The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 238

Everyone laughed, including Anna and Zebulon. Seeing how devoted Theodore was to his wife, it was clear that Mrs. Stapleton could never be Penelope. She wasn’t worthy.

Not only did Theodore grill the skewers himself, but he also delivered them personally.

Penelope took a bite and declared, “Excellent! Master chef level!”

Theodore preened. “Really?”

“This is the best barbecue I’ve ever had in my life!”

“Well, it seems I have a hidden talent for grilling.”

“If your company ever goes bankrupt, you could make a comeback grilling skewers!”

This was getting a bit over the top. Even though Penelope looked completely serious and was devouring the food, Theodore started to have his doubts. He picked one up and took a bite. It was bitter. He must have burned it.

“You can’t really taste anything right now, can you?” Theodore asked after a moment of thought.

Penelope replied with utmost sincerity, “Even though I can’t taste much, I can tell it’s delicious!”

Theodore’s mouth twitched. “You almost had me fooled.”

After finishing the skewers, Penelope was content. She sent Theodore away, washed her face, put on a face mask, and prepared for a good night’s sleep.

Just as she lay down, she felt thirsty and had to go out for some water. As she passed through the small sitting area, she noticed a brochure on the coffee table. She glanced at it, then did a double-take and snatched it up.

Downstairs, the drinks were flowing, and the conversation was lively.

Suddenly, a woman in pajamas, with her hair down and a face mask on, came running toward them. In the middle of the night, the sight sent a chill down everyone’s spines.

Before anyone could react, Theodore was already on his feet, striding forward to pull her into his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked urgently.

Penelope, oblivious to the strange looks from the others, held up the brochure. “I—I want this painting!”

Theodore looked down and saw it was a brochure for an auction, probably brought by one of the guests. The painting Penelope was pointing at wasn’t by a famous artist and was listed in the catalog for tonight’s auction.

Someone had suddenly jumped the bid.

Penelope looked at Theodore anxiously. He shook his head at her, then spoke into the phone, “One million.”

After their representative, number 8821, called out one million, the auction floor went silent for a moment. But then the bidder who had jumped to one hundred thousand, number 8003, seemed just as determined, calling out, “One million, one hundred thousand.”

8821: “Five million.”

8003: “Six million.”

…

The bidding quickly climbed to sixty million.

It would have made sense if it were a masterpiece by a famous artist, but it wasn't.

Penelope pursed her lips. This was her mother’s painting. It was strange enough for it to be at an auction, but for someone else to be willing to pay such a high price for it was even stranger. Who could be so obsessed with her mother’s work?