Chapter 32: You Left With Adrian? I Ended Up Living Next Door to My Ex-Husband
"The opening bid is set at 500,000 ruts per unit, with a total quantity of 500 units." The host's announcement marked the start of full-scale trading. Almost immediately, an old gentleman in a gray fedora shot to his feet with an indignant scowl. "What?! Five hundred thousand ruts for a special carriage that nobody even wants? I came here thinking I could snag one at scrap value, and this is what I get!" He grumbled loudly and stormed out of the hall. He wasn't entirely wrong — by current market standards, it was a steep opening price for a special carriage. Even so, it was a fraction of what a standard horse-drawn carriage commanded — over three million ruts apiece — and once the imperial family made their official announcement, the value of these carriages would skyrocket. What a fool. Camilla watched the old man's retreating back and allowed herself a quiet snort. Now the trading room held only three parties: herself, Henry, and Grand Duchess Rebecca. Beating the Grand Duchess will be child's play. Camilla glanced sideways at Henry and smiled, slow and satisfied. "Since this is already as good as ours, shall we have a little fun with the bored Grand Duchess?" She and Henry had come prepared with enough capital to bid up to 1.5 million ruts per carriage. According to their intelligence, Grand Duchess Rebecca had secured just over 1.3 million ruts per unit. There's no way His Grace would entrust a novice like her with serious investment funds. She must have scraped together everything she has. A wicked smile curved Camilla's lips. Normally, Henry would have called her adorable. Instead, he regarded her with a flat, vaguely irritated expression. "Do whatever you like, Camilla. It's not as though my opinion matters." Camilla chose to ignore him and raised her bidding sign with practiced elegance. "The lady in the front — yes?" "Six hundred thousand ruts." "Six hundred thousand! Does anyone wish to go higher?" Grand Duchess Rebecca raised her sign in response. "The lady in the center — yes?" "Six hundred and fifty thousand." Camilla barely suppressed a sneer. Only fifty thousand? She must be frightened. She jabbed Henry in the ribs. He still wore that sour expression, but she nudged him again pointedly. "Henry, stop sulking and place the next bid. Eight hundred thousand." He lifted his sign with the air of a man doing something deeply beneath him. "The gentleman in the front — yes?" "Eight hundred thousand." "Eight hundred thousand ruts! Any advance on that?" Camilla turned in her seat to observe the Grand Duchess. Rebecca was leaning toward the fair-haired man beside her, her expression troubled, whispering something behind her fan. Caught off guard, are we? The numbers moved faster than you expected. Camilla turned back to the front with a delighted little smirk. "One million ruts." "One million ruts from the lady in front!" Henry raised his sign on cue. "One million two hundred thousand." "One million two hundred thousand! Any further bids?" Victory was close enough to taste. The moment Grand Duchess Rebecca exhausted her funds, the game would be over. All Camilla needed to do was push the price a fraction higher. The outcome had never truly been in doubt — and yet there was something deeply pleasurable about watching her opponent squirm through the inevitable. "The lady in the center — your bid?" The host turned toward Rebecca, and the hall fell into a taut, expectant hush. Here it comes. The end. The corners of Camilla's mouth began to curve upward. "One million... two hundred and fifty thousand ruts..." Rebecca's voice was small and uncertain — the voice of someone unsure whether they should be spending this much at all. That's right. Stay in your lane. You've always been better at spending money than making it. Camilla savored the moment for a breath longer than necessary, then raised her sign with all the theatrical composure of a stage actress delivering her final line. "One and a half million." The host could barely contain herself. "One million five hundred thousand ruts! Remarkable!" Even she seemed convinced the contest was over. "Does anyone wish to go higher? One million five hundred thousand ruts — is there any advance?" Camilla raised her fan to hide her smile. The heavens themselves are on my side today. "If there are no further bids, I will close the session. Final call — does anyone wish to bid higher?" Camilla held her breath, waiting for the sweet sound of her own victory being declared. "...Excuse me? Could you repeat that?" The host blinked, her eyes going wide as she looked toward the center of the hall. No... Camilla's head snapped around. Her expression, polished and triumphant a moment before, curdled instantly. Impossible. My intelligence was clear — she doesn't have the funds to go further. She drew a slow breath and forced herself to be rational. Even if Rebecca somehow had more money than expected, she still couldn't outbid Camilla. Before arriving today, Camilla had quietly secured additional personal funds — borrowed at interest, yes, but she'd repay it easily once she claimed these carriages. I can comfortably bid up to one million eight hundred thousand. Whatever the Grand Duchess calls next — one million six hundred, perhaps — I can top it without breaking a sweat. A cool, contemptuous smile returned to Camilla's face. "My lady, how much would you like to offer?" the host asked, turning to Rebecca. Every eye in the hall followed. Silence pressed in from all sides, thick and breathless. Then Rebecca's voice rang out — unhurried, perfectly composed. "Two million ruts." The hall erupted. "T— two million?!" Camilla and Henry spoke at the same time, their voices cracking with disbelief. They weren't alone. Around them, people gaped openly, whispering frantically to one another. The host herself looked shaken as she leaned forward. "Madam — did you say two million ruts? Per unit? You do understand that once this transaction is confirmed, it cannot be withdrawn under any circumstances — regardless of whether your funds prove insufficient?" Rebecca met the question with the serene indifference of someone being asked about the weather. "Perfectly. I have no intention of withdrawing, and there will be no shortage of funds." The Grand Duchess's red lips curved into a slow, unhurried arc. "Please, go ahead and ask if anyone else would like to bid higher." Her gaze drifted — almost lazily — to Camilla. "Perhaps someone would like to try." Camilla's jaw tightened. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. "My lady?" The host had turned to her now, voice urgent. "Would you consider going higher?" Camilla said nothing. In the silence, Henry's voice cut through — low, clipped, and unsparing. "You were so certain. And this is what it came to." Camilla shot him a sharp glare, then slowly, stiffly, shook her head. "...I concede." The host straightened at once, relief and excitement warring on her face, and announced to the hall in a ringing voice: "Sold — at two million ruts per unit! The special carriage futures transaction is hereby concluded!"
Meanwhile, inside the Grand Duke's private office, the household staff had begun exchanging furtive glances. Something was off about His Grace today. Cedric was never anything less than composed — methodical, precise, unflappable. But this afternoon he had drifted through his own office like a man only partially present. A moment ago, the head maid had watched him lift an empty teacup to his lips with every intention of drinking from it. She stepped forward carefully, teapot in hand. "Your Highness..." "Yes?" "Shall I refill your tea?" Cedric looked down at the teacup in his hand as though seeing it for the first time. A low, quiet exhale escaped him as he set it down and rose from his chair. He moved to the window, stood there for a moment rubbing his brow, and then — without fully seeming to intend it — spoke. "Has Rebecca returned yet?" His aide blinked. He kept his expression carefully neutral, though it required some effort. It wasn't merely surprising to hear His Grace ask after the Grand Duchess by name — it was the third time he had asked the very same question. "Your Highness... only ten minutes have passed since the last time you asked." "...Ah." Cedric absorbed this slowly, gave a small nod, and turned back toward his desk as though he meant to return to his paperwork. He stopped mid-step. "She left with Adrian?" The aide pressed his lips together. Also the third time. "Yes, Your Highness. As I mentioned before—" Cedric nodded again — the same measured nod, as though he were hearing it fresh. He did, eventually, make it back to his desk. He sat. He picked up a document. He looked at it. Even the head maid, who understood nothing of estate affairs, could plainly see he wasn't reading a single word. After a few minutes, Cedric pushed the stack of papers aside entirely. "I can't concentrate." He stood, and the maids rushed to retrieve his coat. At the door, he paused — one hand braced against the frame — and turned back. "Lehman." "Your Highness?" The aide stepped closer at the subtle gesture, bending his ear toward his master. Cedric spoke in a low murmur, careful and unhurried, as though the question had only just occurred to him. "If one were to walk to the entrance where the Grand Duchess typically returns... which route do you think would be faster?"