Goodbye Forever Ex-Husband (by Ammund) novel Chapter 193

Chapter 193

OLIVIA’S POV

The entire hall fell into a stunned hush the moment I spoke. It was like the air itself had been cut by the sharp edge of my words.

“Sixty million?” someone near the back whispered, barely daring to breathe.

“And yet I thought Adrian Westwood was crazy for bidding fifty million… she’s insane,” another voice added, half in awe and half in disbelief.

“With how quiet she’s been all this time, I thought she was just Damien Cole’s assistant… but now? Who the hell is she then?” another voice murmured, the question hanging in the air like a stubborn ghost no one could banish.

I kept my gaze steady, not flinching under the sudden storm of attention. Beneath the mask, my expression remained unreadable Let them wonder. Let them question. That mystery was my shield and my weapon at the same time.

a deliberate choice.

My eyes drifted to where Adrian sat. His face was priceless: eyes wide, lips parted just slightly in shock. For a second, he seemed completely thrown off balance, and I had to force myself to keep my expression calm instead of smiling in triumph. He clearly hadn’t expected anyone–least of all me–to come out with a price like that. But I knew better than to think it was over. Adrian Westwood wouldn’t fold so easily.

“Sorry ma’am, are you sure about that price?” the manager asked, his voice shaky as he gripped the microphone tighter, like it might anchor him to reality.

“You heard me right,” I said, voice firm, low, and completely certain.

The manager swallowed, cleared his throat quickly, and tried to recover his professional tone. “Alright then, sixty million dollars from…”

Before he could finish and reveal anything more, I lifted my gloved hand, raising my index finger to my lips. A subtle gesture, but clear enough.

He caught it immediately. His eyes flickered with understanding, and he nodded respectfully. “Sixty million from… the lady in the mask,” he corrected himself.

A ripple of murmurs moved through the crowd again, louder this time.

And then, as I knew he would, Adrian raised his bidding paddle. His voice was calm but edged with a stubborn resolve. “Sixty–five million dollars.”

There it was. The voice I had been waiting for. The fight had truly begun.

“Sixty–five million dollars from Mr. Adrian Westwood, going once…” the manager called, glancing around the room to see if anyone dared to interrupt.

I barely waited for the words to leave his mouth. “Seventy million dollars,” I countered, raising my paddle smoothly, my heart beating faster but my hand steady.

The crowd gasped again. It was as if every new bid from me was rewriting the boundaries of what they thought was possible – or reasonable.

“Seventy million dollars… for a car? That’s just reckless. Does she even have that much money to throw away?” someone whispered behind me, words dripping with disbelief.

I ignored them. They didn’t know who I was, and that was exactly how I wanted it.

Damien leaned in close, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “I guess you really did come prepared,” he murmured, his tone half–amused, half- admiring. “But your opponent doesn’t look like he wants to back down.”

their

I allowed myself the smallest of smirks behind the mask. “Like you said,” I whispered back, “I came prepared. And I’m ready to drag this as long as it

takes.”

My gaze shifted back to Adrian. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed. Beside him, James leaned in, talking rapidly into his ear. From the tension on James’s face, I could guess the gist of the conversation: caution, reason, maybe even concern about how far they could push

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Chapter 193

this without crossing some invisible financial line.

But Adrian was stubborn. I could see it in his eyes. The kind of stubbornness that had probably won him more than a few battles

The manager’s voice cut back through my thoughts, shaky but trying to remain composed. “Seventy million dollars going once…

! waited, eyes locked on Adrian, studying him carefully. His fingers drummed on the table, his stare fixed on the Rolls–Royce like he could already see it in his driveway.

I could almost see the war in his mind: the desire to win clashing with the cold logic of numbers.

I stole a glance at him, catching the intensity in his eyes. He looked determined, perhaps a little too sure of himself. His jaw was set, lips pressed in a thin line. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing: that this had turned from bidding on a vintage car to a silent declaration of power and defiance.

The manager descended from the small stage, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. When he reached me, his expression was a mixture of relief and admiration. “Congratulations, ma’am,” he said, shaking my hand with both of his. Then he turned and shook Damien’s hand respectfully.

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