Olivia

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    When the song ended, Alexander led me back toward our table, but we were intercepted by a distinguished–looking woman with silver hair.

    “Dr. Porter,” Alexander greeted her warmly. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Olivia. Olivia, this is Dr. Emily Porter, head of the Children’s Hospital Foundation.”

    “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand.

    “The pleasure is mine,” Dr. Porter replied. “Alexander has been one of our most generous supporters. The Carter Wing has helped thousands of children.”

    “The Carter Wing?” I looked at Alexander questioningly.

    Dr. Porter seemed surprised. “The pediatric research center. Alexander funded it three years ago. Surely he told you?”

    Alexander looked almost embarrassed. “It never came up.”

    “Well, he’s too modest,” Dr. Porter continued. “The center focuses on rare childhood diseases, many of which were considered untreatable before our

    research.”

    I felt a surge of admiration for Alexander. “That’s incredible work.”

    “We couldn’t do it without supporters like your husband,” Dr. Porter said. “Perhaps you’d like to tour the facility sometime? See the impact firsthand?”

    “I’d love that,” I replied honestly.

    After Dr. Porter moved on to greet other guests, I turned to Alexander. “You never mentioned funding a pediatric research center.”

    He shrugged, looking ufortable with the praise. “It was a good investment.”

    “In children?”

    “In the future,” he corrected. “Those kids deserve a chance.”

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    I stood there looking at Alexander, his words echoing in my head. The simple statement that kids deserved a chance revealed a side of him I’d never expected. Not from the ruthless CEO whomanded boardrooms and made million- dor decisions without blinking.

    “What?” Alexander asked, noticing my expression.

    “Nothing.” I shook my head slightly. “It’s just not what I expected you to say.”

    His eyebrow raised. “What did you expect? That I funded a children’s hospital for the tax write–off?”

    “Well… maybe?”

    Heughed. “I do appreciate the tax benefits. But that’s not why I did it.”

    “So why did you?” I asked, genuinely curious about this unexpected side of Alexander.

    “Kids deserve a fighting chance. Especially those dealing with rare diseases that don’t get much research funding. Most pharmaceuticalpanies focus on moremon conditions because they offer better profit margins.”

    “That’s… surprisingly altruistic of you.”

    Alexander’s lips quirked up. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m not always the heartless CEO the business magazines make me out to be.”

    Before I could respond, the master of ceremonies tapped on the microphone, drawing everyone’s attention to the stage.

    “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. We’re about to begin the auction portion of our evening.”

    Alexander guided me back to the Carter table, his hand warm against the small of my back. Harold was already engaged in conversation with another elderly gentleman, while Victoria examined the auction catalog with exaggerated interest.

    “Anything catch your eye?” Alexander asked, ncing at the catalog in front of me.

    I flipped through the glossy pages. “Maybe the weekend in Napa? I’ve never been

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    wine tasting.”

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    “We can go to Napa anytime,” he said dismissively. “Look at the artwork section. There’s an original Basquiat sketch.”

    I found the page and nearly choked on my champagne when I saw the estimated value. “Two hundred thousand dors? For a sketch?”

    “Art is an investment. One that tends to appreciate quite nicely.”

    The auctioneer, a distinguished man with a British ent, stepped up to the podium. “Good evening, esteemed guests. Tonight, we have an extraordinary collection of items to auction, with all proceeds benefiting the Children’s Hospital Foundation.”

    The first few items went quickly: luxury spa packages, sports memorabilia, dinner with a celebrity chef. I watched with fascination as people casually bid thousands of dors with a mere lift of their auction paddles.

    “Next up, we have a seven–day Mediterranean cruise aboard the Silver Seas yacht. This exclusive experience includes a private chef, full crew, and stops at Capri, Santorini, and Mykonos. Bidding starts at fifteen thousand dors.”

    Paddles shot up around the room. I sat back, content to watch the wealthy y their high–stakes game.

    “Twenty thousand,” called a woman in red.

    “Twenty–five,” countered a man near the front.

    The bidding escted rapidly, finally settling at forty–five thousand dors. The auctioneer’s gavel came down with a satisfying thud, and polite apuse rippled through the room.

    “Quite reasonable,” Haroldmented from across the table. “That yacht rents for fifteen thousand a day.”

    I tried not to look as shocked as I felt.

    “Next item: a private cooking ss with three–star Michelin chef n Marceau, followed by dinner for six at his restaurant, Table. Bidding starts at ten thousand.”

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    “Fifteen,” Alexander called, raising his paddle.

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    The bidding continued, with Alexander eventually winning at twenty–five thousand dors.

    “Congrattions,” I murmured. “Does this mean I get to be one of the six dinner guests?”

    “You get to be my sous chef,” he replied with a wink. “And then sit at my right hand for dinner.”

    The next item was a rare bottle of scotch that sold for an eye–watering amount to Charles Carter, who looked genuinely pleased with his purchase.

    As the auction progressed, I caught sight of a familiar face across the room. James Westbrook sat at a table near the stage, looking impable in his tuxedo. He hadn’t noticed me, his attention focused on the auction catalog in his hands.

    “Next up, an exclusive item just added to our collection,” the auctioneer announced. “A one–of–a–kind Basquiat sketch, authenticated and framed. This piece has never before been avable to the public. Bidding starts at one hundred

    thousand dors.”

    Alexander sat up straighter, his interest piqued. “That’s the one,” he whispered to ollime. /li/ol

    Paddles rose around the room, the price quickly climbing to two hundred thousand.

    “Two–fifty,” Alexander called, his voice carrying easily across the room.

    “Three hundred,” came another voice, James Westbrook’s,

    Alexander’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Three–fifty.”

    James turned slightly, finally noticing us. A small smile yed at his lips as he countered, “Four hundred thousand.”

    “Is there some history between you two I should know about?” I whispered to Alexander.

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    “Business rival,” he replied tersely. “Four–fifty,” he called to the auctioneer.

    James seemed to consider for a moment before raising his paddle again. “Five hundred thousand dors.”

    A collective murmur rippled through the crowd. The auctioneer looked delighted. “Five hundred thousand from Mr. Westbrook. Do I hear five–fifty?”

    Alexander hesitated, and I ced my hand on his arm. “It’s a lot of money for a sketch.”

    “It’s not about the money,” he said quietly. “Five–fifty,” he called out.

    James immediately countered. “Six hundred thousand.”

    The room had gone silent now, all eyes on the two men engaged in this high- stakes duel.

    “Six–fifty,” Alexander responded without hesitation.

    James smiled directly at Alexander now, a challenge in his eyes. “Seven hundred thousand dors.”

    Harold leaned across the table. “Alexander, that’s enough. It’s just a drawing.”

    “Let him continue,” Victoria interjected with obvious enjoyment. “It’s for the children, after all.”

    Alexander’s eyes never left James as he deliberated. Finally, he shook his head slightly.

    “Seven hundred thousand going once… twice…” The auctioneer paused

    dramatically. “Sold to Mr. James Westbrook for seven hundred thousand dors!”

    The Novel will be updated first on this website. Come back and

    continue reading tomorrow, everyone!