Chapter 2 - THE MECHANICAL SILENCE
The room grew so quiet,
that the sound of the grandfather clock in the hallway,
suddenly felt like a hammer hitting an anvil.
My father took my wrist,
his fingers trembling slightly,
as he pulled the cuff of my blouse further back.
He didn't look at me,
he looked at the watch,
the masterpiece of horology,
known as the Gerald Klein "Celestial Meridian."
I saw his eyes trace the tourbillon,
the way the balance wheel danced,
under the scratch-resistant sapphire,
and the blood drained from his face.
Thomas was a man of logic,
a man of investments and hard assets,
but he was also a collector.
He knew that only three of these had ever been made,
and that the last one,
sold at a private auction in Geneva,
had fetched nearly two million dollars.
Blake leaned in,
his Ferrari-red tie swinging like a pendulum,
his expression shifting from smugness,
to a twisted sort of confusion.
“It’s a nice replica,
Thomas,”
Blake said,
his voice cracking slightly,
as he tried to reclaim the air in the room.
“Audrey’s a startup girl,
she probably found it in a vintage shop,
or some flea market in Brooklyn.”
My father didn't even blink,
he didn't look at Blake,
he simply reached into his pocket,
pulled out a jeweler’s loupe he kept for his own collection,
and pressed it to his eye.
He examined the hand-painted constellation,
the tiny diamonds that marked the stars,
and the signature on the bridge,
engraved in a script so fine,
it was nearly impossible to forge.
He let out a breath,
a long,
shuddering exhale,
and let go of my arm.
“It’s not a replica,”
my father whispered,
his voice carrying to the very back of the dining room.
“This is the original piece,
the one commissioned for the Klein estate,
years ago.”
My mother looked at me,
her fork frozen halfway to her mouth,
her eyes searching my face,
for a daughter she didn't recognize.
The cousins shifted,
their luxury SUVs and brownstone renovations,
suddenly feeling like children’s toys,
in the presence of something so rare.
“Audrey,”
my uncle asked,
his voice low and gravelly,
“where would you get a two-million-dollar watch?”
I leaned back in my chair,
the worn leather band of the watch,
feeling familiar and warm against my skin.
“I told you,”
I said,
my voice steady and clear,
“it was a gift.”
“A gift from whom?”
Blake demanded,
his face turning an ugly shade of red,
as his ego began to fracture.
“From Gerald,”
I replied,
“I helped him with his digital security,
three years ago,
before the firm even had a name.”
The silence returned,
heavier than before,
as the relatives realized,
that the "struggling" girl,
May you like
was moving in circles,
they couldn't even imagine.
