Fated To My Billionaire Saviour

Chapter 11: Don’t Piss Me Off

Ella

“I’m pleased to let you know that the original design was created by Lucy Devereaux, who, unfortunately, died in a car accident a few years back. This reproduction was created by her daughter, who has inherited not just her mother's talent but also her... curiosity."

At the mention of ‘her daughter, several buyers leaned forward with increased interest. They all seemed to love what they were hearing.

"Particularly for collectors who value historical importance in addition to brilliance, the artist's personal connection to the original piece makes her extremely precious, doesn't she?" He asked with a wide grin.

Some nodded in approval, while others remained still, probably trying to hide their expressions.

But, wait a minute, did Victor just say historical importance? My mother's death wasn't historical; it was murder, and Victor, of all people, knows that he killed her, and now he wants to ship me off just like that. Maybe my presence was haunting him; who knows?

"The starting bid will be five hundred thousand, with arrangements for immediate international transfer included in the purchase price."

"Five hundred thousand what?" I almost screamed as the words jiggled in my head. They were auctioning me off like a piece of property. It sounded so disgusting, and a heap of rage erupted within me. I was so pissed, I didn't know when I called his name.

"Victor," I said, as I stopped him from saying his next words. "What exactly are you telling these people?"

The room fell silent. I saw Victor's expression shift from the salesman he had just portrayed to be a few seconds ago to a barely contained rage; his skin was literally red, but I didn't care.

"Ella, you're supposed to be in your studio." He whispered, trying to send me off like a defeated lion. But I was not going to back down, at least not easily.

"I want to know what you're about to sell." I pushed my luck. “It doesn't sound as though you're selling my work. Are you trying to sell me?" I asked with all seriousness, making sure my face conveyed the whole ‘tough girl look.’

I thought I was tough, but the few nervous laughs that erupted from people around me made me rethink.

“She's quite spirited, I'll give her that. Some clients prefer such, I know for sure.” One woman whispered to her partner.

"Gentlemen and ladies. I'm so sorry for the mix-up; perhaps we should continue this discussion privately," Victor said, feeling a little embarrassed. The embarrassment was clear in his voice. I must have torn his ego, but he did worse to my mom and me.

"Ella, return to your studio immediately." He turned and instructed me.

"I'm not going anywhere until you explain what's happening here." I don't know where the courage came from, but all I wanted was to stand my ground.

Victor stepped closer to where I was, too close; I could feel the hot air erupting from his breath. "You have exactly ten seconds to return to your studio before I have security drag you there. And if you embarrass me in front of my clients again, you'll discover that there are fates much worse than being sold to wealthy people." He whispered in a way only I could hear.

The rage in his whisper was thunderous, and I had no other option but to leave. As I turned to leave, my eyes locked with a woman who seemed to have taken an interest in me. From the way she looked at me, it felt as though she was studying me just like a scientist examines his specimen.

"Actually, Victor," she called out calmly, "I'd like to speak with the artist directly. It's important to assess... compatibility... before making such a huge investment."

Victor's jaw tightened, but he couldn't refuse the request of a potential buyer. "Of course, Madame Volkov. Perhaps you can talk to her in the private viewing room?"

As I was led toward what I assumed was another trap, I caught a glimpse of the auction catalog someone had left on a side table. My blood turned to ice as I read the lot descriptions:

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.

Jon, Maya, and Sophia. We were all going to be sold tonight.

Victor hadn't just killed my mother and stolen me. He was selling her research to the highest bidder, along with the daughter who might be able to interpret it.

As Madame Volkov approached me with a smile that reminded me of a shark, I realized I had perhaps an hour before the real auction began. An hour to figure out how to save not just myself, but also Jon, Maya, and Sophia.

An hour to turn Victor's perfectly planned-out sale into his worst nightmare.

"Now then, my dear," Madame Volkov said, her Russian accent as thick as honey, "let's discuss your future, shall we?" She moved closer to where I stood and stared into my eyes. "Trust me, I have such good plans for you."

I tried to step back a bit from her gaze, then I noticed that her eyes moved to something behind me, which made her expression change to surprise. I turned slowly to see Victor examining my mother's textile reproduction more closely. His face grew pale as he traced a certain pattern with his finger.

"This is impossible," he muttered. "She couldn't have known. How could she have known?"

"Know what?" Madame Volkov demanded.

Victor's eyes snapped to mine; his eyes were filled with a mixture of fury and what looked suspiciously like fear.

"You clever little b***h," he whispered and pointed his shaky hands at me.