07

Mia's POV

When the car stopped in front of Christie's, I wasn't ready to get out.

Outside the window, a red carpet stretched from the revolving door all the way to the curb. Camera flashes erupted continuously at the end of the carpet. On both sides stood security personnel in black suits and guests holding champagne flutes.

The driver came around to my side and opened the door. The night breeze carried the scent of champagne and expensive perfume rushing toward me.

I gripped my clutch tightly and stepped onto the ground in my heels. The velvet hem slid from the seat, creating a deep blue arc around my feet.

"Miss Sterling," the driver bowed slightly and handed me a business card. "If you need a ride after the event, please feel free to contact me."

I took the card with thanks, tucked it into my clutch, turned, and walked toward the revolving door.

After the attendant at the entrance verified my name, he stepped aside slightly with a guiding gesture.

I followed him through the lobby and into the elevator.

The elevator doors slowly opened. The ballroom entrance was at the end of the corridor.

Two carved wooden doors were tightly closed, with voices and light seeping through the gap.

The attendant pressed his palm against the door handle and pushed it open with gentle force.

The moment the ballroom doors opened, sound, heat, and light surged toward me simultaneously.

Silver serving trays reflected curved white light in waiters' hands, the crisp sound of bubbles bursting as champagne bottles were opened, the scattered points of light from diamonds refracting under crystal chandeliers, the scent of amber and iris perfume carried by the air conditioning to every corner.

Hundreds of people in formal wear stood together, their conversations weaving an impenetrable net, occasionally torn by one or two loud laughs before quickly mending.

I stood at the entrance for two seconds, feeling like a small animal that had accidentally wandered into predators' territory.

The attendant led me past one round table after another. He passed the secondary seating area, passed the seats of several gallery owners with deep cooperation with the Rothschild family, passed several industry heavyweights I recognized, getting closer and closer to the main table without stopping.

My heartbeat quickened with his steps, so fast I could hear the sound of blood rushing through my ears.

Something was wrong.

I slowed my pace, finally stopping altogether.

Where was my seat?

The attendant finally stopped, and where he stopped was a chair to the right of center at the main table. A gold-embossed place card was attached to the chair back, with "Mia Sterling" written on it.

I instinctively glanced at the place card to the left of that chair. When I saw the name on it, I felt like my stomach had been violently squeezed.

Calvin Rothschild.

My seat was actually next to Calvin's.

This didn't make sense. I quickly ran through all possible explanations in my head—Blackwood Gallery had cooperation with the Rothschild Foundation, but the scale was nowhere near enough to warrant Ethan's assistant sitting to the right of center at the main table.

Among tonight's guests were Sotheby's executives, Christie's department heads, renowned collectors and philanthropists.

Any one of them, in terms of seniority and status, was more qualified to sit here than me.

I was at best a representative Ethan sent to go through the motions. Even if Ethan came personally, he might not necessarily get to sit in this position.

The only possible explanation was that someone had deliberately arranged all this.

And that person was currently sitting in that chair, turning his head to converse with a white-haired elder.

As he spoke, he leaned forward slightly, the corners of his mouth curved in just the right measure. His low voice passed through the noise of clinking glasses and cups, drifting over faintly, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Miss Sterling?" Seeing me hesitate, the attendant turned his head slightly, his tone gentle yet measured. "Your seat is here."

I came to my senses, took a deep breath, walked to that chair, pulled it out, and sat down.

Fine. You arranged this, so I'll sit.

From when I pulled out the chair to when I sat down, Calvin didn't turn his head, still maintaining his posture facing left, never giving me a proper look from start to finish.

But I knew he knew I had sat down. After all, that pause gave him away.

It was an extremely brief pause, the entire process lasting less than a second, so brief that the white-haired elder conversing with him likely didn't notice at all.

Calvin hid that pause very well, but he couldn't hide it from my ears.

Five years ago, I had heard him say so many things—calling my name, telling unfunny jokes, lowering his voice in the dead of night to say "Mia, are you asleep?"

I had kept every one of his voice messages until the day my phone broke and they were lost forever.

The rhythm of his speech, his pauses, and that extremely subtle breath before changing breaths had long been carved into my heart.

But nothing I said now would help.

I lowered my eyes and spread the napkin across my lap.

The banquet was high-class—at least for me it was.

The first appetizer was foie gras mousse made using molecular gastronomy techniques, served in extremely thin bone china plates, garnished with edible gold leaf. The second course was truffle cream soup, with an aroma so strong you could smell it from half a seat away.

I stared at the food in front of me. The silver spoon turned over and over between my fingers several times, but in the end, I couldn't bring a single bite to my mouth.

Calvin's presence was just too strong.

I stared at the soup in front of me, but my peripheral vision uncontrollably drifted to the left.

Each time he lifted his wine glass, the fabric at his cuffs stirred an extremely faint current of air, carrying the scent of cedarwood toward me.

When he blinked, I could clearly see the small shadow his lashes cast on his cheekbones under the light.

Just then, my phone vibrated in my bag.

I set down the spoon, pulled out my phone, and glanced down at the screen.

"The dress fits well."

My breathing stopped for a beat. I jerked my head up just in time to see Calvin nonchalantly put away his phone and pick up his utensils to start cutting the steak in front of him.

Calvin's composure made my scalp tingle. How much had he planned?

The seating, the gown, the text message—how many more arrangements I didn't know about were still waiting for me?

The next second, Calvin placed the cut steak onto my plate.

"?"

I stared at that piece of steak, a question mark slowly forming above my head.

What exactly was he trying to do?

He was the one who moved me to the main table. He was the one who didn't look at me once from start to finish. He was the one who texted "the dress fits well." And now he was calmly putting steak on my plate—what game was this person playing?

I turned my head to look at Calvin again. He was still looking down, cutting his steak, looking like he had no intention of making eye contact with me, which made me so frustrated I laughed out loud.