?Chapter 1714:
The buyer dragged a hand across his damp forehead and squared his shoulders beneath the ring stage lights.
He had never once imagined that pouring such an obscene sum into a single artwork would end with him being ridiculed before a crowd.
The charity event had clearly stated that any contribution exceeding ten million unlocked the same privileges, so overspending made little sense—unless the item carried serious long-term worth, something like a rare or highly sought-after painting. Beyond that, donors were often willing to push their bids higher if it meant earning goodwill or favor from powerful circles.
Given his ties to the Jones household, supporting Christina felt natural, and he had sincerely admired her talent. Now, however, he stood there as the butt of the joke.
“May I know how I should address you, sir?” Christina asked softly, her eyes settling on the man whose face had gone crimson.
“Miss Jones, my name is Harold Chavez,” he replied, dipping his head in a restrained, courteous bow.
“Mr. Chavez, you truly have refined judgment,” Christina said warmly, giving him a thumbs-up.
For a brief moment, Harold couldn’t tell whether she was poking fun at him. But since the piece belonged to her, ridiculing him would mean ridiculing herself, and that made no sense. His mouth twitched before he managed a stiff, uneasy smile.
“Miss Jones, please don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not joking at all. I mean every word,” Christina answered calmly.
Paying only a hundred million for her artwork was, in truth, a fortunate break for Harold. Those snickering now were simply too shortsighted to see it. If her own family had been allowed topete, the painting would have been snapped up without hesitation.
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Meeting Christina’s steady, assured smile, Harold felt a faint but growing sense of ease settle in, slowly steadying his nerves. He had the distinct feeling that the piece carried value far beyond imagination—otherwise, she wouldn’t appear soposed at a moment like this.
“What an absolute farce!” Violette sneered. “Mr. Chavez, you’re not seriously buying into her words, are you?”
Heat rushed to Harold’s face again, but he held his ground. “I stand with Miss Jones. Her painting deserves that price.”
His statement set the room off in peals ofughter.
“And who are you to dere her work worth a hundred million? To me, it’s not worth a single cent!”
“Not just worthless—it’s stolen work, aplete disgrace!”
“Anyone who values that garbage must be out of their mind. I wouldn’t ept it even if she begged me.”
The jeers echoed through the venue, all of them aimed squarely at Harold. Violetteughed along, her tone dripping with scorn.
“You’re beyond saving—”
Before she could finish, Ronald cut in, his face rigid and uncharacteristically grave. “And who decided he’s beyond saving?”
“Mr. Burton, what exactly are you implying? Did I misspeak somehow?” Violette asked, frowning as she struggled to keep her irritation in check. Who did this elderly man think he was, daring to humiliate her before such an audience?
Ronald let out a sharp snort, his displeasure unmistakable. “Do you even know who she is?”
Violette curled her lips, contempt in on her face. “She’s nothing more than a distant member of the Jones family. Who else could she possibly be? Don’t tell me you’re about to say she’s Wyvena. If she were Wyvena, then I must be Wyvena’s mentor!”
Ronald’s voice dropped, cold and cutting. “You guessed right. She is Wyvena—the finest painter alive.”
The room exploded into uproar. Jaws ckened, eyes bulged, disbelief rippling through every corner of the crowd.
Ronald pressed on mercilessly, mockery sharp in his tone. “You dare im to be her mentor? What a joke. You’re not even fit to trail behind her.”
Wyvena was the artist Ronald revered above all others, peerless across the globe—and yet Violette had the nerve to ce herself alongside her.
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