Chapter 12: Bid
1257 Words
Adrian
The Rolls-Royce pulled up to Ravenwood's circular drive precisely at 7 PM. We joined a queue of vehicles that had wealth written all over them. Maseratis, Bentleys, and cars I didn't even recognize, worth more than most people's houses, lined the estate's entrance.
"Remember," Dominic said from the driver's seat as he adjusted his chauffeur's cap, "you're Adrian Blackwood, a tech mogul who would love to invest in art."
"Got it." I straightened my Italian silk tie and checked the small recording device Dominic hid in my watch.
“All set."
“Good."
"Is Morrison in position?"
“Yes, he is. He has been preparing the estate grounds all day. He said that due to the influx of guests, the security has been tripped." Dominic said, “But luckily, he managed to plant surveillance as instructed. Here you go,” he said, handing me an invitation.
"Nice one, Dominic," I replied, receiving the invitation from him.
“Your cover story checks out completely.” He stared at me through the rearview mirror. Victor believes you're here because of your grandfather's art collection."
The mansion looked more dazzling than the previous time I visited. I didn't expect less, though. The event gathers elite people from home and abroad, so I expected Victor to give his best.
Uniformed staff directed guests through the hallway.
"Mr. Blackwood!" An usher's voice echoed across the entrance hall as I stepped inside. "I'm so delighted you could join us tonight." He smiled, extending his hands towards me.
"The pleasure is mine…"
“Tom. I'm Tom, and I've been assigned to provide you with whatever you might need throughout the event, Sir.”
"Nice to know, Tom." I accepted his handshake. "This is quite an impressive collection your boss has here," I said, pointing to what looked like a Phoenix painting on the wall.
"Oh, this is just one of the numerous displays. More amazing works are yet to be displayed. Just relax and feel at home.” He gestured toward a set of double doors guarded by men in expensive suits. "Shall we proceed to the private viewing area?"
"Of course.”
As we walked, I made a list of everything. I marked out the security positions, the camera placements, and the exit routes.
As we moved closer to the door, I could hear some guests engaging in conversations. One such conversation caught my attention.
"The last artist from Dane has been performing beautifully," a woman with a French accent told another guest. "He has done three years of exclusive work, and his quality hasn't reduced at all."
"That's indeed excellent, I must commend." The guest replied. "I currently need someone who could handle long-term projects without experiencing burnout.”
They were not discussing artwork; they were discussing human beings.
"Ah, Mr. Blackwood," a man with a Russian accent called me from behind. I didn't know someone would recognize me. I turned to face an elderly man in his 50s. He didn't look familiar, but I accepted his extended hand. "I'm Alexei Volkov. My wife speaks highly of you. She has shown me numerous pictures of your tech achievements. Mind you, she wouldn't make use of any device if it's not endorsed by Cybweb." He laughed slightly.
"Wow, that's a pleasure. I would love to meet her someday.”
"Of course you would." He replied, adjusting his glasses. “So, what brings you here? I didn't know you loved art and would even be interested in our type of acquisitions.”
"Your type?"
"Yes, exclusive art partnerships," he said with a smile that never reached his eyes. “You know, these types of contracts provide complete control. The artists work exclusively for us, and their task is to create pieces that never see public auction or gallery walls.”
"I think that’s incredibly limiting for the artists," I said carefully.
"That's where you are wrong, Blackwood. It's not limiting at all; I prefer to call it liberation. Volkov laughed. "You see, they no longer have to sell themselves or deal with the demands of economic success. They can concentrate entirely on their art.
"And if they want to leave these arrangements?"
"And why would they want to leave? They have everything provided for them. Housing and materials are all available.” He muffled.
“Well then, if you say so. Mr. Volkov, if you don't mind, I'd like to be excused."
“Of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening." He said and turned towards the other guests.
I moved deeper into the viewing area, where catalogs lay scattered across marble-topped tables. I grabbed one, flipping through pages that made my stomach turn:
Lot 47: Contemporary textile artist, age 24, specializing in traditional and modern techniques. Previous family connections to art authentication investigations. Includes an exclusive lifetime contract and international shipping arrangements.
Lot 48: Digital artist, age 26, experienced in both commercial and fine art applications. Docile temperament, previous corporate experience. Currently located on premises for immediate inspection.
Lot 49: Sculptor, age 23, trained in classical and contemporary methods. Strong physical condition, suitable for large-scale installations. The family has been notified of a permanent overseas assignment.
Lot 50: Contemporary textile artist...
I stopped breathing. Ella's photograph stared back at me from the paper, along with a description that made my hands shake with rage.
"Impressive selection this season," a voice beside me said. I looked up to see a man in his fifties examining the catalog over my shoulder. "She particularly caught my attention." He pointed to Ella's picture.
"She's… She's beautiful," I managed to say.
"I bet you, I think her beauty is secondary to her talent, although I appreciate both." He gestured with a slight nod. "The bidding for that particular lot should be quite competitive. What do you think?" He asked, leaning closer; his breath reeked of expensive whiskey. I ignored him and maintained my gaze on Ella's photo.
"She'll be great in bed, you know!" He chuckled." His words made my blood boil fast. All I wanted was to grab this man by his silk tie and throw him through the nearest window. But in order not to create a scene, I smiled and nodded. This shows that the artists are being sexually abused by these clients.
"Gentlemen, ladies!" Victor's voice echoed through the viewing area. "The preview period has concluded, and it’s now time for the main presentation. Please take your seats.”
The audience moved into what had been converted into an auction house. It had a podium, and the professional lighting shone on the rows of velvet chairs, making it look spectacular. I took a seat in the back where I could see both the stage and the exits.
"Before we begin tonight's bidding," Victor announced, "I'd like to present our featured artists so you can carefully evaluate them."
My heart stopped as a side door opened and three figures were escorted onto a small platform beside the podium.
Their name tags weren't very visible from where I sat, but I could trace the names to be Jon, Maya, and Sophia, the exact names Morrison had provided.
Their eyes looked faded, and they looked like people who had given up hope.
"These exceptional artists have been preparing exclusively for tonight's event, I bet you; they have a lot up their sleeves." Victor continued. "Each brings unique skills, and through their training, they demonstrate adaptability to any new arrangements."
"Adaptability? This is slavery.” I muttered. Victor was selling their broken spirits.
But where was Ella?
- Writer
