Chapter 363

Whispers slithered through high society about Miranda Graves' mysterious vanishing. Such occurrences were unthinkable in their gilded world. Catherine Winslow knew in her bones that Victor Blackwood orchestrated Miranda's disappearance. After all those years of loyalty, this was Miranda's reward? The sheer cruelty of it made Catherine's blood run cold.

Her fingers trembled as she clutched the auction catalog tighter. She would secure that painting at any cost - the one rumored to resemble Beatrice Ellington's likeness. Eighty million should suffice, she calculated.

When the painting finally appeared as the auction's grand finale, Catherine didn't blink.

"Fifty million!" Her voice cut through the hushed room like a blade.

She sat straighter, chin lifted in triumph. Surely no one would challenge such an extravagant opening bid. Who else would throw away fortunes on mere canvas and oil?

Her confidence shattered within seconds.

The auction erupted into chaos. Bids flew faster than Catherine could track, each voice more determined than the last. The numbers climbed with terrifying speed - sixty million, seventy, then eighty-five in dizzying succession.

Catherine's nails bit into her palms. This couldn't be happening. She'd budgeted precisely eighty million, not a penny more. The painting's modest eight-million starting price now seemed laughable. Were these people insane?

The servant at her elbow leaned close, panic threading through her whisper. "Madam, someone must have leaked about Mrs. Ellington's connection to the painting. Everyone here knows."

"What?" Catherine shot to her feet, the room spinning around her. The servant steadied her with a tentative hand.

"Perhaps another buyer spread the information deliberately."

"Idiot!" Catherine's palm cracked across the woman's cheek. "You had one job! Why didn't you bribe them properly?"

The servant cradled her reddening face. "Madam, the funds you provided barely covered the auction reserve. There was nothing left for additional... incentives."

"Where's that useless Richard? Didn't you squeeze money from him?"

The servant recoiled as if struck again. "Madam, I... I couldn't possibly approach Mr. Winslow again. You know what happened last time-"

Catherine's second slap cut off the pathetic excuse. She collapsed back into her seat, temples pounding as she watched her prize slip through her fingers. The auctioneer's gavel hovered like an executioner's blade.