Chapter 34: A Dress Like Blood

“Ten seconds,” Bianca said. Her hand rested on the glass dome over Lot Twenty-One, as if the lockbox beneath it already belonged back against her throat. Inside, the five-year-old necklace shone around its narrow gold clasp. Bellamy’s warning had sent me here: Bianca had moved the remaining answer into that clasp. Not proof. A possible route toward the wedding lie. If she withdrew the lot, that route disappeared with her money. My phone vibrated: HALL REVIEW — 6:00 A.M. Strangers would decide whether Noah kept the doctor who knew him. The auctioneer lifted his hammer. I crossed the carpet in my red dress and dropped my original wedding ring beside the lockbox. “I bid.” The diamond struck the stand hard enough to make Bianca flinch. “You have nothing to bid with,” she said. “I have this.” I covered the ring. “It goes to the children’s fund. It cannot save Dr. Hall. It can buy one chance.” Below the dome, a cream auction card lay beneath Bianca’s signature. I turned it toward the auctioneer. Its first line was plain: PERSONAL JEWELRY MAY BE TENDERED AS A CHARITY PLEDGE. “Your card says I can give a personal jewel,” I said. “Once you take it, it belongs to the children’s fund. It will never come back to me. Put it in the case.” The auctioneer looked from the card to my ring. “The card calls it personal. Are you swearing it is yours?” “I walked out of the wedding wearing it,” I said. “No one came for it in five years.” Vittoria’s gaze cut from the ring to the auctioneer. “Be certain whose story you are accepting.” “If I accept it, you surrender it whether you win the necklace or not.” “That is the bid.” Vittoria reached the stage steps, phone in hand. “Six o’clock, Elena. You can chase a clasp now, then explain to Noah why you were not beside Hall’s door.” She wanted me to walk away from one danger because she had wrapped the other in a clock. “Take the ring,” I told the auctioneer. He took it and shut it inside the charity case. My fingers closed after it was gone, catching nothing but air. Bianca did not look at me. She looked over her shoulder. Luca De Luca stepped out from the crowd with a black auction paddle in his hand. “One hundred thousand,” he said. The number knocked the breath from me. My accounts were frozen. Noah’s trust paid only for medicine. I had nothing to meet him with. The auctioneer raised the hammer again. “One hundred thousand from Mr. De Luca.” Bianca’s mouth softened into a smile. For one heartbeat, I had lost. Then I saw her hand close around Luca’s elbow. Not his hand. His arm. Guiding the paddle higher like she had guided the lockbox into place the night before. I snatched the cream donation card from the stand and pressed it against Luca’s raised paddle. Bianca’s signature lay inches from his knuckles. “This says she cannot reclaim the lot,” I said. “So make your bid clean. Tell the auctioneer your hundred thousand stays with the children’s fund whether you leave with that necklace or not.” Luca’s paddle did not lower. “I am not here to make a donation,” he said. The words moved through the room like a dropped glass. “Then you are here to return Bianca’s own necklace to Bianca.” I kept the signed card between us. “Say she did not tell you to do it.” “This is ridiculous,” Bianca said, reaching for the card. I held it out of reach. “Say it.” Luca’s jaw worked once. “She asked me to bid.” “Because?” “Because she wanted it back.” Bianca caught my wrist then, hard enough to crush the card between our hands. “It is my necklace.” The reporter near the back lowered her phone just long enough to write something down. At the blue-ribbon table, a woman said, “She donated it and now she wants it back?” A second guest pushed her chair away from Bianca’s. I held the donation card under the auctioneer’s hammer. “Read the bottom line. Then apply it. Bianca is the donor. Luca is the hand she chose. Her money cannot walk out wearing his name.” The auctioneer read it aloud. “A donor may not reclaim her own lot, directly or through an agent.” “He said she asked him. She said she wanted it back.” I did not look away from him. “Make their bid void.” The hammer struck the stand. “Mr. De Luca’s bid is void.” Bianca’s face went white. “You cannot do that.” “You and Mr. De Luca just made it void.” He turned to me. “Ms. Vale’s ring stands as the irrevocable pledge. Lot Twenty-One transfers to her.” My ring sat locked in the charity case. It had survived the wedding, the clinic bathroom, five years of fear. My hand felt naked. “She stole it!” Bianca shouted. She seized the lockbox before the auctioneer could hand it to me. I caught the other side. The glass dome slid under our palms. Her nails bit into the cuts on my knuckles, and the box tilted toward the marble floor. I dropped to one knee with it, taking the weight against my ribs instead of letting it shatter. “Let go,” Bianca hissed. “The lot is mine now,” I said. “You are stealing from the children’s fund.” Vittoria grabbed my shoulder, trying to pull me backward. I braced one heel against the stage step and twisted free. The red fabric tore beneath her glove. The security attendant arrived only when the auctioneer shouted. He peeled Bianca’s hands from the box and put himself between us. He did not take the lockbox from me. I stood with it pressed to my chest, dress torn and finger bare, while the reporter raised her phone. Bianca looked at the empty charity case holding my ring. I left before anyone could applaud. Behind me, Vittoria was still speaking into the phone about six a.m. I locked the dark coatroom, set the box down, and opened it with hands shaking from Bianca’s grip. The necklace lay in black velvet. The clasp did not move. I held still and listened at the coatroom door. Nothing but the ballroom’s muffled strings. I shoved my thumbnail beneath the gold hinge until pain bent it backward. Nothing. I pulled the hairpin from my neck and worked its sharp end into the seam. The pin slipped. Blood welled on my thumb. Outside the door, heels stopped. I twisted harder. The clasp gave with a tiny snap. Something black slid out, struck the counter, and spun toward the edge. I caught it against my palm. A blank storage card. Not an answer. But small enough to have carried the missing piece Bianca had fought to hide. At six a.m., Dr. Hall would be judged. I had until then to learn whether this card carried anything worth the price of my ring. The lock clicked behind me. “Six a.m.,” Bianca said through the opening door. “Give me the clasp, Elena. Or watch Dr. Hall lose Noah before you ever learn what that card is for.” I closed my fist around the unopened card.