Chapter 13 My Greed For Money
Magnus stepped out of the towering glass building of Empire of Diamonds, the sunlight reflecting sharply off the polished exterior.
Brent, his secretary, followed a step behind, tablet tucked neatly against his chest. He matched Magnus’s pace without a word, already scrolling through the day’s schedule.
The city buzzed around them — cars passing, faint honks in the distance, the hum of afternoon traffic.
Magnus adjusted his cufflinks absentmindedly as his gaze swept across the street.
A red Corvette shot past at high speed, engine roaring, sunlight glinting off its polished surface.
Magnus’s steps slowed.
His eyes followed the car.
For a brief second, something flickered across his face — a strange, instinctive annoyance. His jaw tightened, and a faint crease formed between his brows.
Brent noticed immediately.
“Mr. Graves?” he glanced at him. “Is something wrong?”
Magnus kept watching the car until it disappeared at the corner. Then he looked away, lips curling slightly in faint annoyance.
“Nothing,” he said flatly, though his lips pressed into a thin line. “Red Corvettes just… irritate me for some reason.”
Brent blinked but said nothing. He simply nodded and went back to reviewing the next meeting location on his tablet.
Magnus’s phone began to ring.
Brent glanced at the screen before handing it over. “Mr. Graves, it’s your mother.”
Magnus took the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Mom?”
On the other side, Camila’s voice came sharp and impatient.
“Magnus, it’s been two years. How many times do I have to ask you? When are you bringing your wife back home? Do I need to call you every single week to remind you?”
Magnus exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Why would I bring her back?” he replied, his tone edged with impatience. “We’re divorced.”
“It was not a real divorce!” Camila snapped. “How many times have I told you to go and bring Sophia back? It’s not difficult. You’re making my life miserable for no reason! I’m losing my damn mind here, don’t you understand?”
Magnus’s jaw hardened. His fingers tightened around the phone.
“Mom,” he said through restrained frustration, “as far as I remember, it was a marriage that wasn’t meant to last. I married her because you forced me to. Isn’t that enough?”
His voice grew colder.
“She got my name. She was Mrs. Graves. That alone is enough to secure her life. I gave her a generous settlement. More than generous!” His jaw tightened. “Why do you keep insisting I bring her back?”
Brent subtly stepped a little further away, pretending not to hear.
On the other end, Camila’s sharp intake of breath was audible even through the speaker.
“You—” Camila faltered, stunned into silence for a brief second. When she spoke again, her tone was no longer coaxing but commanding. “I didn’t ask you. I am ordering you to bring her back! Stop being this goddamn stubborn.”
Magnus stopped pacing. His eyes darkened.
“I know if you bring her back, you may have a chance to reconcile. But you never listen to me,” Camila pressed on. “What if she marries someone else? What if you regret this?”
Magnus stopped walking.
“I will never regret anything,” he said dismissively. His expression hardened, every trace of warmth draining from his face. “Stop overreacting.”
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with deliberate calm, as though discussing a minor business deal instead of his failed marriage.
“She enjoyed the wealth of our family. She enjoyed marrying into riches. The only thing she wanted was my money. Don’t you understand that? The moment she got the settlement, she ran away. She divorced me and walked away with a fortune.”
His grip on the phone tightened slightly.
“There is nothing left for her here. Did she ever ask you to help her reconcile with me?” he asked pointedly.
Silence.
Magnus’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.
“That’s what I thought,” he said quietly, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “If she wanted to come back, she would have said so.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Mom, stop insisting on it. We are over. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I have a meeting to get to.”
Without waiting for her response, he ended the call. The screen went dark.
He handed the phone back to Brent, his expression once again composed and distant.
But as they walked toward the waiting car, his gaze flickered once more toward the direction where the red Corvette had disappeared.
Brent slipped the phone neatly back into his inside pocket before lifting the tablet in both hands. He stepped closer, angling the screen toward Magnus.
“Mr. Graves, the auctioneer you were looking for has been found,” Brent said in a professional tone.
Magnus’s stride slowed. “Sylvia?” he repeated, his brows knitting slightly as he took the tablet.
Brent nodded.
Magnus took the tablet from him, long fingers brushing the edge of the device. His sharp eyes lowered to the screen. A detailed profile filled the display—Sylvia’s credentials, her record-breaking auctions, her connections across the world, her expertise in gemstones and rare jewels.
Brent continued, hands clasped behind his back. “She has already accepted our partner’s invitation to join the next auction.”
Magnus’s lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile. His thumb tapped once against the side of the tablet.
“Good. We needed that,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Brent hesitated slightly before continuing. “However… there is an issue.”
Magnus’s eyes flicked up sharply. “What issue?”
“Our international partners for the gemstone project have unexpectedly arrived in Manhattan. They intend to attend today’s auction personally.”
Magnus’s head snapped up, eyes sharpening instantly. “What the hell is happening?” His tone turned cutting. “Didn’t we already assign someone to handle this project?”
“We did,” Brent replied carefully. “But today’s auction was meant to be a small-level event. It seems our partners for the largest ongoing project decided to attend without prior notice. Given their status, we cannot risk presenting an auctioneer who is not… suitable.”
A deep line formed between Magnus’s brows. He exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his features.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.
Brent quickly added, “There may be a solution.”
Magnus’s gaze flicked back to him, cold but expectant.
“Miss Sylvia’s current location has been discovered. She is in Manhattan at the moment. Since she has already joined our project, perhaps we can persuade her to handle today’s auction.”
For a split second, Magnus was silent.
Then eyes gleamed with calculated interest.
“Get her,” he said without hesitation. “Hire her for today’s auction no matter what it takes.”
He handed the tablet back, already moving toward the car.
***
The auction at the Majestic Hall was nearing its finale.
Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, scattering fractured light across the velvet-draped room. The final transaction was being processed, assistants moving discreetly between rows with polished professionalism.
“The auction has now reached the end. Thank you everyone.”
Applause echoed through the room.
Sophia stood poised at the podium.
She wore a white gemstone dress that hugged her figure elegantly before falling to her knees, tiny crystals stitched into the fabric catching the light every time she moved.
Her hair was swept into a sleek bun perched high on her head, secured with a slim silver pin that gleamed against the dark strands.
Minimal jewelry—only a delicate bracelet—allowed her presence to dominate without distraction.
She stood poised, one hand resting lightly against the podium, the other holding the microphone with effortless control.
Her voice, calm and refined, carried through the hall.
In the audience, whispers floated between guests.
“Where do you think she got that dress from? It looks stunning,” one woman murmured, leaning closer to her friend while pretending to adjust her clutch.
“It’s not the dress—it’s her,” the other replied with a soft laugh. “You haven’t seen her at other auctions, have you? A few months ago I was in London helping my parents with business. I attended several of her auctions. She looked incredible every single time.”
The first woman’s eyes widened. “She’s that good?”
“She’s beyond good. Miss Sylvia doesn’t even have dates for the next three years. I tried to inquire about hiring her. But her schedule is completely full.”
Their admiration wasn’t isolated. Around the hall, heads turned toward the stage. Some studied her with business interest. Others with fascination.
Sophia remained composed, but her posture was alive with subtle confidence—shoulders back, chin slightly lifted, movements smooth and graceful. When she smiled at a bidder, it was controlled but warm, enough to make them feel personally acknowledged.
However, in the very first row, one pair of eyes watched her differently.
The woman’s eyes were locked on Sophia—not with admiration, but with unmistakable resentment.
Her manicured hands were folded tightly across her chest, red nails pressing into the fabric of her designer jacket. Her lips pressed into a thin line every time applause echoed through the hall.
Each compliment whispered around her seemed to irritate her further.
She leaned slightly toward the woman beside her, lowering her voice.
“Gigi,” she muttered, eyes never leaving the stage, “I don’t understand why everyone is obsessing over her.”
Her lips curled faintly.
“It’s not like she’s some kind of celebrity,” she continued bitterly. “She’s not even that good.”
“I agree,” Gigi whispered, leaning closer so her words wouldn’t carry. She tilted her head slightly, lips pursed as she watched the stage. “She’s average at best. I wouldn’t pay her to attend an auction if my family ever held one.”