For a moment, Catherine felt bad. Lawson's jowls trembled, and his eyes were wide. The dark circles under his eyes were still there, and his skin looked pasty and pale. The tuxedo hung slightly too big on him—he really was a broken man.

"I can't stop the auction now," she said.

​​

"Well, if you refuse, I'll do it myself," he huffed.

He rushed out of the box, and Melanie and Madison raced after him.

"Is this why you asked them here?" Sean asked dryly.

"I don't know why I asked them here," she said with a sigh.

"They're going to drag you into this, you know," he said, and his mouth curved into a disapproving frown. "I don't need my wife getting into public fights at an auction."

Catherine sighed, ashamed. But she still leaned out over the balcony to watch the drama unfold below. Lawson rushed past the bidders and up onto the stage. He whispered something to the auctioneer, and the elderly man paled and stepped away from the microphone.

"Sit down," Sean hissed. "Please."

She watched as Lawson jogged onto the stage. By the time he climbed the four stairs leading up to the stage, he was panting for breath, and his face shone in the bright spotlights.

"Stop the auction," he shouted. "The Picasso is mine."

"Excuse me, sir?" the auctioneer asked. "I must ask you to leave the stage. If you want the painting, you may bid on it just like everyone else."

"No," Lawson shouted. "The Picasso is mine. It was stolen from me and put up for auction here."

There was a gasp in the crowd, and people began shifting in their seats to get a better view. A few of the older women looked scandalized, but most were excited—most auctions were calm, stately affairs. A stolen painting was exciting—something to talk about at cocktail parties and brunches for the next few months.

"I'm so sorry, sir," the auctioneer said. "But I can assure you that we thoroughly vet the origins of all pieces available to ensure they're all authentic and acquired through legal means."

"Bah," Lawson shouted. "You do nothing of the sort if the name of the person selling the item is powerful enough. I'm telling you that's my Picasso, and I refuse to let you auction it."

The auctioneer looked flustered and confused, "Well then, sir, perhaps you can step off the stage and show me the ownership certificate and a copy of the report you made to the police when the item was stolen, and we can sort this out."

Catherine watched as Melanie and Madison jogged to the stairs. They hesitated at the bottom, but neither dared to go up and join Lawson on the stage. Instead, they beckoned for him to come down. But he ignored them and continued protesting.

"Please, sir," the auctioneer begged. "Let's step off the stage and sort this out."

Lawson's chest heaved with rage and exertion, and she saw him lift his head and stare up at the boxes. She wondered if he was looking for her. Was he going to accuse her of stealing the paintings in front of everyone? A powerful hand clamped down on her shoulder and tugged her away from the railing.

"Sit down," Sean said. "I don't want you dragged into this."

She blushed and sat carefully on the seat, wondering if he regretted giving her the extra invitations. Had she made a huge mistake to invite the Stewarts? It seemed like it. She chewed her lip, hoping the scene below wouldn't affect Sean's opinion of her.

"What's going to happen?" she asked him.

"Well, that depends on your uncle," Sean replied. "If he filed a police report—which I doubt, he'll be able to reclaim the painting. Otherwise, it could draw into a lengthy legal battle."

"So I won't be able to sell the painting?" she asked.

Sean smirked, "You'll be able to sell it, alright."

"How?" she asked.

"Well, I happen to know that he doesn't have an ownership certificate at all," Sean answered. "He acquired the painting through back channels—not exactly legally. He'd be smart to stop talking now before anyone thinks to look into the history of the painting."

"Are you saying it's stolen?" she asked.

Sean shook his head, "Not stolen. But it might be a forgery."

Catherine gasped, "I'm selling a forgery?"

"Might be," Sean replied, looking amused. "I'd have to have my art dealer examine it in person to say for sure."

"What if they find out?" Catherine asked.

"Don't worry, they won't," he said.

"Please, sir," the auctioneer was practically shouting. "Step off the stage and discuss this with the organizer in the back."

"No," Lawson shouted. "It's my bloody painting, and I'm taking it with me."

Lawson crossed the stage and grabbed the golden frame, lifting the canvas of the easel it was displayed on. He teetered under the weight of the frame, and the audience gasped. He staggered across the stage, carrying the painting as the auctioneer shouted and waved for the security guards. The two models in glittering gowns stood nervously to the side, watching Lawson like he was a wild animal.

"Please," Melanie's voice shouted. "Put the painting down." She turned and looked at the audience and shouted, "My husband isn't well! He's having a stroke!"

"I'm perfectly well," Lawson roared. "It's my bloody niece who stole my art and put it up for auction."

Catherine sank lower in her chair, scared he would point at her or call her out by name. From her position, she saw two security guards in black suits charge the stage. They pounded up the stairs and moved cautiously toward Lawson—if they weren't careful, Lawson could drop or damage the precious painting. Two more guards snuck up from the back of the stage, creeping toward Lawson while the others distracted him. One lunged and grabbed his arms, and the other snatched the painting and put it back on the easel.

"Wait," Lawson shouted, struggling against the guards. His face was red, and his eyes were beady and narrowed with hatred. "Catherine, you've pushed me too far this time. You'll pay!"

The crowd began to murmur, craning their heads to look up at the boxes, and Catherine's stomach sank. She had accidentally caused a scene. Sean would be furious.

"That's right, everyone," Lawson shouted, his voice filled with crazed glee. "My niece Catherine Stewart stole the painting from me. And not just this one—she stole my entire collection! She knows how hard I've worked for these paintings and how much I love them, and she has the nerve to sell them off at an auction like they mean nothing to her."