Before he could finish that charming little threat, one of the bodyguards behind him leaned in close and whispered something in his ear.
"Mr. Jefferson… that vase by the window. Doesn't it look like the final lot from last month's Sotheby's auction?"
Oliver jerked his head around, following the guy's gaze.
The vase sat peacefully by the window, soaking in the late afternoon light. Its silhouette was clean and elegant, the porcelain glowing under the natural sun.
It was a 16th-century Renaissance piece—hand-fired, meticulously preserved, and worth a small fortune.
My dad had caught me admiring it during a collector's showcase and, just for the hell of it, made a sky lantern bid. He won, naturally. The man had flair.
Oliver squinted at it. I saw his face twitch. First came doubt. Then suspicion. Then, predictably, his signature smirk.
"Wow. You really went all in on this little illusion, didn't you? Even copied a fresh-off-the-market auction piece?"
I simply stood there, observing him—this man, five years older than me, who was supposed to be mature and successful. Yet, at that moment, I felt only relief.