Page 314 of Double or Nothing

Behind me, the screen still displays Alice’s triptych and the price that was supposed to free all three of us.

£1,250,000.

Jack understood the appetite. I built the structure. Together, we were a team of dreams.

It felt like enough. It felt like everything. It felt like winning.

Yet now, walking out of the auction house without him, it feels as though everything is lost.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

ALICE

Nobody speaks as the car pulls away. The silence is so stifling, it’s louder than the hustle of the celebrations in the auction house.

It disappears behind us. The high of my dreams so clouded by the low of the aftermath that it doesn’t seem real anymore.

I feel choked up, but I can’t shed a single tear. I’m bound by the atmosphere like a prisoner awaiting trial.

Dad’s anger occupies every inch of the car. All the life sucked out of the victory.

Nobody talks about the sale. The hammer drop. The excitement of other art enthusiasts as they watched the figures rising.

That’s all disappeared in a puff of angry smoke.

My father sits opposite me in the car, his back straight and both hands gripping his knees. Mum twists the strap of her evening bag, without even attempting a fake smile.

My asshole fiancé is on my right, close enough that his leg touches mine whenever the car turns.

I hate the sensation.

I don’t want to be within ten miles of him.

Dad looks over at me when we’re a few miles clear of the auction house.

“How long has Bryce been helping Reid?”

His tone is demanding. Ruthless.

“Helping him? It depends what you mean by that.”

“Don’t play fakery with me, Alice. How long has this allegiance been going on?”

Dad’s stare hardens, but Mum touches his shoulder.

“Not now, William, surely.”

“When would you suggest, Susan?”

“Bill, it’s been an emotional evening,” she says. “Maybe just… give it some time.”

Great. That’s what my success has become in the past hour.

An emotional evening.

At least Mum is attempting to diffuse the situation, but I know full well it’s a futile effort.

“Please don’t blame Bryce,” I say. “This isn’t his doing. None of it.”