Page 6 of Use Me, Daddy

“It’s a sound strategy, for sure,” I replied, keeping my tone steady. “But I think it would draw a higher bid with a little extra emphasis.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, a subtle challenge in his gaze. “How much do you think it would fetch?”

“Twenty-five thousand, if not higher,” I said, confident in my estimate. I’d seen works like Ignatyev’s attract far more than expected if they were handled correctly.

Aleksei studied me for a long moment, then shook his head. “Ten, maybe fifteen, tops.”

“Ten?” I scoffed. “That’s absurd. I’ve seen pieces by Ignatyev go for twice that.”

“Yes,” he replied with a half-smile, “but not when they lack provenance. This one’s a guess at best.”

His calm certainty sent a wave of irritation through me. Of course, I knew what I was talking about. But he just waited, calm and unbothered, as though he knew I’d reach the same conclusion he had.

I held my ground.

“It’ll still sell higher than you think,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I’d intended. My cheeks warmed as I felt him watching me, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes.

“We’ll have to see how it turns out then, won’t we?”

The auction took place later that day.

The auctioneer took his place at the podium, tapping the microphone with seasoned authority as the crowd settled into their seats. I stood to the side of the room, clipboard in hand, checking and re-checking the catalog while the room slowly descended into silence.

Aleksei leaned casually against the far wall, his gaze trained on the room with a cool detachment, his dark eyes absorbing every detail. His stillness was striking in contrast to the subtle stir of movement around him. He almost seemed as much a part of the scene as any of the art on display.

I pulled my shoulders back as the auction began and everything fell into place.

The first pieces were modest, aimed at warming up the crowd. Bids climbed in increments as paddles rose in smooth, practiced motions, one bidder after another raising the stakes. Each sale brought a satisfied nod from Aleksei, and I hoped that things were progressing just as he’d anticipated.

And that I was impressing him.

When the stars of the show came up—the ones I’d meticulously selected for prime visibility—the energy of the room shifted. A large, dynamic piece by a French postmodernist sparked the first real bidding war of the evening as two collectors went toe to toe in a fierce exchange that sent the final bid soaring well past the price I’d estimated that it would go for.

I couldn’t help a small smile of satisfaction when the bidding finally ended, and the auctioneer declared it sold.

I held my breath when Ignatyev’s painting came up.

Aleksei hadn’t been shy about his opinion on it, and I was determined to prove him wrong. The painting had a rich, earthy palette and layered textures, as well as a complexity that I knew would capture the right bidder’s eye. Positioned strategically, it was framed in the spotlight, demanding attention.

As the auctioneer introduced it, I held my breath, watching the faces in the crowd.

The opening bid came in lower than I’d anticipated. My heart sank just a little, but I brushed it off, keeping my composure. The auctioneer’s rhythmic call continued, each pause stretched as he waited for another paddle to rise. Bids moved up in small increments, climbing slowly rather than the fervor I’d expected to come with such a beautiful piece.

Ten thousand. A little more. Then a little more. And then… silence.

The auctioneer looked around, hopeful for another hand in the air, but the crowd had stilled. No one seemed inclined to move it any higher.

The final bid came in at a disappointing twelve thousand.

A subtle ache of frustration settled in my chest. I’d been so sure about it. But Aleksei had been right. He had known the pulse of this crowd before they’d even stepped through the door. He’d sensed something that I’d overlooked.

I hated that I’d been wrong, and I hated that he knew it even more.

As the auction wound down, I moved through the room, checking details and making sure every last arrangement was handled smoothly. Finally, as the last of the guests left, Aleksei made his way over to me. I steadied myself, refusing to let my embarrassment over the Ignatyev final sales number show.

“Well done today, Amy,” he said, his voice calm and low, though his eyes held a trace of amusement. “Even if the Ignatyev didn’t quite fetch what you’d expected.”

My cheeks flushed as I forced a smile. His words stung more than I cared to admit.

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