I track them automatically; a natural threat assessment refined into reflex over more years than I care to count. Two women. The first is pretty, dark-haired, her attention moving across the room like she's trying to figure out where she fits. The second woman comes through the door half a step behind her, and that's where my attention stops.
Brown hair. Shoulder length. A dress that was chosen with care rather than effort, the quiet kind of elegant that takes more thought than the obvious kind. She's not the most striking woman in the room. There are three women near the window who were clearly dressed to be looked at, and they've achieved it.This woman wasn't dressed to be looked at. She was dressed to feel like herself.
She says something quiet to her companion, who nods and straightens and takes a breath. Then the companion moves toward the reception area, and this woman takes a glass from a passing tray and turns to look at the room.
Her gaze travels across the tables, the men, the careful staging of this whole elaborate event. She doesn’t look anxious or nervous, but perhaps a little bored as she assesses the room with dryness, intelligence, and amusement. This is a game to her.
When her gaze reaches me, it stops. She looks at me directly, her blue eyes narrowing only fractionally, the amusement that was there, settles into something more serious.
Most people who look at me in rooms like this one look away again quickly. There's a version of me that I present in professional settings, and it's the version that works. Controlled. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes people want to fill the silence, and then regret what they've said when the silence was more comfortable. Women at these dinners have a specific response to me. They're polite. They're pleasant. They don't make eye contact for more than two seconds.
This woman makes eye contact for considerably longer than two seconds.
Then she tilts her head very slightly, like she's deciding something, and turns away to watch the rest of the room.
I stay exactly where I am.
Serik appears at my shoulder with two fresh glasses and the expression he wears when he thinks he's noticed something before I have, which is almost never. "That one's looking at you."
The vodka tastes cheap, but I swallow it anyway. "I know."
He glances between us. "Most women flinch when they look at us."
I take the glass he's offering. "She's different." I consider flicking through the portfolio to find her information, but decide against it.
Serik makes a non-committal sound that isn't quite a word and then drifts away again. I stay where I am and watch her move through the room.
She's British, I decide, before I've even heard her speak again. It's in the posture and the very slight way she holds her glass, like someone taught her exactly how to do it at an age when those things still got taught. Aristocratic, or close enough to it. The kind of family that has a house with a name attached to it.
The dinner begins. I find my seat, which is at the far end of the main table, she's seated on the same side, four places down. I can see her profile. I can see the way she listens to the man beside her with the patient attention of someone who's already reached a verdict but is too well-mannered to show it.
At some point in the second course, she turns her head and finds me watching. Once again, she doesn't look away. She holds my gaze for a moment, and then one corner of her mouth moves before she turns back to the man beside her.
For the first time since I started attending these auction dinners, I open a portfolio.
Rovin glances at me from across the table, registering the movement, satisfaction moving across his face.
The portfolio says her name is Amelia Foxhall. British. Twenty-seven. From a family old enough that the name carries weight even I recognize.
I close the folder and pull a heavy piece of cream card stock from the holder in the middle of the table. The old-style fountainpens are sharp as a blade as I draw it across my finger and write the details.
Her name.
A sum of money that would make anyone’s eyes water.
It folds into the envelope perfectly and I seal it with wax, pressing my ring into it as it sets.
I look up to find she's watching me again, her expression giving nothing away and telling me everything. I hold her gaze across the table and don't look away.
Neither does she.
Amelia
Lionel Pietty finds me by the coat check, and I know before he opens his mouth that something has already happened to me without my permission.
He's a small man with a smile like a wet handshake. He holds a cream envelope between two fingers the way a waiter holds a bill he's certain you can't afford.
"Miss Foxhall." My name in his mouth sounds like it's already been sold. "Congratulations are in order."
