chapter 10

Antiques require a keen eye, my grandfather used to say. Without the right knowledge, you could easily get scammed. Luckily, growing up with my paternal grandfather—a man passionate about collecting antiques—gave me some insight into spotting authentic pieces. Whenever I visited him, he would enthusiastically pull me into his collection room, showing off his treasures and teaching me techniques to identify genuine antiques. I silently hoped that those lessons would come in handy today.

"Here we go, miss," my driver announced, parking the car near the street lined with antique shops.

The street was relatively quiet, much less crowded than the bustling markets I had visited earlier. Antiques, after all, weren't for everyone. They appealed mostly to the wealthy, who collected them as symbols of status, or the occasional hopeful who believed an antique might bring them fortune.

"Alright, wait for me in the car. I'll be back in a while," I instructed, stepping out with confidence.

I headed straight toward a particular shop—a place I knew well from my grandfather's frequent purchases.

"Good evening, miss," the shopkeeper greeted me politely, his tone warm and welcoming.

"Good evening, sir," I replied, skipping the pleasantries. "I'm looking for an antique box—something small, like a jewelry box or a container for stamps or coins. Can you show me what you have?"

"Of course, miss. Please wait here," he said eagerly before disappearing into the back of the shop.

Moments later, he returned, carrying a variety of boxes. There were wooden boxes with intricate carvings, ornate pieces adorned with gemstones, and simple yet elegant designs with smooth finishes. He placed them on the counter and began narrating their histories, explaining where they originated and their supposed significance.

But I didn't pay much attention to his words. My grandfather had always warned me that sellers often fabricate elaborate stories about the origins of antiques to make a sale. "Focus on the craftsmanship, materials, and details," he'd advised. "The story is just fluff."

I leaned in, examining the boxes closely, running my fingers over the carvings and checking for signs of authenticity—details that couldn't be replicated by modern replicas.

My eye caught a mahogany box with delicate carvings of flowers and animals—art that exuded an imperfection only human hands could create. It was slightly messy, yet intricate, and my grandfather's words echoed in my mind: The more perfect the art, the less likely it is human-made. Humans leave traces of individuality in each stroke, unlike machines that work uniformly without interruption.

"This one. How much is this?" I asked, pointing to the box.

The shopkeeper's eyes lit up. "Ah, this! A great choice, miss. This is from the Qin dynasty in China, an exquisite and delicate piece," he began, enthusiastically recounting its supposed history.

But I wasn't interested in the story. "What's the price of this box?" I interrupted, bringing him back to the point.

He hesitated for a moment. "Oh, it would be around $50,000," he said, eyeing me carefully.

Without a second thought, I handed him my card. After completing the transaction, I carried the box to the car, curiosity bubbling inside me.

Once seated, I opened it. The interior was lined with velvety red cloth, and the compartments inside, though seemingly designed for rings, were perfect for displaying the coins I had painstakingly collected earlier. A satisfied smile spread across my face.

"What did you buy, young madam?" my driver asked, glancing at me curiously.

"Oh, just a box to display the coins we worked so hard to collect," I replied playfully.

"An antique box for those less valuable coins? Why?" he asked, confused.

"Well, you'll find out at Grandpa's birthday. Sorry, but I can't spoil the surprise now," I teased.

He gave me a knowing look and then smiled. "Alright, young miss. Whatever you say. Where to next?"

I thought for a moment, then remembered something. "I need to book a spa appointment. Grandpa's birthday is just a few days away, and I need to pamper myself, of course."

I chuckled at the thought, suddenly aware of my growing excitement. After all, I am Mrs. Anderson, amused by my own confidence.

I walked into the mall and headed directly to my favorite salon. The familiar scent of lavender and eucalyptus greeted me as I stepped inside.

"Good evening, Miss Knight," a staff member greeted me with a polite smile. My aunt and I were members of this salon, so they always recognized us instantly.

"Good evening," I replied, following her as she led me to the serene hot springs area. Sinking into the warm water, I felt the stress of the past few days melt away.

The idea of inviting Rose to join me briefly crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. She'd never travel this far for something so indulgent, I thought. Next time, maybe.

Just as I tied my robe and prepared to leave, my phone chimed with a message.

"Where are you?" Noah's name flashed across the screen, and my heart skipped a beat at the surprise message.

"At the spa in the mall," I replied, curious as to why he was asking.

"There's a dress at the boutique I picked for you. Do you have time to see if it's alright and suits your taste?"

Another surprise. He picked a dress for me? The thought made me squeal internally like an excited teenager. Quickly getting dressed, I walked to the boutique Noah had mentioned. Luckily, it was in the same mall.

"Good evening, Miss. How can I help you?" the boutique assistant greeted me as I walked in.

"Someone has booked a dress here under the name Lyla Knight," I said in a low voice.

Her eyes widened in recognition. "Mrs. Anderson, welcome! My apologies for not recognizing you earlier," she said, quickly leading me to a private room.

"Mr. Anderson has selected these three dresses for you. Please let us know which one suits your preference."

I glanced at the three stunning dresses in front of me—each unique but sharing a refined elegance that screamed Noah's taste. My eyes landed on a black dress with long white rhinestone-encrusted sleeves. It was classy and effortlessly stunning.

"I'll try this one first," I said, taking the dress into the trial room.

Inside, as I zipped it up, the zipper got stuck halfway. Frustrated, I tried to tug it free but to no avail. Sighing, I called out for the assistant.

"Can someone help me? The zipper's stuck," I said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

After what felt like an eternity, the door finally opened.

"Thank goodness you heard me. I thought I'd be stuck here forever," I said, relieved.

But instead of the assistant's response, I felt a cold hand on my back. A familiar scent hit me, one that was unmistakable.

"Noah?" I tried to turn, but his firm grip kept me in place as he pulled the zipper up smoothly.

His warm breath brushed against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

"Long time no see, Mrs. Anderson," he whispered, his deep voice laced with teasing amusement.