recovered and sneered, “Didn’t you see the mask? He must be some hideously scarred gangster. Simon, outbid him!”
Simon, feeling a twinge of jealousy and competition, couldn’t let this man steal the spotlight. “Eight million!” he called out, determined not to be overshadowed.
The masked man didn’t flinch. “Ten million,” he said smoothly, his tone ice-cold.
Simon’s face turned crimson with frustration. “Twelve million!” he shouted, unwilling to back down.
The man remained unfazed. “Fourteen million,” he continued, his bidding unfaltering.
Whitney watched in silence, her unease growing. The painting wasn’t even worth half of what he was bidding. “Mr. L, there’s no need to go this far. It’s not worth it,” she whispered, still trying to make sense of his actions.
“I don’t intend to buy it,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.
Whitney frowned in confusion, but he continued, “I’m just driving up the price for him.”
She blinked, realizing he was playing a game—one she wasn’t entirely sure she understood. But his confidence and ruthlessness impressed her.
“Twenty million,” he said with a casual flick of his hand.
Simon’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. His competitive spirit flared, and he shouted, “Twenty-six million!”
The man didn’t raise his paddle again. The auctioneer, eager to close the deal, quickly brought down the gavel. “Congratulations to Mr. Perlman! The landscape painting is sold for twenty-six million!”
The socialites stared, speechless, as Simon slouched in his chair, his anger palpable. Monica, too, was stunned into silence, her eyes wide with shock.
They had been played—made fools of by this masked man who seemed to have unlimited wealth. Whitney, though, couldn’t help but feel a mix of admiration and confusion.
Monica, still reeling, gathered her composure and approached Whitney. She eyed the man in the mask, his silent confidence making her uneasy.
Leaning in, she sneered at Whitney. “A thug is a thug, good for nothing but driving up the dirt. Twenty-six million? I bet your boyfriend couldn’t earn a million in his whole life!”
But Whitney, despite the sting of her words, couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of security next to the masked man. He wasn’t just wealthy—he was untouchable, and that made him dangerous in a way she couldn’t ignore.
