The Duke's tone was as clear as glass and twice as cold.
The room that had spoken—Room Nine—immediately fell silent.
A single verbal slap from a Duke was enough to shut down even the most arrogant noble houses.
A slow, almost smug grin played at the edge of Arianne's lips. "Father's had enough of the posturing."
Michael sat back, nodding slowly. "Can't blame him."
And yet, inwardly, Michael sighed.
Even the Duke was bidding now.
"Two million, one hundred," called Room Three again.
Then Room Five.
"Two-two."
"Two-three."
"Two million, five hundred thousand," came the thunderous bid from Room Fifteen.
The hall shook—not literally, but the weight of the number struck every listener like a hammer.
Some nobles gasped.
Others fell silent, their expressions stiff.
Michael simply exhaled.
'Yeah… I'm definitely not in the right tax bracket for this one.'
He glanced at the crystal embedded in his seat. Not even worth considering.
