Chapter 170

Pamella felt her face burn with embarrassment, but before she could speak, Izzy pointed to another painting. What was this woman saying? Why mention Cecil Weiss's well-known problem? What was Izzy thinking?

Izzy's gaze remained steady. She sipped her champagne, then pointed to another painting across the room. "And what about that one?" she asked, her tone neutral.

Pamella hesitated, the previous comment lingering in her mind. But with so many eyes on her, she couldn't falter. She took a breath and focused on the painting.

"This is a study in atmospheric abstraction," she said, stepping closer. "The artist uses muted tones and blurred edges to create a dreamlike quality. Depth is achieved through color gradients—see how the shades transition seamlessly? It gives the illusion of movement, as if the painting is breathing."

A few women murmured in appreciation, nodding as if they understood. Izzy watched Pamella with unreadable eyes before glancing at the painting again. "I see."

Pamella continued, but her posture was stiff. It was clear she wanted to change the subject. Just as Izzy was about to point to another painting, the ballroom lights dimmed, signaling the start of the main program. The crowd shifted, returning to their seats or gathering near the stage.

Pamella exhaled, relieved. But before Izzy could move, Pamella grabbed her arm firmly. "Shut the fuck up," Pamella hissed. "Don't do that again, or you'll regret it."

Izzy turned, calm as she met Pamella's glare. "Are you threatening me?"

Pamella's grip tightened, but she remained silent. She gritted her teeth, released Izzy's arm abruptly, and stalked off. Izzy barely reacted, simply brushing off her arm before turning toward the stage.

Pamella returned to her seat, fuming. Her fingers curled around her champagne glass as she struggled to maintain a neutral expression. That woman—that damn woman—had humiliated her.

Pamella took a slow breath, forcing composure. She would let it go for now. Because soon enough, Izzy would get what she deserved.

She glared at Izzy, who calmly returned to her seat, adjusting her dress. The dimmed lights signaled the auction's start, and the murmuring subsided. Then, her phone buzzed. Izzy glanced at the screen: Atty. Alcaraz.

Frowning, she stood, slipping out of her chair discreetly. Liam wasn't seated yet, so she left without telling him, intending to find him later. The room was too loud, with guests shifting and waitstaff moving. She needed somewhere quieter.

She moved toward the outer hall, past the grand pillars framing the entrance. This area was less crowded. The soft glow of wall sconces cast shadows across the polished marble floor. To her right, the hallway stretched toward the main lobby; to her left, it led to the restrooms and a private lounge. The elevator doors were further down, their golden panels reflecting the light.

She lifted the phone to her ear, pressing answer, but the call disconnected before she could speak. Izzy stared at the screen, furrowing her brows. She redialed, but the call failed twice. A strange feeling settled in her stomach.

She was about to return to the ballroom when someone grabbed her arm, halting her firmly.

Meanwhile...

"Why are you smiling?" Calen asked Pamella, noticing her smirk. "Is something on my face?"

"Nothing," Pamella replied.

"Then did something happen?" Calen asked. He'd let Pamella join the other women while he spoke with acquaintances interested in the Blackwell Group.

Pamella barely registered his question, her focus elsewhere. Then, a wave of murmurs rippled through the room. She turned, noticing guests leaning in, whispering behind champagne glasses.

Without hesitation, she stood. "Get up," she said, tugging Calen's sleeve.

Calen frowned. "They're about to start."

"This will be more fun," Pamella murmured, pulling him along. He sighed but followed, allowing her to lead him out of the ballroom and into the corridor near the lobby.

As they approached, hushed voices grew louder. A small crowd had gathered near the women's restroom, their expressions ranging from curiosity to concern.

"Someone should call security," a man muttered. "This is embarrassing."

Pamella's interest was piqued. "What's going on?" she asked the man.

He barely glanced at her, nodding toward the restroom door. "There's been noise from inside. The door's locked. No one's come out."

Pamella glanced at the growing crowd, noting several businessmen—guests of the gala. Her lips curled slightly. Calen immediately reached for his phone, but Pamella stopped him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What?"

"Calling 911 is too slow. Someone should call the guards; they must have a key. Someone could be in danger," Pamella said, her face innocent—almost too innocent.

Calen shot her a suspicious glance, but before he could speak, another guest said, "The housekeeping staff should have a key," looking toward a nearby waiter.

Someone immediately nodded and called them. The crowd shifted, their attention on the locked door. A few exchanged uneasy glances, others watched, intrigued.

Pamella stood beside Calen, composed, casually adjusting her clutch. This was far more entertaining than she'd expected.