My Parents Skipped the Funeral of My Husband and Two Children for My Sister’s Birthday, but Six Months Later, One Headline Made Them Panic When They Discovered What I Had Done. / Chapter 110 / 121

Chapter 110 - The Gavel Falls in Blood

The Grand Salon of Level Minus Three was an arena of sickening decadence.

Crystal chandeliers hung from reinforced concrete ceilings, illuminating circular tiered seating covered in oxblood velvet. Fifty of the world's most powerful shadow brokers, oligarchs, and black-market sovereign lenders sat in plush armchairs, sipping vintage champagne while reading dynamic digital ledgers on their tablets.

At the center of the amphitheater stood an elevated marble podium. Behind it stood a man in his late sixties, impeccably groomed in a charcoal bespoke suit, his hair silver and his eyes cold as glacial ice.

The Curator.

On the massive digital display above him, assets were cycling through real-time valuation updates.

"Item 44," the Curator announced, his cultured voice carrying across the hushed hall. "The residual collateral of the Vance-Blackwood branch. Comprising primary debt bonds, intellectual patents, and secondary familial liability rights for Sarah Vance and Tyler Vance. Starting bid: eighty million euros."

A representative from a Middle Eastern conglomerate raised his numbered paddle. "Eighty-five."

"Ninety," an Eastern European voice called out from the second tier.

"One hundred million," I called out, my voice slicing through the polite murmur of the room as I descended the marble steps of the gallery.

Heads turned. Eyebrows raised. The Curator paused, his piercing eyes narrowing as he recognized my face beneath the soft ambient lighting.

"A late arrival," the Curator said smoothly, resting his hands on the podium. "And an unauthorized one. The Blackwood seat was allocated to Julian Blackwood."

"Julian is dead," I stated clearly, stopping ten paces from the marble platform. "My mother is rotting in a federal isolation ward. And my sister Evelyn is currently trading her designer shoes for prison porridge."

A rustle of unease swept through the elite crowd. Several private security guards along the perimeter moved their hands beneath their jackets toward their sidearms.

"Claire Blackwood," the Curator said softly, a dangerous smile touching his lips. "The rogue asset. You think you can walk into the heart of the Archon Trust and make a bid?"

"I didn't come to bid on the Vance family, Curator," I said, slipping the diamond ring from my finger and dropping it onto the marble floor.

The ring didn't bounce; its magnetic base clamped onto the brass inlay of the floor with an audible click.

"I came to liquidate the entire auction."

Above us, the lights died instantly.

A deafening explosion ripped through the sub-floor maintenance tunnels as Ethan detonated the primary transformer banks. Emergency red sirens flared to life, and the digital display above the stage began flashing violently as the zero-day worm injected millions of gigabytes of raw, unencrypted Archon transaction records onto the public internet, routing directly to the servers of Interpol, the FBI, and every major investigative news bureau across the planet.