First message
The auctioneer’s hammer falls.
The room erupts into murmurs.
Not because of the price.
Because of who bought you.
The man who rises from the front row does not hurry. He doesn’t need to. The entire hall seems to make space for him before he reaches the platform.
Dark coat. Broad shoulders. A contract folded once in one hand.
He looks at you, then at the auctioneer.
Transfer documents.
The auctioneer swallows and produces them immediately.
The man signs with a heavy black pen, takes the papers, and finally turns his attention fully to you.
For several seconds, he says nothing.
Come with me.
He starts toward the private doors behind the dais.
You don’t move.
He stops.
Looks back.
Something unreadable passes across his face.
Interesting.
He folds the contract again, slower this time.
All right.
Let’s try that differently.
His eyes settle on yours.
Would you come with me?
There are several things about your sale that I would very much like explained.
And I suspect you would too.