The moment Derek's voice hit his ears, Cole felt something surge through him — hot and sharp, his hands going tight at his sides. Every instinct in him wanted to settle things right here, right now.
He breathed through it.
Not yet. This wasn't the moment. He needed ground to stand on before he could go after Derek Harrington, and he didn't have it yet.
He turned around and smiled.
"Long time no see."
Derek looked at the vase in Cole's hands with open contempt. He had done his homework on Cole before Vanessa ever walked into Rosewood — checked his background, his finances, his situation. Poor family, no connections, small company, tight budget. The full picture of a man with nothing going for him.
"Buying antiques?" The way he said it made the question an insult.
"Mr. Harrington!" The clerk's entire manner transformed the instant he recognized Derek — back straight, voice warm, the kind of attention that money buys automatically. A completely different person from the one who had been barely tolerating Cole sixty seconds ago. "We just got a new shipment in, would you like to take a look?"
Derek waved him off. "Carter's is getting less selective. I see even my struggling classmates are shopping here now."
Cole kept his expression neutral. He knew exactly what Derek was doing, and he knew this wasn't the moment to bite back. Not yet.
The clerk, sensing which way the wind was blowing, seized his chance.
"Mr. Harmon, please don't misunderstand — your classmate bought the cheapest piece in the shop. Three hundred dollars. And then asked us to wrap it like it was something special."
Derek laughed — genuinely, freely. "Three hundred dollars with gift wrap?"
The clerk pressed on, delighted with himself.
"My guess? He's planning to pass it off as something worth three thousand. Or thirty thousand. You'd be surprised how often people pull that move. Always the ones trying to look like something they're not."
"Ha." Derek shook his head. "That does sound exactly like him."
"This vase — what's it worth?"
Margaret Ashford had grown tired of waiting and walked in. She stopped near the display shelf, examining something that had caught her eye.
Derek crossed the shop to meet her, his whole posture shifting.
"Margaret — why did you come in?"
Margaret's brow tightened slightly but she let it go.
Cole looked at her. There was something familiar about her face — not from this life, but from fragments of his previous one. He had seen a photo somewhere, at some point. He was almost certain of it.
"Cole, this is my girlfriend, Margaret Ashford."
Derek introduced her quickly, eyes flicking to Cole with a warning underneath the pleasantness. He had caught Cole looking.
Cole smiled at Margaret with genuine regret in his voice.
"Your eye for antiques seems sharp, Miss Ashford. It's just a shame the same can't be said for your taste in men."
A beat of silence fell over the shop.
Derek's smile stayed in place but something went flat behind it. He couldn't blow up in front of Margaret. Not here, not now — not when everything between them was still being carefully built.
"My classmate has a sense of humor," he said lightly.
"I'm not joking." Cole's voice was perfectly even. "Your taste in men really is a concern."
He meant it. He had spent ten years in his previous life watching what Derek Harrington did — to him, to Vanessa, and to Margaret herself. Derek had promised Vanessa the whole time that Margaret was temporary, that the moment he had the Ashford assets secured he would walk away from her without a second thought. Margaret had no idea she was being used as a stepping stone.
Cole had seen it all from the wrong angle the first time. He saw it clearly now.
And it had just occurred to him — standing in this shop, looking at both of them — that breaking up the Harrington-Ashford alliance might be one of the most useful things he could do. Derek without the Ashford family's backing was a considerably smaller problem. And if the Ashford family actively turned against Derek, that changed everything.
Derek's face had darkened. He was already regretting walking into Carter's Antiques.
The clerk, still working for his approval, jumped back in.
"Mr. Harmon, let's be honest — a three-hundred-dollar vase is not an antique. If you go around calling it one you'll embarrass yourself and damage our shop's reputation."
Derek rewarded him with a look of appreciation. The clerk straightened slightly, already calculating the future business.
"Seriously, Mr. Harmon," the clerk continued, warming to it. "The bragging really doesn't suit you. It's more embarrassing than impressive."
"Is this vase really only worth three hundred?" Margaret asked, studying it with genuine curiosity. She didn't know enough about antiques to have a strong opinion, but something about the exchange had caught her attention.
Cole let a small smile onto his face.
"Three hundred is correct. You just need to add the word million after it."
The shop went quiet.
Then it didn't — everyone started talking at once, eyes fixing on the vase in Cole's hands, conversations breaking out in every corner.
Three million dollars.
A middle-aged man near the back of the gathering crowd stepped forward, eyes on the vase.
"Son, if that piece were genuine it could certainly fetch that kind of price. But it isn't. It's a reproduction."
Cole looked at him calmly.
"What makes you certain it's a reproduction?"
The question sent a new ripple through the crowd. In a place like this, that kind of uncertainty meant something. Overlooked treasures weren't impossible — they were just rare enough to be news when they surfaced.
"Because the genuine piece belongs to Mr. Wallace. You think a man like Wallace collects fakes?"
The name landed with weight. Everyone in the shop who knew anything about antiques knew exactly who Mr. Wallace was — one of the most respected collectors in the country. A man whose judgment on these matters was considered final.
The appraiser — Zane — spoke with the confidence of someone who had never seriously been wrong.
Margaret was still looking at the vase with a thoughtful expression.
Derek couldn't hold back any longer.
"Cole. Zane is a professional appraiser. His word on this is final. You can't walk into an antique market and buy a three-hundred-dollar vase and tell people it's worth three million. That's not ambition, that's desperation."
"Even professional appraisers get things wrong sometimes," Cole said. "It's not a personal failing — it's just the nature of the work."
What none of them knew — what nobody in this shop knew — was that Mr. Wallace had made a mistake. The piece he believed to be the genuine article was the reproduction. The real one had somehow ended up on a forgotten shelf in Carter's Antiques, overlooked for years, covered in dust. In Cole's previous life it had made the front page of the Crestfield Evening Post and stayed in the city's cultural memory for a decade. The owner of Carter's Antiques had reportedly not slept properly for a month afterward.
"You're out of your mind," Derek said. The pleasant facade was cracking now. "Absolutely delusional."
"I'd rather not keep going in circles with someone who doesn't know what they're looking at," Cole said simply. He tucked the wrapped vase carefully under his arm. "Excuse me."
"Don't walk away." Derek stepped slightly into his path. "If you're so confident, prove it. Come with me to Hargrove's Gallery on the sixth floor. Old Mr. Hargrove is the most respected appraiser in this entire region. Let him look at it."
The crowd stirred with recognition. Several people nodded — Mr. Hargrove's name meant something to everyone in this building.