Mark buttoned his black long-sleeved shirt and checked himself in the mirror one last time. Events like the Viw Auction demanded a certain presentation—gentlemen dressed like gentlemen. Elegant without overdoing it. Confident without screaming desperation.
The countdown on his vision reminded him it was now less than an hour until the auction began.
[COUNTDOWN: 00:59:42]
He pocketed his invitation card and left his apartment, locking the door behind him. He'd had a surprisingly good day at school—the debate in Miss Jed's class, Sherry's obvious interest, even that brief talk with Becky. Now it was time to complete this task and claim his two million dollars.
The problem was transport. No bike. No car. No rideshare budget he wanted to waste. The Viw Auction House was downtown, about a twenty-minute walk if he kept a good pace. So he walked.
A new message hit his phone as he crossed into the business district.
I met with my father today. It went better than I expected. Thank you for encouraging me to try. - Becky
Mark read it and pocketed the phone without responding. He'd reply later, after the auction, when he had the mental space to be genuine with her.
By 7:20 PM, he was standing outside the gates of the Viw Auction House. The building was modern glass and steel, lit from within like a jewelry box. Expensive cars were pulling up to the entrance in a steady stream—Porsches, Maseratis, Mercedes S-Classes. Drivers in suits stepping out, handing keys to valets, walking in like they owned the world.
Mark analyzed the patterns. Most were the kind of vehicles driven by young rich people. Second-generation wealth. Heirs and heiresses playing with daddy's money while trying to prove they had taste and business sense.
He composed himself, straightened his shirt, and headed toward the entrance.
The security personnel had been greeting arrivals warmly, barely glancing at invitation cards because everyone arriving by expensive car was obviously supposed to be there. But when Mark approached on foot, their entire demeanor shifted. Work mode activated.
"Have you come for the auction, sir?" The security man's tone was polite but skeptical. Professional doubt.
"You guessed right," Mark replied calmly.
"Invitation, please." The guard extended his hand.
Mark handed over the card, watching the man's eyes scan it carefully. Too carefully. Looking for forgeries, for inconsistencies, for any reason to turn away the kid who'd shown up on foot.
"Your name is Mr. Lidorf?" The man's eyebrow rose slightly as he examined the embossed lettering.
"You guessed right."
The guard pulled out his phone and dialed, never taking his eyes off Mark. "Got a small situation, Ms. Xlen. Did you personally invite anyone by the name of Mark Lidorf?"
Mark maintained his patience. Maintained his confidence. This was a test, and he'd passed bigger tests than a security guard's suspicion.
"One moment, Matt," came a woman's voice through the phone, loud enough for Mark to hear. "Let me check the master list."
The security guard lowered his phone slightly and asked in a quiet, almost threatening tone, "Where did you forge this card from, boy? And how did you know about this auction?"
Mark didn't even flinch. Just maintained eye contact. Maintained his composure. Let the silence do the work.
The voice came back through the phone, clear and authoritative. "Mark Lidorf is on the list. He was personally invited. Let him through, Matt."
The security guard's expression transformed instantly. Professional smile replacing suspicion. "I apologize, Mr. Lidorf. Was simply doing my job. You understand."
Mark didn't answer. Just walked past him into the building, leaving the guard to wonder how an eighteen-year-old kid on foot had gotten a personal invitation to one of the most exclusive auctions in the city.
The interior was everything Mark expected and more. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Art on the walls that probably cost more than most people's houses. The main hall was filled with seated guests—maybe two hundred people, all dressed in expensive clothes, all radiating wealth and confidence.
Mark scanned the room and immediately spotted Alex Sentara sitting near the middle, trying very hard to look casual. When their eyes met, Alex's expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, confusion, something that might have been respect.
Mark walked directly toward him as the current auction item was being bid on. He sat in the empty seat directly opposite Alex, who was still processing Mark's presence.
"Hey," Mark said casually. "Didn't expect to meet you here."
"Didn't expect to meet you here either," Alex replied, his voice carrying genuine shock. "Are you from a rich family or something? Because this doesn't exactly scream Conbert High student."
"Not really. You?" Mark asked, meeting Alex's eyes directly. Testing.
"I'd say no. Kind of well-off, but not super rich." Alex lied smoothly, but Mark knew all. The watch alone on Alex's wrist was worth fifty thousand dollars.
"You're not yourself," Mark observed. "Are we good, bro?"
"At two hundred thousand dollars, the Dick Phillipe watch is sold!" came a voice from the front. The auctioneer, a woman in her fifties with the kind of commanding presence that made millionaires sit up straight.
"Excuse me," Mark asked, turning to Alex. "What was just sold?"
Alex actually laughed, genuine amusement breaking through his careful facade. Of all the people he'd seen at Conbert High, Mark was genuinely different. Natural in ways most people weren't. And somehow, despite everything, Alex felt like they connected.
"A Dick Phillipe watch," Alex explained. "Limited edition. Only fifty made."
"Right." Mark nodded like that was normal information.
"Actually, Mark," Alex said, his expression becoming more serious. "We're not good. I know what happened between you and Alexa."
"Oh." Mark didn't deny it. Didn't make excuses. "Now I see why you've been cold."
"She's my sister. What did you expect?"
"Look, Alex," Mark leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low. "Your sister deserves to be happy. She deserves to make her own choices. I'm not going to apologize for something between two adults that had nothing to do with you."
The directness seemed to surprise Alex. Most people would have made excuses, blamed Alexa, tried to minimize it. But Mark just owned it.
"She's trying to get better," Alex said quietly. "Been working so hard on her issues. And then you—"
"She made her choice," Mark interrupted gently. "I didn't force anything. Neither did she. Sometimes people need to fall back to move forward. That's not your burden to carry."
Alex was quiet for a moment, processing that. Thinking. "You really believe that?"
"I do."
Something shifted in Alex's expression. Relief, maybe. Or just the exhaustion of carrying anger that didn't help anyone. "I'm sorry, bro. I overreacted."
"We're good," Mark said.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer's voice cut through the room like a blade. All conversations stopped. All attention shifted forward. "This is the moment most of you have been waiting for. The item that brought many of you here tonight."
The lights dimmed slightly. A spotlight appeared on a velvet-covered pedestal being wheeled to the center of the stage.
"We are privileged to auction the Bloodglass tonight," the auctioneer continued, her voice rich with practiced drama. "The last red diamond of its kind. Fifteen carats of certified, unmodified perfection. Appraised at six hundred thousand to one point eight hundred thousand dollars, depending on the final bid."
She paused, letting the weight of that sink in.
"There will never be another. The other two red diamonds in existence are owned by royal families and will never be sold. This is history, ladies and gentlemen. This is legacy. This is the kind of acquisition that defines a collection."
The velvet cover was removed with theatrical flair, revealing the diamond beneath the spotlight. It caught the light and threw it back in shades of red and crimson and blood. Beautiful. Hypnotic. Worth killing for.