Chapter 295: Tiffany Doesn’t Flirt With the Help

Outside the Park Avenue entrance of Sotheby’s looked like a small-scale riot.

The paparazzi were swarming the velvet ropes, their camera flashes strobing so rapidly it looked like a continuous lightning storm. The second Diana’s private transport pulled up to the curb, the press pool went feral.

Aria stepped out of the car first, her black, obsidian-glitter gown catching the relentless flashbulbs. She offered the cameras a perfectly poised smile before turning to help Diana’s driver pull the wheelchair out of the trunk.

"Make way!" the security guards bellowed, shoving the barricades back as Aria wheeled her fuming sister-in-law through the gauntlet of shouting reporters.

The moment they breached the gold-trimmed glass doors of the auction house, the chaos instantly vanished.

The lobby of Sotheby’s was a sprawling sanctuary of hushed voices, soaring ceilings, and imported champagne. It smelled like mahogany, fresh lilies, and generational wealth. There wasn’t a single journalist in sight; the press was strictly banned from closed-door elite auctions.

Aria paused, her hands gripping the rubber handles of Diana’s wheelchair. She scanned the crowded lobby.

It didn’t take long to spot her.

Zoe was supposed to be keeping a low profile, preparing to approach the security checkpoint to get into the main auction hall.

Instead, "Tiffany" was currently twirling a blonde curl around her finger, giggling brightly at a cater-waiter who was holding a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres.

Aria let out an exasperated sigh.

"Zoe," Aria whispered, keeping her lips barely moving.

Across the lobby, Zoe jumped slightly, her hand flying up to her ear, hidden beneath the blonde wig.

"What are you doing?" Aria hissed under her breath.

"He’s cute!" Zoe’s defensive, tinny whisper echoed in Aria’s ear.

"You are Tiffany Kensington," Aria scolded, narrowing her eyes at her best friend from across the room. "Your daddy owns half the ski resorts in Aspen. You ride competitive equestrian and you sue people for fun. Tiffany does not giggle with guys making minimum wage while holding a tray of appetizers. You are ruining the aesthetic."

"This is exhausting," Zoe whined into the mic.

"Grab a glass of champagne and get inside," Aria commanded. "Now."

Aria watched as Zoe rolled her eyes, gave the cute waiter a little wave, snatched a champagne flute from a passing tray, and strutted toward the security desk.

Aria held her breath as Zoe showed the fake ID on her phone to the stern-looking man in a tuxedo at the desk. The man scanned it, checked his tablet, and nodded respectfully, unhooking the velvet rope to let her into the main hall.

"I’m in," Zoe exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Take a seat in the back and get a bidding paddle," Aria whispered back.

"Who are you talking to?" Diana snapped, twisting in her wheelchair to glare up at Aria. "Stop muttering to yourself. You look deranged. Now push me toward the center. My friends are arriving."

Aria rolled her eyes but dutifully pushed the wheelchair forward, she couldn’t leave Diana’s side. She was her ticket inside in the auction.

A flock of older women, draped in silks and blinding jewels, immediately swooped down on the wheelchair like a pack of well-dressed vultures.

"Diana, darling!" a woman in a plum gown cooed, leaning down to press a fake, air-kiss to Diana’s cheek. "We weren’t sure you’d make it tonight, what with your... tragic little accident."

"It takes more than a minor leg injury to keep me away from the Austrian royal jewels, Beatrice," Diana boasted smoothly, waving a diamond-clad hand.

"Of course," another woman, clutching a vintage Hermès clutch, smiled sweetly. "Speaking of tragedies, did you hear about Susan’s husband? Caught on a yacht in Monaco with his twenty-two-year-old ’assistant’. Poor Susan is devastated."

"Well," Beatrice hummed, her eyes gleaming with passive malice as she looked at Diana. "At least Susan has a husband to be devastated over, right, Diana? Being single at our age must be so... peaceful. No messy divorces to worry about."

Diana’s jaw locked so tight her teeth audibly clicked. Her face flushed a mottled red beneath her makeup.

Aria stood behind the wheelchair, silently amazed by the toxicity of these old women. These women were supposedly best friends, yet they were casually ripping each other’s throats out with polite smiles.

Beatrice’s sharp gaze drifted upward, landing on Aria.

A few weeks ago, these women would have ignored Aria. They would have written her off as a cheap, temporary toy their friend’s brother was playing with.

But the world had shifted. The Vanity Fair interview was currently the most talked-about piece of media on the globe. Damien Sinclair had publicly stated he would burn the city to the ground for his wife. The husbands of these very socialites had even sat them down and explicitly warned them: Aria Sinclair is the key to the Demon King. Do not offend her.

The pivot was so fast it gave Aria whiplash.

"Oh, Aria!" Beatrice gasped, her harsh features instantly melting into a puddle of sycophantic adoration. "My goodness, look at you! That dress is stunning. Is it custom McQueen?"

"You look radiant, darling," the woman with the Hermès clutch gushed, stepping forward to gently touch Aria’s arm. "My husband, Arthur, was just telling me yesterday how brilliant Sinclair Corp’s new tech acquisitions are. You and Damien are just the ultimate power couple."

Diana froze in her wheelchair. Her knuckles turned stark white as she gripped the armrests.

"We are hosting a charity gala for the Metropolitan Museum next month, Aria," Beatrice pressed, completely ignoring Diana now. "You must come. We would be honored to have you sit at our table."

Aria looked at the flock of desperate, sucking-up socialites. She gave them nothing.

"Mmhmm. Thank you?" Aria responded with a polite hum.

She wasn’t actually paying attention to them. Her focus was elsewhere.

"Okay, I’ve got the auction booklet," Zoe’s voice whispered. "They’re starting with some cursed hairpin that belonged to Marie Antoinette, and then a bunch of boring, dusty oil paintings. The fifty-percent share block for Vale Entertainment is listed as Lot 42. We have at least an hour before they even get to it."

Aria offered a vague, dismissive nod to Beatrice’s continued rambling, internally calculating the timeline.

"I’m just going to sit here and drink free champagne," Zoe declared. "And maybe judge people’s outfits. There’s a guy in the front row wearing velvet loafers with no socks. Disgusting."

Aria’s lips twitched upward into a suppressed smile at her best friend.

But down in the wheelchair, Diana had reached her breaking point.

She was the Sinclair by blood! She was the old money! And her own social circle was currently bending over backward to kiss the ass of a twenty-year-old actress who wasn’t even bothering to give them full sentences in return!

She couldn’t stand being second best for another second. She needed to reclaim the center stage. She needed to humiliate the girl standing behind her.

"Oh, don’t bother sucking up to her, ladies," Diana suddenly blurted out, her voice pitching up into a loud, spiteful, carrying tone that cut through the ambient chatter of the lobby.

The women stopped talking. They blinked, looking down at the wheelchair.

"You’re all wasting your breath," Diana announced, ensuring her voice echoed loud enough for the others surrounding them to hear. "She won’t be a Sinclair for much longer. She and my brother are divorcing very soon anyway."

The entire lobby froze.

Multiple champagne flutes halted halfway to their owners’ mouths.

A collective, echoing gasp rippled through the gathered crowd.