By nine o'clock, the sprawling ballroom transitioned from an open floor of whispered deals and clinking glasses into a structured theater of financial bloodsport.
The dining tables were arranged in wide, tiered arcs facing the elevated stage.
The centerpieces – massive arrangements of white orchids and silver branches – were cleared away by swift, silent waiters to afford clear sightlines to the podium.
Ryan sat at Table 4, a prime location near the front right flank. Diana sat at the head of the table, flanked by Arthur and a media conglomerate CEO.
Zara sat to Ryan's left, her thigh brushing his beneath the heavy linen tablecloth.
The friction of the silk against his wool trousers was a quiet, steady burn anchoring him to the present moment.
The auctioneer stepped to the podium. He was a British man with a sharp, clipped delivery, wielding a mahogany gavel like a conductor's baton.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, nursing his second glass of bourbon.
