Thirty Years Ago
The morning sun beat down on the training track, turning the air thick and heavy. A lone figure pushed through the heat, his breathing ragged, each exhale a battle cry against exhaustion.
Colin—six feet of lean muscle wrapped in a sweat-soaked training long-sleeve shirt and matching pants—slowed to a stop. His chest heaved, hands finding his knees as he doubled over, gasping. A grin split his handsome face despite the burning in his lungs.
Sprinting is always a tough gig. He sucked in air, held it, released. And that was a bloody long three k.
After several minutes, he straightened. The motion was fluid, practiced—the ease of someone comfortable in his own skin. He reached into his pocket and produced a thick brown handkerchief, pressing it to his porcelain skin. The fabric came away dark with sweat as he wiped his face, his neck, the back of his neck.
"I need to get something to eat." His voice was high but not loud, carrying the distinctive cadence of someone used to being heard without shouting.
He walked, and as he walked, he saw them—row after row of cars parked outside a restaurant. Luxury vehicles gleamed under the sun, their polished surfaces reflecting the New York skyline.
Well, I suppose this is my "welcome to New York" moment. His grin widened as his eyes traveled over a particularly stunning sports car. Seems I'll need to buy a car—oh, and a house. Actually, no, a house won't do. Seems I'll need an estate. A large one, at that.
He pushed the door inward and entered the restaurant.
The interior was all dark wood and soft lighting, a deliberate contrast to the bright chaos outside. Colin's eyes swept the room, cataloging exits, patrons, staff—a habit he'd never been able to shake. He selected a seat by the window and sat.
And then he saw her.
She was sitting at the table directly in front of him, a cup of tea cradled in elegant fingers, her attention absorbed by a newspaper. He looked at her for a moment—just a moment—before looking away.
A waiter materialized at his elbow. "Sir, what would you like to have?"
Colin blinked, dragged back to the present. "Right, yes—a steak and a latte, please."
"Coming right up." The waiter vanished.
The lady in front of him finished her newspaper. Colin watched from the corner of his eye as she folded it with precise movements and slipped it into a brown exotic leather bag. The motion drew his gaze fully, and he gasped.
Her skin was porcelain, flawless, catching the soft light like fine china. Auburn hair cascaded past her shoulders, waves of copper and gold that seemed alive. And her eyes—gray, deep, intelligent—they were the kind of eyes that could see through walls.
The waiter returned, tray balanced expertly. He set down the steak first, then reached for the latte. And then—
The cup tipped. Hot liquid splashed across Colin's lap.
He shot up with a yelp, the chair scraping backward. His hands dove into his pocket, emerging with the sweat-soaked brown handkerchief. He scrubbed at his pants fruitlessly, the fabric only spreading the stain.
The young lady looked at him over the rim of her teacup. Her eyes traveled over his form—the medium-length silver hair streaked with shades of black, the devastating features arranged in an expression of pure mortification, those deep sapphire blue eyes that seemed to hold entire oceans. She gulped her tea—hot, burning—and kept looking.
Pity flickered across her features. She reached into her bag and produced a dry white handkerchief, pristine and folded. Rising, she smoothed her skirt suit and walked toward him. The handkerchief extended like an offering.
"Use this." Her voice was low, melodic.
Colin took it. Their fingers brushed—electric. And then she was gone, walking out of the restaurant, out of his line of sight.
"Sir! Sir!"
He turned. The waiter stood there, tray in hand, looking apologetic.
"Right—another latte, thanks." Colin handed over the empty cup.
The waiter collected it and departed. Colin retook his seat, his fingers finding the white handkerchief in his palm. He pocketed it carefully.
Wait a minute—it was the waiter who spilled the coffee on me, wasn't it?
---
The Train Station
Ellie stood at the train stop, her mind elsewhere. The platform hummed with morning energy, commuters flowing around her like water around a stone.
Who was that man? Her thoughts circled back to the restaurant, to the stranger with the silver hair and the sapphire eyes. He was so agitated over a cup of coffee. Yeah, I know it was hot, but his actions were… She sighed, the sound lost in the ambient noise.
HONK!!
She looked up. The train had arrived. She boarded.
"Uh? Ellie?!"
The voice cut through her reverie. She turned her head toward the sound and saw a familiar face.
"Malorie?!" Ellie made her way through the carriage and slid into the seat beside her friend.
Malorie studied her with a straight face. "You are gonna be late, Ellie. This is unlike you."
Ellie's head bowed, her eyes fixed on the floor. "Yeah, it seems like I overspent my time at the restaurant."
"Cheer up!!" Malorie's expression cracked into a teasing smile. "Don't worry, I am a professional latecomer. Just know that I got your back."
HONK.
The train floor vibrated beneath their feet—beneath Ellie's full-grain classic black stiletto pumps and Malorie's top-grain kitten heels. The motion traveled up through their bodies.
"It seems we have arrived at our destination." Malorie stood, smoothing her skirt suit. "Aren't you coming? Stop daydreaming."
Ellie rose and followed, their heels clicking in unison as they stepped off the train and into the station.
---
The Museum
Several minutes later, they stood before the museum—an enormous art house that occupied an entire city block. Ellie's hand found the door handle.
I don't know why my car was faulty. I wouldn't have entered the train if it wasn't. The thought was bitter, lingering.
She pushed open the door and strode toward her office. She made it exactly four steps before the voice stopped her.
"Mrs. Eleanor, see me in my office."
The director stood there, his expression carved from stone. He walked past them without another word, heading for his office.
Eleanor looked at Malorie. A warm smile ran across her face—gentle, trusting.
Malorie flinched. That smile!!
"Eleanor… don't worry, I got this." Malorie clenched her fists.
Together, they entered the office.
The director sat behind his desk, fingers steepled. His voice was low and calm when he spoke—which somehow made it worse. "Why were you late, Mrs. Eleanor?"
"My car was faulty. I had to take the train."
"Sir—" Malorie began.
He raised his palm. The gesture was absolute.
"Don't say anything, Malorie. You are an ardent latecomer." A teasing note entered his voice. "And besides, I never asked you to come to my office. Wait outside while I talk to your superior."
Malorie turned and exited. The door clicked shut behind her.
The director's eyes returned to Eleanor. "Eleanor, you are the deputy director." He paused, letting the weight of the title settle. "You missed the meeting we had with a major donor this morning."
"A donor? I didn't know."
"Yes, a donor. You didn't know because you weren't on duty when he proposed the meeting. So we sent you an email." His palms crossed on the table. "Your seat was empty during the meeting."
"No, I didn't see any email."
"It's alright. I just wanted to know why you were late." His voice softened. "And I know that if you had seen the email, you would have come during your off day and slept in your office before the meeting."
Warmth bloomed in Eleanor's chest. "I appreciate your trust."
She left the office.
Malorie was waiting. As Eleanor emerged, Malorie straightened, her hands folding behind her back. "Since I am the Head Curator, I also need to try my best." A pause. "I have sent you the document of the auction that will be coming up in three days from now. For further details about why we need to go to the auction, how much the collections we need costs, and other minor details—they are all in the document I sent."
She turned and walked toward her own office.
Eleanor stood alone in the corridor. An auction? It has been a while since I've gone to one.
---
The Hotel
Colin pushed open the door to his hotel room and collapsed onto the bed. The springs creaked in protest. He pulled out his phone and checked it.
```
Dear Sir/Madam,
INVITATION TO AUCTION
Britain Auction House hereby invites you to participate in this year's auction event, which will take place on the 3rd of April at 8pm. We hope to see you place the highest bid.
Yours sincerely,
s̶i̶g̶n̶a̶t̶u̶r̶e̶
Britain Auction House
```
"There's an auction in three days?!" Colin exclaimed, sitting up.
"Well, looks like I'll be heading back home, then." His voice dropped low, his eyebrows furrowing. "Home. London. Right."
---
Two Days Later
The estate was everything Colin had imagined and more. The main house sprawled across manicured grounds, its architecture a tasteful blend of classical and modern. The garage housed his new luxury car, its engine still warm from the drive. Inside, every room was furnished, every surface polished, every corner perfect.
He lay under an umbrella by the pool, wearing only his boxers and black titanium sunglasses. The afternoon sun painted golden patterns across his skin.
"I've finally got my estate, my luxury car, and I've got the place all furnished." He stretched, a satisfied sigh escaping him. "I should have about a billion in pocket money. Better check."
He stood and went inside.
The living room was staggering in its proportions—vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, a golden sofa flanked by matching armchairs. He turned and spotted one of his two travel bags on the dining table.
He opened it and began counting.
Ten minutes later, he sat back, his expression one of genuine shock. "Only two hundred million pounds left?!"
His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. The numbers didn't make sense—except they did. He'd spent. He'd spent a lot.
Well. That's what estates and luxury cars cost, apparently.
---
The Day of the Auction
Colin checked his silver wrist watch. 3:00 PM. The beautiful yet expensive wooden floor creaked beneath his black barathea wool suit as he stepped out. Black oxford shoes gleamed. Black titanium sunglasses completed the look.
VRR!!
His phone vibrated. He checked it.
```
Dear Mr Colin Alexander,
We have provided you with a personal VIP invitation card for this year's auction. Please collect it from the desk adjacent to the main hall before 6pm.
Yours sincerely,
s̶i̶g̶n̶a̶t̶u̶r̶e̶
Britain Auction House
```
"Oh, they sent me a personal invitation this time around, eh." A smile tugged at his lips. "This will be a long flight."
He pocketed the phone.
---
Two Days Ago - The Museum
The document had loaded on Ellie's screen, and with it, understanding. And horror.
"Malorie, you sent me a multi-million dollar auction event notification! This soon?!" Ellie's eyebrows were furrowed so deeply they nearly met.
Malorie's voice dropped to a low, apologetic tone. "My bad, Ellie. I forgot it was a multi-million dollar auction event."
Her eyes looked at Ellie with childish admiration—the look of a puppy who'd chewed a shoe and couldn't understand why anyone would be upset.
"Don't look at me like that." Ellie's voice was firm, but the corners of her mouth twitched. "You are going to get your fair share of punishment later. But first, I have to meet with the director."
She stomped off.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
"Come in."
Ellie entered. "Sir, Malorie just sent me an invitation to a multi-million dollar auction event."
"A multi-million dollar auction event?!" The director's voice rose. "I will need to talk to the board first."
It also seems that we will have to take a flight to London. Ellie filed the thought away.
---
Current Day - The Britain Auction House
Ellie arrived first. Her light purple long dress caught the ambient light, flowing around her like water. Light purple silk strappy open-toe stiletto sandals completed the ensemble. She stood outside the Britain Auction House, waiting.
Malorie arrived soon after, her arm interlocked with Henry's. Henry was the assistant head curator—five foot ten inches of quiet competence in a black wool suit and black derby shoes. Malorie herself wore a black sleeveless dress that hugged her curves. They approached Ellie together.
"You are late," Ellie said.
"As always." Malorie's tone was embarrassed, but somehow proud at the same time.
Ellie turned to Henry. "Henry, you shouldn't be letting your fiancée arrive late." Her voice carried a teasing note.
"Hey!" Malorie scolded.
Henry's recommended eyeglass slipped slightly as he replied. "Well, she is a lost cause."
"Ugh." Malorie's grip on his arm tightened.
"Let's go to the VIP section." Ellie turned and led the way.
As they walked, Henry's eyes caught something. "Wow, look at that guy." His eyebrow rose.
Malorie followed his gaze. "He looks 100% legit—" She stopped, noticing Ellie's face. "Ellie, why is your face red?" A teasing smile spread across Malorie's features.
"Ehmm—let's get going, shall we?" Ellie ignored the question and pressed forward.
---
Colin approached the entrance. The Chief Guard of the Auction spotted him immediately and extended a hand.
"Mr. Alexander, good to see you."
"And you." Colin shook it firmly.
He entered the auction house, his eyes sweeping the vast space. So my seat is number 890. He looked toward the far left side.
Behind him, Henry leaned close to Malorie. "Malorie, did you see that? His name is Alexander."
"Alexander?!" Malorie gasped. Her black beige stiletto pumps clicked sharply as she stumbled. Henry caught her, his arms wrapping around her waist. Oh Henry, my lovely— Her thought cut off as he hauled her back upright.
"What are you both murmuring about?" Ellie had stopped and turned.
Henry opened his mouth. Malorie's hand clamped over it. "It's embarrassing, Ellie."
Ellie looked at her with distrust—a long, searching look. "Ok." She turned and went inside.
Henry pulled Malorie's hand away. "Why didn't you let me tell her?"
"This is why I always tell you to stop doing too much research." Malorie's voice was exasperated. "Can't you see that Ellie has a crush on him?"
Henry's eyes widened. "Wow, you noticed that?"
Malorie nodded sagely. "Hmm. To be young again."
"You are just 27. I and Ellie are two years older than you." Henry's voice was playful.
Malorie lightly jabbed his arm. "You are no fun, humph." She turned and went inside.
---
The Auction
The auction hall was magnificent—tiered seating, perfect acoustics, a stage that commanded attention. The auctioneer stood at his podium, voice projecting to every corner.
"OUR FIRST LOT THIS EVENING IS THE GOLDEN AXE OF THE FOURTH PHARAOH, RECOVERED FROM THE PYRAMIDS OF EGYPT. THE STARTING PRICE IS TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS STERLING."
"220,000 POUNDS!" a man shouted from somewhere in the crowd.
"250,000!" another voice countered.
The bidding escalated, a symphony of numbers and competition.
Ellie, Malorie, and Henry sat together in the VIP section. "That axe would be good for our museum," Henry murmured to Malorie.
"Yeah, and it is an original," Malorie added.
Her keen eyes for auctions and Henry's research genius. This couple is indeed intriguing. Ellie smiled internally.
"The budget is 70 million dollars, which is about 55 million pounds." Ellie's voice was calm, controlled.
"Good. Henry, bid," Malorie urged.
"450,000!" Henry's voice carried.
"WE HAVE £450,000. GOING ONCE… GOING TWICE… SOLD."
The gavel slammed down.
"THE GOLDEN AXE IS AWARDED TO NUMBER 345."
A pause. The auctioneer's assistant brought forward the next item.
"MOVING NOW TO OUR NEXT LOT: THE SUSANOO'S ARMOUR FROM FEUDAL JAPAN, 13TH CENTURY. THE STARTING BID IS £3 MILLION."
"3.2 million pounds!" a woman shouted.
"4 million pounds!" a man countered.
The bids climbed.
"That antique is fake," Malorie said quietly. "The size of the armor is approximately 7 centimeters short."
"I agree." Henry nodded. "There is no Susanoo's armor from the 13th century. The 9th century, perhaps."
Ellie nodded slightly.
"WE HAVE £9 MILLION. GOING ONCE… GOING TWICE… SOLD."
"THE SUSANOO'S ARMOUR IS AWARDED TO NUMBER 600."
"AND NOW, FOR OUR NEXT LOT…"
The auction continued, lot after lot. Ellie kept careful track of their remaining budget.
After a while, she spoke, her voice low. "We have almost exhausted the budget. Only 4 million dollars remain. That is 3.14 million pounds left."
"I hope the last two items won't be super necessary for us," Malorie said.
"FOR OUR NEXT LOT: THE MOTHER RING, CRAFTED FROM SILVER AND DIAMONDS, FOUND IN THE BRITISH ISLES. THE STARTING BID IS £50 MILLION."
"55 million pounds!" a man shouted.
"60 million pounds!" a woman countered.
"We need that item for our museum," Malorie urged, leaning forward.
"But it is above the budget." Ellie's voice was regretful.
"65 million pounds."
The voice was low, calm, and unmistakable. Ellie's head whipped toward its source. Colin sat in seat 890, his expression serene.
"Uhh?" Ellie's breath caught.
"What the—who is he?" a man murmured nearby.
"He hasn't been bidding since earlier. Why now?"
"70 million pounds." A young man's voice rang out—determined, competitive.
"80 million pounds." Colin's response was immediate, unfazed.
The young man gritted his teeth. "85 million pounds!"
"90 million pounds."
"95 million pounds!!" The young man's voice cracked with intensity.
"110 million pounds." Colin's tone hadn't changed. It was still low, still calm, still audible.
"Such a fierce battle." Henry shook his head in admiration. "That is something you don't see in auctions nowadays."
Malorie turned to him, folding her arms. "Do you even go to auctions if I don't ask you to accompany me? Humph!"
"110 million pounds for a ring?" a woman nearby whispered, incredulous.
"WE HAVE £110 MILLION. GOING ONCE… GOING TWICE… SOLD."
"THE MOTHER RING IS AWARDED TO NUMBER 890."
"AND NOW, FOR OUR NEXT LOT: THE STATUE OF HEROD THE THIRD, EXCAVATED IN GREECE. THE STARTING PRICE IS £20 MILLION."
"We most definitely need that item," Malorie said urgently.
"But we can't go above the budget." Ellie's voice was pained.
Malorie looked at her with expectant, teary eyes—the full force of her manipulative power unleashed.
"Buy it yourself," Ellie said flatly.
"Henry, bid!" Malorie commanded.
"What?!" Henry's eyes went wide.
"Fine." Malorie snatched the number 345 paddle from him and raised it. "22 million pounds!"
"25 million pounds." Colin's voice—calm, inevitable.
"30 million pounds!" The young man from earlier snarled, his face reddening.
"40 million pounds." Colin.
"45 million pounds!" The young man shouted.
"60 million pounds." Colin.
"65 million pounds!" The young man's voice was nearly a scream.
"I can't bid against these monsters." Malorie's voice was flat, defeated.
"Now you know." Ellie watched Colin, her expression one of quiet awe.
"80 million pounds." Colin's tone remained unchanged. That leaves me with just 10 million in pocket money.
The young man shot to his feet. His personal assistants grabbed his arms, holding him back.
"£80 MILLION ON THE BOARD. GOING ONCE, TWICE, SOLD."
"THE STATUE OF HEROD SOLD TO NUMBER 890."
A pause. The auctioneer's voice rang out one final time.
"THE AUCTION HAS NOW COME TO A CLOSE…"
---
Outside the Auction House
The night air was cool, a gentle contrast to the heated battles inside. Malorie stood with her arms folded, biting her nails.
"Those money monsters."
She sure will be depressed for a while. Ellie thought as she walked.
And then she saw him.
Colin stood before her, his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the auction house lights. In his hands, he held the Statue of Herod.
"You are…" Ellie's voice trailed off, awe flooding her features.
Malorie's head snapped up. Uh, that money monster. Why is he here—uh? She gasped.
"Thanks for the other day." Colin's voice was low, intimate. He extended the statue toward Ellie.
She took it, her fingers brushing his. Her face bloomed crimson.
Wow. Henry looked at Colin with undisguised admiration.
"I hope to see you again. Bye." A slight, warm smile touched Colin's lips. He turned and walked away.
CLICK.
Malorie snapped her fingers at Ellie.
Ellie's blush deepened impossibly further. She turned and walked away quickly—too quickly.
"Hey! Wait for me before you sprain your ankle!" Malorie called, hastening her step while dragging Henry by the arm.
The night swallowed them, one by one, until only the memory of a smile remained.