The host's voice cut through the thickened air like a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, composed and polished, "welcome to the main event of tonight's gathering—the Lardizabal Private Auction."
Lights shifted. The ballroom dimmed just enough to command attention. Conversations died. Even Jacob Rivera's gaze—still lingering on me like a hand around my throat—was forced to break as the first piece was unveiled.
"This auction," the auctioneer continued, "is not merely a display of luxury. It is a commitment."
"All proceeds from tonight's sale will be directed toward three causes: disaster rehabilitation projects across Visayas and Mindanao, educational endowments for underprivileged children, and the Lardizabal Cultural Preservation Fund—dedicated to nurturing emerging Filipino artists."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Katabi ko si Arden, kasama ang ilang matagal nang kasosyo ng Lardizabal. Pero kahit nasa gitna ako ng mga kakampi, nanatiling matalas ang pakiramdam ko. Ito ang kaunaunahang pagkakataon na nasa iisang gusali kami ni Jacob, hirap akong huminga pero kailangan kong magpakatatag hanggang matapos itong programa. Hindi ko sinulyapan ang gawi ng Rivera. Nasa kanang bahagi sila ng ballroom-hiwalay, tahimik, as if their very presence was a quiet declaration that they had not come to build bridges.
The first pieces went smoothly.
Rare European landscape paintings.
A Patek Philippe, auctioned with quiet reverence.
Vintage jewelry—old money gleaming in every facet.
Bids rose and fell like a practiced tide—controlled, predictable. Power behaving exactly as it should when surrounded by its equals.
And then—
"And now," the auctioneer said, his tone subtly shifting, "we move to a special collection."
The screen behind him changed.
A painting appeared.
Muted greens. Gold-washed skies. A familiar silhouette of hills—terraces folding into each other like memory layered upon memory.
My breath caught.
Habang ipinapakilala ang obra, agad kong inilabas ang camera. The image on the screen—it was one of Cohen's.
"The next piece," the auctioneer continued, "is a landscape titled Home, As Remembered."
My chest tightened.
"This work depicts the Lardizabal estate—not as it stands today, but as it exists in the eyes of its creator. The artist chose not to focus on structure or scale, but on light... on safety... on belonging."
I felt it then—the quiet recognition spreading through the room. Even Arden, composed as ever, showed a flicker of something softer.
"The painter," the auctioneer added, "is eleven years old."
A collective intake of breath.
"This is the work of a young, unpublished artist. Because of that, the starting bid will be modest."
I gripped Arden's hand, my vision blurring as I continued recording.
"However," he said gently, "every peso raised from this piece will be donated in full to the educational fund supporting children displaced by conflict."
"We will begin at seventy-eight thousand pesos," he announced, and the bidding opened gently, respectfully, until Mr. Tuazon's voice rang out at one hundred thousand. The number alone shifted the atmosphere—suddenly, Cohen's work stood shoulder to shoulder with established names.
