“Heh,” she scoffed. “So this is why you had the guts to blow through my card. You must have gotten real good at leeching off your sugar mamas.”
She jabbed a finger at the valuable items.
“How many people did you scam to fill this place up?”
I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
She stalked over to the coffee table, picked up a blue-and-white porcelain teacup, and scoffed.
“So it’s all for show, huh? A bunch of cheap knockoffs to make yourself look rich?”
“Well, I’ll give you this—it’s a pretty convincing replica. Shame about the glaze though, it's too new. A dead giveaway that it's fake.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Excellent eye, Miss Wright.”
Ironically, it was the only fake item in the house.
But Phoebe thought I was mocking her. Her expression turned even colder.
“Gabriel, I don’t have time to play games with you. Either you repay the five hundred thousand right now and sign these agreements, or the engagement is officially off.”
“If your dream of being a rich househusband shatters, don’t come crying.”
“Oh—and don’t expect me to take care of your parents either. With no retirement pension, I’m not funding their—”
She was abruptly cut off by one of the bodyguards, who leaned in and whispered, “Miss Wright, doesn’t that vase look like the centerpiece from the Sotheby’s auction last week?”
Phoebe froze and turned to where the man was pointing.
It was a Song Dynasty official kiln plum vase—an antique my father had bid on at a Sotheby’s charity auction just because I liked it. He bought it as a gift—for me to play with.
She stared at it for several seconds, her expression shifting from confused to incredulous before she scoffed.
“Really, Gabriel? A fake inspired by a Sotheby’s auction piece? You’ve got some nerve.”
Looking at this woman—three years older than me—I silently thanked the heavens I wasn’t yet legally of age to marry. If it weren’t for that loophole, by the terms of our family agreement, I’d already be her husband.
To be tied to someone like this—calculating, pretentious, cheap, and absolutely lacking in discernment—would’ve been the shame of my life.
I sighed and gestured toward the door.
“Phoebe, I don’t blame you for being blind, but if you’re going to come into my house and humiliate yourself, I won’t entertain it any longer.”
Her expression immediately darkened. “Oh, so now you think I need you?”