Chapter 104

Angela POV

I clutched David Chen's offered arm as we navigated through the crowded entrance of Sotheby's.

The opulent auction hall buzzed with Manhattan's elite-faces I hadn't seen in five years but who clearly remembered me, if their whispers and sidelong glances were any indication.

"Ms. Wilson, I apologize for the last-minute change," David said in his perfectly modulated voice. "Mr. Blake was called into an urgent meeting. He's asked me to accompany you tonight."

"It's fine, David," I replied. "Christopher has more important things to attend to than a charity auction."

David nodded respectfully. "Ms. Wilson, your seat is in the private box upstairs. Mr. Blake arranged it specifically."

The auctioneer tapped his microphone, drawing the room's attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've concluded our regular offerings and now move to tonight's highlight-original Monet."

I settled into my seat, grateful for the relative privacy of the box as bidding began. Numbers flew across the room, wealth displayed in casual seven-figure increments.

"Six million dollars from Mr. Shaw!" the auctioneer announced with barely contained excitement. "Do I hear six point five?"

Could it really be him?

I scanned the room frantically, my eyes darting between faces, but couldn't spot him anywhere. He must be in one of the private boxes, like me-hidden from the general audience but very much present.

But what would I even do if I saw him?

What could I possibly say after five years of silence?

"Mr. Shaw increases his bid to six point five million!" the auctioneer called out again, the name striking me like a physical blow each time it was uttered.

My fingers clutched the armrest, knuckles turning white as that name-the one I had avoided speaking for five years-sliced through my composure like a blade through silk.

The room suddenly felt airless, oxygen replaced by memories I'd fought so hard to suppress.

David leaned closer, concern evident in his expression. "Ms. Wilson, are you alright? You've gone quite pale."

"Just...a bit lightheaded," I managed, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "I think I need some air."

"Would you like me to accompany you?" David asked, already half-rising from his seat.

I shook my head. "No, please stay. I'll just step out for a moment."

My legs felt unsteady as I made my way to the exit, my heart hammering against my ribs with each step.

The corridor outside was empty. I leaned against the wall, eyes closed, willing my pulse to slow. Winter rain fell gently beyond the windows, the carpet near the entrance damp from guests' footsteps.

I wrapped my cashmere shawl tighter around my shoulders, the New York winter far harsher than the mild Tuscan climate I'd grown accustomed to.

The chill in the air matched the one in my memories-my last encounter with Sean had been during another winter, in another lifetime.

Five years, I thought, pressing my palm against my forehead. I've built a new life, I have Aria and Ethan, I've moved on. Why am I still affected like this?

Taking a deep breath, I straightened, wiping away the cold sweat that had formed on my brow. I turned to walk toward the ladies' room when a tall figure stepped into my path.

"Excuse me," I murmured

The man before me wore an impeccably tailored Armani suit in midnight blue, his tie knotted with mathematical precision.

"Hello," he said, his smile revealing perfect teeth. "You're Angela Wilson, aren't you? I'm Tristan Lawrence, George Lawrence's son."

I blinked, recognition dawning. The sole heir to the Lawrence Capital empire, Tristan's reputation as both a financial prodigy and Manhattan's most eligible bachelor preceded him.

His notorious playboy reputation was equally well-known-gossip columns had famously reported that at his thirtieth birthday party, he'd drunkenly vowed to bed a thousand beautiful women before settling down.

"Mr. Lawrence," I acknowledged, accepting his extended hand.

"My father speaks very highly of you," Tristan continued, his grip firm but not overbearing. "Says you're the most talented investment advisor he's ever tried to recruit."

"That's kind of him to say," I replied, trying to regain my composure.

"My father mentioned he's made several attempts to bring you on board at Lawrence Capital. May I ask why you've declined? Were his terms not satisfactory, or is it something about the company itself?"

I chose my words carefully, unwilling to reveal my plans for establishing my own firm. "I appreciate your father's offers, but my reasons for declining are personal. ."

Tristan's smile widened, transforming his face with boyish charm.

"Fair enough. Though you should know that I'll be taking over operations soon, and if you were to join us, I'd ensure you received... special consideration."

Before I could respond, Tristan removed his jacket and draped it over my shoulders in one fluid motion.

"New York winters are brutal compared to the Italian countryside," he said, his voice lowering slightly. "I've just returned from the French Riviera-the contrast between Mediterranean sunshine and Manhattan ice is quite jarring."

The gesture caught me off-guard, the jacket still warm from his body heat.

"I should return to the auction," Tristan said, glancing at his watch. "I'm hosting at The Plaza later tonight-nothing formal, just drinks and conversation. My driver can pick you up whenever you're ready to leave here."

He stepped back with a slight bow, walking away before I could return his jacket.

I moved to follow him, intending to return the garment, but he had already disappeared around a corner. With a sigh, I headed toward the entrance, hoping to hand the jacket to an attendant.

"Excuse me," I said to a young woman staffing the coat check. "Could you please return this to Mr. Lawrence when you see him?"

The attendant's eyes widened slightly. "I'm sorry, Ms. Wilson, but if Mr. Lawrence gave you his jacket, you should probably return it to him personally."

"I don't know where he's gone," I explained.

"Mr. Lawrence is something of a fixture at The Plaza," the young woman replied, a hint of gossip in her tone. "Hosts parties there almost weekly. Though I must say, him giving you his jacket is unusual-he typically doesn't leave... tokens... with the women he meets."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

The attendant leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Lawrence never leaves evidence. Giving you his jacket means he wants you to find him to return it-it's his way of ensuring a second meeting."

"I see," I replied. "Thank you for the information."

I straightened, preparing to return to the auction room when a movement at the entrance caught my eye. My heart stuttered to a stop, the world around me seeming to freeze in that singular moment.

Sean Shaw stood just inside the doorway, commanding attention without effort.

His white shirt contrasted sharply with his black suit, his cold, handsome features set in the same impassive expression I remembered all too well.

Beside him stood Christina Jordan, resplendent in a floor-length pink gown, the hem slightly damp from the rain outside. She clung to his arm with practiced intimacy, her red hair gleaming under the chandeliers.

They looked perfect together-the power couple everyone had always expected them to be. Other guests turned to acknowledge them, respect and admiration evident in their deference.

Pain lanced through my chest, sharper than I'd anticipated.

So they really did end up together, I thought, biting my lower lip to ground myself. Their children must be the same age as Aria and Ethan by now...

Sean's head turned suddenly, as if sensing my presence, his gaze sweeping the lobby. I froze, unable to move or breathe, pressing myself deeper into the shadowed corner where I stood. My hands turned to ice as I watched his eyes narrow, searching.

For one terrible moment, I thought he might have seen me.

Then someone called his name, drawing his attention away, and I remained hidden, my heart thundering in my chest.