Page 41 of Twins for the Off-Limits Lawyer

"So fascinating to have a fresh perspective," Mrs. Chen said, settling back into her chair with the kind of smile that looked painted on. "I understand you work in... television?"

The way she said "television" made it sound like I performed surgery with rusty spoons in my spare time.

"Shopping channels, actually," I said, straightening my shoulders. "I help people find products that make their lives better. Gardening tools, mostly."

"How… practical," Davies murmured, his smile lacking genuine warmth. Thompson nodded with the kind of understanding that passed between people accustomed to dismissing entire categories of existence. "And I suppose someone has to sell to that demographic."

The casual dismissal hit me like a slap, but I kept my smile bright. Bless their hearts, they probably thought they were being subtle.

Edward's jaw tightened—a tell I was beginning to recognize—but before he could say anything, the lights dimmed and the auction began.

The auctioneer was a professional, working the crowd with the skill of someone who knew exactly which buttons to push to get wallets open. Vacation packages, jewelry, artwork, wine collections—each item was presented with just the right amount of exclusivity and urgency.

I watched the whole process with professional interest, noting how he built excitement, created competition between bidders, and made each purchase feel like both a steal and a noble contribution to charity. This was exactly what I did every night at 2 am—except, instead of selling luxury to people who could afford to bid more than most folks' annual salary on a whim, I was selling garden tools to insomniacs.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Edward leaned over to murmur in my ear, his breath sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. "The psychology of luxury purchases."

"It's all about making people feel special," I whispered back. "Like they're not just buying something, but joining an exclusive club."

About halfway through the evening, right as they were about to auction off a weekend at some fancy spa, disaster struck.

The microphone let out a screech that could shatter crystal, the overhead screen flickered and died, and the sound system gave one last heroic wheeze before cutting out entirely.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer said, his voice barely carrying past the first few tables, "we seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd like water through a broken dam. People checked their phones, chairs scraped as folks craned their necks to see better, and I could practically feel the energy draining from the room like air from a punctured balloon.

The spa package, which had been climbing toward a respectable £8,000, suddenly felt as exciting as watching paint dry. The auctioneer gestured frantically at someone off-stage, probably trying to figure out when the show could go on.

I watched the auctioneer's growing panic, the restless shifting of three hundred wealthy people whose good mood was evaporating by the second. This wasn't my world, wasn't my event, wasn't my problem. I should sit quietly like the good little American guest and let the professionals handle it.

But damn if that professional didn't look like he was about to cry.

And that's when something clicked in my brain. That moment when you see a problem you know you can fix, even if fixing it means stepping way outside your comfort zone.

"Oh, hell no," I muttered, standing up so fast my chair scooted backward.

"Lili?" Edward caught my wrist. "What are you doing?"

"Saving this trainwreck." I kicked off my heels under the table and dumped the rescued pearls into his palm. "Hold these. And maybe my dignity while you're at it."

The auctioneer saw me coming and looked like he was about to panic. I climbed the steps to the small stage, my stockings silent on the polished wood, and gently took the dead microphone from his hand.

"Well, this is a pickle, isn't it?" I called out, my voice carrying clear to the back of the room thanks to years of theater training in high school and projecting over power tools at work. "Y'all paid good money to be here tonight, and so far you've been watching British folks be polite about something that would have my Mama using words she learned in the Navy."

A few chuckles from the crowd. Good. Work with what you've got, Mama always said.

"Now, I know y'all are probably thinking, 'Who's this girl, and why is she interrupting our civilized evening?'" I moved across the stage like I was in my element, because somehow, impossibly, I was.

The heavy silk of my dress whispered against the floor, and I could smell the fresh flowers from the arrangements, the lingering notes of expensive perfume from the crowd. "But here's the thing—I sell stuff for a living. Day in, day out, I get on television and convince people they need things they didn't know they wanted. And right now, what y'all want is to give some money to charity and feel good about it."

The crowd was settling, paying attention. I could see Edward at our table, looking like he was watching a small-town girl wrestle a tornado. Pride warred with something darker in his expression—something that looked suspiciously like guilt.

"So let's talk about this spa weekend." I gestured to the enlarged photo that was still displayed on the dead screen. "The Marina Bay Resort. Four days of being pampered like the royalty y'all probably are. Massages that cost more than most people's mortgage payments. Food so fancy it has more syllables than my college degree."

Laughter. Real laughter this time.

"But here's what you're really buying," I continued, warming up now, using pause and timing the way I did on camera. "You're buying the right to be completely selfish for four whole days. To tell the world that you are more important than emails, more important than meetings, more important than whatever crisis thinks it needs you."

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