“Oh—and don’t expect me to take care of your parents either. With no retirement pension, I’m not funding their—”
She was abruptly cut off by one of the bodyguards, who leaned in and whispered, “Miss Wright, doesn’t that vase look like the centerpiece from the Sotheby’s auction last week?”
Phoebe froze and turned to where the man was pointing.
It was a Song Dynasty official kiln plum vase—an antique my father had bid on at a Sotheby’s charity auction just because I liked it. He bought it as a gift—for me to play with.
She stared at it for several seconds, her expression shifting from confused to incredulous before she scoffed.
“Really, Gabriel? A fake inspired by a Sotheby’s auction piece? You’ve got some nerve.”
Looking at this woman—three years older than me—I silently thanked the heavens I wasn’t yet legally of age to marry. If it weren’t for that loophole, by the terms of our family agreement, I’d already be her husband.
To be tied to someone like this—calculating, pretentious, cheap, and absolutely lacking in discernment—would’ve been the shame of my life.
I sighed and gestured toward the door.