Chapter 3
Mia
The rush back from London meant I'd barely packed anything—a few essentials thrown into a carry-on, nothing more. But with Ethan's condition looking like it would keep me here longer than expected, I needed to pick up some basics.
So I headed to Pennsylvania's largest mall.
While browsing through the mall, my mind kept circling back to that face on the elevator screen. No matter how hard I tried to overlay it with the boy from eight years ago, I couldn't make them match. And I wasn't the same person anymore either. Eight years really had changed everything.
I'd lost any interest in shopping. I wandered through the aisles without really seeing anything, choosing daily essentials and a few presentable tops and dresses out of obligation.
When my phone buzzed in my pocket, my heart clenched involuntarily—I thought something had happened to Ethan. I pulled out my phone with trembling hands, bracing myself for the worst.
Thank God it had nothing to do with Ethan.
Paragon Auctions - URGENT: Charity gala assignment tonight, 7 PM. Holt Tech hosting, high-profile collectors in attendance. This is your probationary evaluation. Details attached.
My stomach dropped.
Paragon Auctions. One of the most prestigious houses in North America. That night after sitting with Ethan, watching his responses flicker between present and absent, I knew I'd be staying in Pennsylvania for a while.
I'd sent my resignation to the London auction house and submitted my résumé to Paragon in the same sitting, both emails sent before I could second-guess myself. Getting this opportunity at Paragon wasn't luck—Sofia had called in every favor she had just to get my résumé on the right desk. They'd made it clear during our meeting: this was a trial period. One chance to prove I belonged.
And that chance was tonight.
Sofia's message came through: Saw the assignment. Don't panic. You've handled bigger sales. Just do what you do best. You've got this, babe.
I stared at the screen, heart hammering.
Holt Tech.
Luke's company.
I should have seen this coming. Coming back meant there was no avoiding any of it.
And Luke Morrison was the center of all of it.
But now I couldn't refuse the first real opportunity I'd been given since coming back.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Eight years building a life far enough away, and my first real shot at stability lands me right back in the middle of it all.
I didn't have time to keep wandering aimlessly. I hurried to the checkout area, paid for whatever I'd randomly picked, and left.
I walked out of the mall and hailed a cab. I sat in the back of the taxi, hands clenched so tightly my nails dug crescents into my palms. My eyes fixed on the blur of buildings rushing past, the speed of the car somehow matching the emptiness in my head.
I didn't know when I'd started doing it—pressing my nails into my skin hard enough to leave marks. But when I finally looked down, there they were: angry red indentations across both hands, some nearly breaking skin.
By the time the taxi pulled up to the venue, I'd managed to smooth my face back into something resembling composure. I paid the driver, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and took a breath that didn't quite reach my lungs.
I stepped into the ballroom. The charity gala was exactly what I'd spent eight years avoiding—crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, old money in expensive clothes pretending their philanthropy mattered more than tax write-offs.
I stood at the entrance, the dress I'd just bought from the mall still in its bag, the hastily printed materials clutched in my other hand, and seriously considered turning around.
But Paragon had been clear. This wasn't a request. Holt Tech was hosting, half of Pennsylvania's elite collectors would be in attendance, and they wanted their auctioneer to make the evening a success.
I stepped inside.
Men in tailored suits began drifting toward me. One reached me first—silver-haired, confident, the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself.
"You must be the auctioneer from Paragon," he said. "James Whitmore. Pleasure to meet you."
I shook his hand. "Mia Catalina. Thank you for having me."
Another man joined us, then another. They clustered around with champagne flutes and easy compliments, asking about the lots, about London, about whether I'd be staying in Pennsylvania long.
I responded with professional charm I'd perfected over years—warm but distant, engaged but untouchable. But my feet kept moving. I needed to find the podium, review the setup, make sure everything was in order.
This was my one shot at Paragon. I couldn't afford to waste time on small talk.
I excused myself from the group and made my way toward the backstage area. The auction would begin in less than thirty minutes, and I needed to change into the dress, review the lot sequence one final time, check the lighting on the podium, make sure every detail was perfect.
The auction podium was the only place I felt steady tonight.
I stood behind it in my blood-red gown, the kind of dress that demanded attention and commanded respect. The fabric draped like liquid fire across my shoulders. This was my territory. The one place where I could control the narrative, command the room, make people see exactly what I wanted them to see.
I picked up the gavel, its weight familiar and grounding in my palm, and let my voice carry across the ballroom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's charity auction hosted by Holt Tech benefiting the Children's Arts Foundation. We have an exceptional collection for you this evening."
I gestured to the first lot being wheeled onto the platform—a nineteenth-century diamond necklace that caught the light like captured stars. "This magnificent piece, originally commissioned by the Duchess of Marlborough, features seventy-three old mine-cut diamonds totaling approximately forty-two carats."
I paused, giving them time to take it in. A few collectors were already leaning forward, their eyes locked on the piece under the spotlight.
"We'll open the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars," I announced, my gaze sweeping the room.
Three paddles went up right away. I nodded at each bidder, keeping my face neutral—not too eager, not too cold. Show too much excitement and you'd lose them.
"We'll open at one hundred thousand dollars. Do I have one hundred?"
Three paddles shot up. I pointed to the back. "One hundred thousand. One-twenty?"
I kept my voice level, my gestures minimal. Every movement had to be deliberate—acknowledge the bid, shift attention to the next potential bidder, maintain control. The moment you showed hesitation, the room sensed it.
The rhythm mattered. Too fast and bidders felt pressured. Too slow and the momentum died. I'd learned to read the room's energy, adjusting my pace accordingly.
"One-forty... one-sixty... one-eighty... two hundred?"
At two hundred thousand, I let the silence sit for exactly three seconds. This was the threshold where casual bidders dropped out. I counted internally, my expression neutral, giving them just enough time to commit or fold.
A silver-haired man in gray raised his paddle.
"Two-twenty. Two-forty?"
Back and forth. I tracked each raise with precision, never rushing, never showing preference. The art wasn't in building artificial frenzy—it was in letting the tension build naturally while maintaining absolute control.
The bidding climbed—two-sixty, two-eighty, three hundred. At three-twenty, I caught the woman's hesitation before her paddle came up. Good. That meant we were near her limit. I immediately pivoted to the man in gray.
"Three-sixty?"
His paddle rose without hesitation. I gave the woman space to respond, my gaze steady but not aggressive.
She shook her head.
"Fair warning at three hundred and sixty thousand." I lifted the gavel, my eyes making one final sweep of the room. Not scanning frantically—just letting everyone know this was their last chance.
"Sold for three hundred and sixty thousand dollars to paddle forty-seven."
The estimate had been two-fifty to three hundred. We'd exceeded it by twenty percent—exactly where I'd wanted to land.
I was about to introduce the next item when—
A commotion erupted from the VIP section.
Chairs scraping. A woman's startled gasp. A small voice, high and desperate.
I looked up just in time to see a small figure break free from the front row and come running toward the podium.
A boy. Dark hair, maybe seven or eight. He weaved through the crowd with startling focus, his eyes locked on me so intensely that it felt, impossibly, as if I was the person he'd been searching for.
"Asher, stop—" An older woman in a gray cardigan lunged after him, but he was too fast.
He reached the podium steps and scrambled up with surprising agility. I stood frozen, my prepared speech dying in my throat as he barreled straight into me.
His small arms wrapped around my waist, his face pressed against my stomach, and the entire ballroom went silent.
"Mama," he sobbed into my dress, his voice breaking. "Mama, you came back."
