The name Mr. Hargrove rang a bell the moment Derek said it.
Then it clicked. In his previous life, it had been Mr. Hargrove himself who appraised this exact vase as genuine — and paid three million dollars for it out of his own pocket.
Cole was about to agree when a better idea surfaced.
He looked at Derek with a blank expression.
"You want me to go get it appraised, so I should just go? I don't think so."
A ripple of murmuring moved through the crowd. The general read was obvious — Cole was scared. Nobody walks away from an appraisal unless they already know they're going to lose.
Derek read it the same way and felt his confidence solidify. The vase was a fake. Cole was bluffing and had just blinked.
"Fine. Let's make it interesting then." Derek raised his voice enough for everyone around them to hear. "If Mr. Hargrove says that vase is genuine, I'll write you a check for one million dollars on the spot."
The crowd reacted immediately. Gasps, whispers, people nudging each other.
A million dollars as a casual bet was the kind of thing that reminded everyone exactly where they stood in the world.
Cole put on the most convincingly rattled expression he could manage.
"I don't have a million dollars to put up against that."
Derek's smile widened. There it was. Exactly what he expected.
"I know you don't. So here's what you do if you lose." He held up one finger, clearly enjoying himself. "You stand at the entrance of this building and shout — loudly, for the whole day — 'I am a broke nobody who got too big for his boots.'"
Cole tilted his head slightly.
"Sorry, say that again? What exactly do I have to shout?"
"I am a broke nobody who got too big for his boots." Derek repeated it slowly, enunciating every word.
The crowd heard it clearly.
Then they started laughing — not at Cole, but at Derek, who had just loudly announced his own terms in front of three hundred people.
"You..." Derek's expression curdled as he realized what had just happened. Cole had baited him into saying it twice.
"What?" Cole kept his face perfectly straight. "Don't forget what you just said. Lead the way."
On the outside Cole was composed and unhurried. On the inside he was already counting the money.
Derek had no exit. The words were out, the crowd had heard every syllable, and backing down now would be worse than going through with it. He turned stiffly and started toward the elevators, heading for Hargrove's Gallery on the sixth floor.
Cole followed behind him, vase tucked carefully under his arm.
The crowd came with them.
Word spread as they moved through the building — people on other floors heard something was happening and drifted toward the elevators to see. By the time the group reached the sixth floor and pushed through the doors of Hargrove's Gallery, the crowd had swelled to nearly three hundred people.
The staff inside looked up in collective confusion as a small mob poured through the entrance.
Mr. Hargrove himself emerged from his office at the sound of it — a trim older man with sharp eyes and the deliberate movements of someone who had spent decades handling things that required patience. He looked at the crowd with mild surprise.
Derek stepped forward.
"Mr. Hargrove, good to see you. I'm sorry for the disruption. My father is Robert Harrington — I believe you've met."
Mr. Hargrove studied him for a moment. "Ah. Robert's son. Yes, I know your father well." He gave a polite nod. "What can I do for you?"
"We'd like you to appraise a vase, if you don't mind. It won't take long."
"Of course." Mr. Hargrove stroked his beard. "Let's see it."
Derek gestured to Cole.
Cole stepped forward and set the vase carefully on the appraisal table.
Mr. Hargrove leaned in for a look.
Then his expression changed.
He straightened, went to his desk, and came back with a magnifying glass. He began working over the vase slowly and methodically — the base, the neck, the glaze, the body — with the kind of concentrated attention that meant he wasn't performing for the audience. He was actually working.
In the crowd, Margaret's brow creased.
She didn't know much about antiques, but she understood enough about people to know that a man like Mr. Hargrove should be able to dismiss a fake in thirty seconds. He had been at this for several minutes now. That meant something.
Several of the experienced collectors in the crowd had picked up on it too. The murmuring changed register — less skeptical, more uncertain.
Zane felt the sweat before he noticed it. He had examined that vase himself. He had called it a reproduction with complete confidence. If Mr. Hargrove reached the opposite conclusion, his professional reputation was going to take a serious hit.
Mr. Hargrove set the magnifying glass down and straightened up. He was about to speak when Margaret stepped out of the crowd.
"Mr. Hargrove," she said quietly, "maybe it would be better to discuss this in your office."
Mr. Hargrove turned, genuinely surprised.
"Miss Ashford! I didn't see you there." He smiled warmly. "Are you all here together?"
"Yes sir," Margaret said.
"Of course. Then — Mr. Harrington, Miss Ashford, and this young man—" he nodded toward Cole — "please come through."
He turned and headed toward his office.
Cole picked up the vase and followed close behind, moving carefully.
Behind them, the crowd erupted.
"They're just leaving?"
"We walked up six floors for this!"
"They can't just close the door on us at the best part!"
The gallery's floor manager appeared with a broad professional smile, gesturing toward the new displays along the far wall.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Hargrove's Gallery has just received a remarkable new collection — please, take your time and browse!"
The crowd shook their heads almost in unison. Nobody in this building could casually afford anything Hargrove's carried, and that wasn't why they were here anyway.
They stayed put and waited.
Margaret was the last one through the office door. She pulled it closed behind her, turned, and asked the question before anyone else could.
"Mr. Hargrove — is the vase authentic?"