Chapter 4 - The Gavel and the Scotch
The first three lots went quickly, but not with the fervor Richard had anticipated.
A week-long stay at an estate in Tuscany went for sixty thousand dollars to a textile magnate. A signed painting by a local Carolina artist barely hit thirty thousand. With every soft smack of the auctioneer’s gavel, the tension radiating from Richard grew more palpable. He drank his fourth Scotch, his eyes darting across the room, calculating numbers, assessing the net worth of every man sitting at the corporate tables.
"Cheap bastards," he muttered under his breath. "The Hollises just bought a yacht in Palm Beach, and they're sitting on their hands for fifty grand."
"Dad, calm down," Daniel muttered, finally putting his phone away as the room grew slightly uneasy at Richard’s visible agitation. "People are looking over here."
"Let them look," Richard snarled quietly.
The auctioneer, sweat shining beneath his foundation, adjusted his bow tie. "Lot number seven, ladies and gentlemen, is the keys to the 1968 Shelby GT500. We’ll start the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars..."
A smattering of paddles rose, but the momentum stalled at one hundred and eighty thousand. The room was growing tired, heavy with rich food and alcohol. The air was turning flat. A collective lethargy had settled over the grand ballroom, and with it, the undeniable realization that the gala was going to fall well short of its million-dollar milestone.
Suddenly, Richard stood up.
He didn't just stand; he shoved his chair back with such violent force that it wobbled on two legs before slamming against the table behind us. The sharp crack of wood echoed through our section of the room.
"Richard, what are you doing?" I whispered, grabbing the hem of his tuxedo jacket.
He ripped his sleeve away from my fingers with an expression of cold disgust. "I am going to save this evening. Since none of these cowards have the spine to open their wallets."
He walked straight toward the elevated stage. He didn't take the steps on the side like a guest; he stepped directly onto the front riser, his long legs moving with athletic arrogance, mounting the stage like a king claiming a disputed hill.
The auctioneer blinked in surprise, stepping back from the podium. "Mr. Vance—er, Mr. Sterling, ladies and gentlemen! The chairman of our gala committee!"
A polite, bewildered wave of applause swept the ballroom. Guests set down their wine glasses, craning their necks.
Richard didn't take the second microphone. He reached out and snatched the podium mic right out of the auctioneer's startled hand. He stood at the center of the spotlight, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, his tie slightly crooked, exuding the kind of dangerous, erratic power that only immense wealth and complete lack of shame can create.
"We are failing tonight," Richard announced into the microphone. His voice filled every cavernous corner of Founders Hall, cutting through the murmurs like a butcher's knife. "We are four hundred thousand dollars away from putting our names on that hospital wing. And looking out at this room... I see men who made eight-figure bonuses last quarter hiding behind their coffee cups."
An uncomfortable silence dropped over the room. People glanced at each other. Smiles vanished.
"Richard is drunk," Caroline whispered, grabbing my hand. Her fingers were ice cold. "Mom, make him get down."
I couldn't move. A sickening dread had pooled in the pit of my stomach, heavy and dark.
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"You want something worth buying?" Richard continued, his eyes sweeping the tables until they locked dead onto me. A smile spread across his face—cruel, mocking, and completely unhinged. "Let’s stop selling cars and vacations. Let’s sell something with real maintenance costs."
***
