Chapter 587:

I stared at him. “Are you insane? You’re going to spend a hundred million dollars to prove a point to Twitter trolls?”

Elias walked around the desk. He pulled me into his arms, his hands sliding down to rest on my hips. He looked down at me, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made my knees weak.

“I would spend every penny I have to make sure the world knows exactly where you stand,” he murmured, brushing his lips against my forehead. “You are not a budget item, Aurora. You are the entire portfolio. Besides,” he added with a wicked smirk, “I’m writing it off as a marketing expense.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I whispered, though my heart was hammering. “And fiscally irresponsible.”

“I’m in love,” he countered. “Same thing.”

He grabbed his jacket. “Come on. We have some shopping to do.”

The gavel came down with a sound like a gunshot.

“Sold! To the gentleman in the front row for seventy-five million dollars!”

The auction room at Christie’s erupted in gasps and applause. Elias didn’t even blink. He just signed the slip the attendant brought him, his movement casual, as if he were signing for a package delivery.

Beside him, I was trying to hide my face behind the catalog. “I can’t believe you bought a diamond the size of a pigeon egg.”

“It matches your eyes,” Elias said smoothly.

“My eyes are brown,” I deadpanned. “The diamond is pink.”

“Details,” he dismissed. “It matches the blush on your cheeks when I kiss you.”

“You are impossible,” I muttered, fighting a smile.

While the Thorne dynasty was busy acquiring national treasures, the Sullivan dynasty was facing a very different kind of liquidation.

Lɒtєst cнαptєrs ιn g𝒶lnovєls.𝒸𝑜𝑚

Two hours later, a convoy of black SUVs with government plates pulled up to the Sullivan rental home. Agents from the FBI and the IRS swarmed the property.

“Matriarch Sullivan!” an agent shouted, banging on the door. “We have a warrant for the seizure of all assets under the RICO Act, based on testimony provided by Spencer Sullivan!”

Inside, Matriarch Sullivan dropped her tea. “Spencer? My Spencer?”

“He sang like a canary, ma’am,” the agent said as they breached the door.

By evening, the Sullivans were on the street. Their accounts were frozen, their cars towed, and the rental agreement voided. They ended up in the only place left to them: a dilapidated, moldy Victorian house in the far reaches of Queens that belonged to a deceased distant aunt. It had been tied up in probate for years and was technically off the radar.

The living room smelled of damp wood and rat droppings. Matriarch Sullivan sat on a dust-sheeted chair, shivering in her fur coat. Claudia was crying in the corner.

And then there was Sawyer.

Sawyer Halloway was Spencer’s illegitimate nephew, a seven-year-old boy with wide eyes and a perpetually runny nose. He had been dumped on the Matriarch only yesterday, a final indignity from a fleeing relative who wanted no part of the sinking ship. Now, he was playing with a piece of peeling wallpaper.

“I’m hungry, Nana,” Sawyer whined.

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