Chapter 7
1267 Words
"Orson, what's going on here?" Ronan demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
Orson, his gaze unwavering, dismissed the security guards with a curt wave. "You all can leave now."
Ronan's anger flared, his finger jabbing toward Aiden. "Orson, this newcomer, a relative of some bigwig, claims to be the new Vice General Manager. I was about to show him the door. And, he had the audacity to say you misjudged something."
Orson, his eyes narrowed in assessment, studied Aiden carefully. "Oh? What's your name?"
Aiden's response was cool and defiant. "You don't need to know."
Ronan's voice was sharp. "What? You can't even say your name? Orson, his name is Aiden."
Orson's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "What? You're..." The words hung unspoken in the air.
Aiden cut him off smoothly. "You probably mistook me for someone else."
Orson, a man of exceptional perceptiveness, instantly grasped Aiden's subtle implication. A slow smile spread across his face. "He said I misjudged something. What did I misjudge?"
Ronan waved a dismissive hand. "Orson, don't worry about it. This br*t is just talking nonsense. I don't care whose relative he is. He's just incredibly unlucky to have crossed paths with me today."
Orson, however, remained focused, his voice tinged with a growing sense of unease. "Let me see, what did I misjudge?" he repeated.
He knew perfectly well. He had once been Aiden's teacher, but the young man's talent had far surpassed his own abilities. Since Aiden claimed a misjudgment, it was highly probable he was right.
Ronan pointed to the incense burner on the tray. "He said you misjudged this censer."
Orson moved swiftly to the burner, picking up a magnifying glass and examining it with intense concentration.
Ronan called out from behind him, his voice laced with impatience. "Orson, don't pay any attention to this punk's words. He's just spouting nonsense. Why are you taking him seriously?"
Orson continued his examination, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing moment.
He muttered to himself, "This censer seems fine. The patina is good."
He then tapped the burner gently.
Clang!
"The material is also fine."
He examined the base. "The patterns on the bottom, the wear... there's nothing wrong. How could I have misjudged it?"
Ronan's voice was sharp, impatient. "Orson, don't worry too much about it. This kid is a relative of some big shot. He doesn't know anything. What could he possibly know? He was probably just guessing whether it was real or fake, and he got it wrong. I'll get rid of him right now."
"Wait," Orson said, his voice halting him. He turned to Aiden, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Perhaps..."
Before Orson could finish, Aiden stepped forward, his finger pointing to the censer's handle and legs. "Orson, perhaps you should take another look at these?"
"Okay," Orson murmured, picking up the magnifying glass once more. He carefully examined the legs and handle, his expression shifting from thoughtful to startled. He slapped his forehead with a resounding slap, his voice filled with sudden realization. "Oh dear."
Ronan's voice was laced with anxiety. "Orson, what's wrong?"
Orson's voice was heavy with self-reproach. "I have failed Mr. Tate. He pays me a substantial salary to authenticate valuable antiques, and yet... I... I misidentified this piece." His shoulders slumped, his disappointment palpable.
Ronan's brow furrowed. "Orson, didn't you say yesterday that this incense burner was perfectly fine? Why today...?"
Orson shook his head, his eyes filled with regret. "I have been appraising antiques for over forty years. I've made fewer than ten misidentifications in my entire career. I haven't made a mistake in the last decade. How could I have missed this... Pathetic."
Ronan's voice was urgent. "Orson, you didn't actually misidentify it, did you?"
Aiden, his demeanor calm and assured, approached the incense burner. "When most people examine a piece like this, they focus on the overall shape, the interior, the base. Few pay attention to the handles, and even fewer to the legs. But this incense burner... it's a masterful deception—a patchwork."
Ronan's eyes widened. "You mean...?"
Aiden explained, his voice clear and precise. "Exactly. The central section is genuine, but the rest is a later addition, a skillful forgery. Someone welded it together, and the welding is at least a century old. Even Orson, even his master, might have missed it without the closest scrutiny. The central section is simply too perfect. The patina is superb."
Ronan's voice was sharp, his tone dismissive. "You little punk, don't think just because you spotted this, you can talk to Orson like that. He was playing with antiques before you were even born!"
"Ronan, you're getting carried away!" Aiden said, his voice calm but firm.
Ronan, unfazed, retorted, "What? I just don't like you, so what? You're so ill-mannered. I bet you didn't get much of an upbringing."
Aiden burst into laughter, a sound that held both amusement and a hint of underlying steel.
Orson, his voice sharp with disapproval, chided Ronan. "Ronan, stop!"
Ronan's defensiveness was immediate. "Orson, why are you sticking up for him?"
Orson's voice was low, almost hesitant. "Do... do you know who he is?" he asked.
Ronan's skepticism was evident. "Who is he? Just some newcomer with connections, right?"
Orson's voice held a note of awe. "Let me tell you, he... he's a Tate."
Ronan's confusion was clear. "What do you mean?"
Orson's words were simple, yet pregnant with meaning. "Think about it."
Ronan repeated the name slowly, the implications dawning on him. "Mr. Tate, Aiden..."
Suddenly, Ronan's face paled, his shock palpable. "Could he... be...?"
Orson nodded, his expression confirming Ronan's suspicions. "That's right. He's Mr. Liam Tate's son—Aiden."
Ronan was completely flustered. The weight of his earlier insults and the implications of his actions crashed down on him. He stood there, dumbfounded, unconsciously taking several steps backward.
Aiden smiled slightly, his demeanor calm and controlled as he approached Ronan. "Didn't you say that if I passed the assessment, you'd keep me? Let me ask you, did I pass?"
Ronan's voice was quick, eager to appease. "Of course you can stay, Mr. Tate."
Aiden's next question was pointed. "Then let me ask you, was I bragging?"
Ronan's expression shifted to one of fawning deference. "How could you be bragging? I've heard about your skills for a long time. Seeing them in action today, it's truly impressive."
Aiden's voice was steady, his words carefully chosen. "Let me ask you again. Why did you insult my upbringing?"
Ronan, his face contorted with shame, slapped himself twice, the sound sharp in the quiet office. "Mr. Tate, I'm sorry! Please forgive me!"
His voice was filled with genuine remorse. "I... I didn't know you were... There were so many misunderstandings. Please forgive me, please don't be angry. I was wrong, I won't dare to do it again."
Aiden's response was measured, his words carrying the weight of his authority. "Mr. Hale, you're the general manager of this company, but a general manager should act like one. I don't want any bad influences in the company. As for my future identity, I think you should understand even if I don't explicitly state it."
Ronan's voice was filled with abject apology. "I understand, I understand. Mr. Tate, I was wrong. I won't dare to do it again."
Aiden's final instructions were clear and concise. "Also, I don't want others to know my identity. In the company, I'm just an ordinary deputy general manager. Remember that?"
Ronan's repeated assurances were fervent. "Yes. Whatever you say, I'll do it."
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