07

Mia's POV

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

Outside the window, red carpet stretched from the revolving door all the way to the curb, camera flashes going off at the end of the red carpet, with black-suited security personnel and guests holding champagne glasses on both sides.

The driver came around to my side to open the door, and the night breeze carried the scent of champagne and expensive perfume.

I clutched my handbag tightly and stepped onto the ground in high heels. The velvet skirt slid from the seat, creating a deep blue arc at my feet.

"Miss Sterling," the driver bowed slightly, handing me a business card, "Please contact us anytime if you need pickup after the event."

I took the card, thanked him, put it in my handbag, and turned toward the revolving door.

The attendant at the entrance checked my name, then stepped aside with a guiding gesture.

I followed him through the lobby and into the elevator.

The elevator doors slowly opened, and the banquet hall doors were at the end of the corridor.

Two carved wooden doors were tightly closed, with voices and light leaking through the gaps.

The attendant placed his palm on the door handle and gently pushed the door open.

The moment the banquet hall doors opened, sound, heat, and light all rushed toward me.

Silver plates reflected curved white light in the waiters' hands, the crisp sound of champagne bottles popping and bubbles bursting, diamonds refracting scattered light points under crystal chandeliers, amber and iris scents carried by air conditioning to every corner.

Hundreds of people in formal wear stood together, their conversations weaving into an impenetrable net, occasionally torn by one or two high-pitched laughs, then quickly healing.

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

The attendant led me through one round table after another, passing the secondary seating area, passing the seats of several gallery owners with deep cooperation with the Rothschild family, passing several people I recognized who had considerable influence in the industry, getting closer and closer to the main table, but still not stopping.

My heartbeat grew faster with his steps, so fast I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Something was wrong.

I slowed down and finally stopped altogether.

Where was my seat?

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

I instinctively glanced at the place card on the chair immediately to the left, and when I saw the name, I felt like my stomach was being squeezed hard.

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 for Ethan's assistant to sit to the immediate right of the main table's center.

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

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

At most, I was just a representative Ethan sent to make an appearance. Even if Ethan came personally, he might not be able to sit in this position.

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

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

When he spoke, he leaned forward slightly, his lips curved in just the right arc, his deep voice carrying through the clinking of glasses and dishes, vaguely audible but incomprehensible.

"Miss Sterling?" Seeing that I hadn't moved, the attendant turned his head slightly, his tone gentle yet proper, "Your seat is here."

I came back 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 never turned his head, still maintaining his posture facing left, never giving me a proper look from beginning to end.

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

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

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

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

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

His speaking rhythm, pauses, and that extremely subtle breath before changing topics were already carved into my heart.

But none of that mattered now.

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

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

The first appetizer was foie gras mousse made with molecular gastronomy, served on extremely thin bone china plates, garnished with edible gold leaf; the second course was truffle cream soup, so fragrant you could smell it from half a seat away.

I stared at the food in front of me, the silver spoon turning over and over in my fingers, but ultimately couldn't bring myself to take a single bite.

Calvin's presence was too strong.

I stared at the soup in front of me, but my peripheral vision kept drifting left.

Every time he lifted his wine glass, the fabric of his cuff would create a faint air current, carrying the scent of cedarwood.

And when he blinked, I could see clearly the small shadow his eyelashes cast on his cheekbones under the light.

Just then, my phone in my bag vibrated.

I put down my spoon, took out my phone, and looked 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 putting away his phone and picking up his utensils to cut the steak in front of him.

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

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

The next second, Calvin placed the cut steak on 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 seat next to the main table, he was the one who hadn't looked at me once all evening, he was the one who sent the text saying "the dress fits well," and now he was the one silently putting steak on my plate—what game was this person playing?

I turned to look at Calvin again, but he continued cutting his steak with his head down, never giving me another glance from beginning to end.

His hot-and-cold probing was like a fine net, with me sitting in the center, completely unable to guess whether his next move would be to close the net or let me go. The more I thought about it, the more his attitude actually made me laugh with anger.

"What are you looking at me for?"

"Who's looking at you! You're being presumptuous!"