Meanwhile, the auction pressed on beneath the heavy velvet lights of the theatre.
Numbers rose. Paddles lifted. The auctioneer's voice carried smoothly across the crowd, disguising monstrosity beneath refinement.
Drogo slipped from his seat without drawing attention, his movement timed between bursts of applause. His shoulders remained relaxed, his expression neutral, as though he were merely stepping out for air. Instead of heading toward the main exit, his footsteps curved toward a discreet corridor near the backstage wing.
The lighting shifted there, dimmer and less decorative. The laughter from the hall dulled into a distant murmur.
Two security men straightened at his approach.
"This area is restri—"
Their eyes fell on his name tag, his surname, Bartholomew, meeting their gaze.
Recognition flickered across their faces almost instantly. Their posture eased. One stepped aside, and the other gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
No further questions were asked.
