“First call…”

“Second call…”

“Third call—congratulations, sir, the item is yours!”

The auctioneer’s gavel fell quickly and decisively. A charity fundraising auction was very different from a formal auction house event.

Generally, aside from a few newcomers or those unfamiliar with this type of event, no one seriously competed over the items. Everyone would donate something to be auctioned, then bid on their own item and buy it back. There was no real competition, so the auctioneer didn’t need to stir up the crowd—just wrap things up quickly.

As Penny watched item after item—some clearly valuable, others whose worth she couldn’t see—sell for astonishing prices, she gradually started to understand what was really going on.

“Is this how you guys always do it?” she asked in a low voice.

Coming to the event with Lynch today had truly opened her eyes. Aside from seeing people she’d never normally encounter, this unique form of charity auction felt entirely new to her.

Lynch didn’t respond. She had been chattering all evening, curious about everything—asking why this, why that.

At first, Lynch humored her with answers, but he quickly gave up. No sooner had he answered one question than she’d ask another.

The auction started from the back rows and moved forward, with the more prominent figures reserved for last.

Soon it was Lynch’s turn. A waiter approached carrying a red velvet tray.

Lynch pulled a lighter from his pocket and placed it on the tray, briefly explaining its features, value, and background. The waiter listened attentively, then walked away.

“I thought you guys would have prepared in advance,” Penny said, still full of curiosity. “What if someone didn’t bring anything? Would people send stuff ahead of time—like oil paintings or something? Real estate would actually make sense too…”

Lynch sighed and turned to her. “At least you wore shoes, right?”

Penny pouted. She couldn’t understand the mindset of these elites. In her view, an event like this should be approached seriously, with preparations made days or even weeks in advance—everyone eagerly awaiting their moment.

But her initial excitement had quickly faded. No one was bidding. It didn’t feel like an auction at all—more like a boring, ordinary donation drive.

This wasn’t what she had imagined.

In truth, Penny had misunderstood the entire concept. In events like this, whether it’s an auction or charity, those things aren’t the core—the money is.

How the money is raised doesn’t matter. What matters is that the money comes in.

Carefully planning and preparing in advance didn’t serve much purpose. It was more efficient to casually donate a personal item and then buy it back, saving everyone time and effort.

And why use an auction instead of a straightforward donation? Because auctions and donations have different tax deduction structures.

Yes, the President and First Lady were that considerate. Even as they reached into everyone’s wallets to earn political clout, they still ensured guests got the most out of their tax write-offs.

“This is a finely crafted lighter donated by Mr. Lynch,” the auctioneer announced. “Handmade by a renowned artisan, featuring a high-purity brass body that is durable and corrosion-resistant. The exterior is pure gold, inlaid with eighty-eight gemstones of various colors.”

As he spoke, the auctioneer opened the lighter. The crisp metallic click echoed through the hall.

It was a fine lighter—at least based on the description and its craftsmanship.

“The original price is approximately fifty thousand federal sols. Starting bid: fifty thousand. Bidding is now open…”

Penny stuck out her tongue for a brief second. She hadn’t expected a lighter to be that expensive.

God—her current film salary was around that much. And she knew Lynch had many similar lighters. The thought made her head spin a little.

She asked herself, Why do you still work so hard?

Wouldn’t it be easier to just ride along and win?

Of course, no one could answer that—not even herself. Sometimes, even wanting to coast isn’t so easy.

Lynch raised his hand. “One million.” He wore a warm smile. “This lighter has been with me for a long time. I’m emotionally attached to it. And moved by Madam Barbara’s initiative, I believe we should each do what we can to support society. I hope no one competes with me—thank you.”

He said this partly to keep things light, but mostly to prevent anyone from interfering.

At events like this, people sometimes stirred up trouble—trying to curry favor with Lynch, or owing him a favor. They might try to bid in his place.

Spending fifty thousand to earn Lynch’s goodwill? A bargain.

Lynch’s statement made it clear he didn’t want that happening.

If someone tried to compete anyway, it would just be awkward for everyone.

Fortunately, no one tested him with a million-Sol bid. These were not poor guests. The auctioneer quickly called out three times, then brought the gavel down.

Lynch had already prepared a bank draft. As the waiter returned the lighter, he placed the draft on the velvet tray.

A one-million-Sol bank draft, issued by Golden Exchange Bank—redeemable for cash at any bank.

Next to checks, drafts like this were one of the most commonly used financial instruments among capitalists.

From this point on, the auction’s price level spiked. No one who followed could offer less than Lynch.

The President looked over and gave Lynch a subtle nod. Lynch understood—it was a gesture of gratitude.

Whether it’s a million or ten million, a donation is still a donation. If the First Lady couldn’t raise a significant amount, the President would lose face.

Even if every bid after Lynch’s hovered around a million, the total would hit close to twenty million—more than enough to give the President and First Lady a media-worthy triumph.

Some of the guests in the front row glanced back at Lynch. Compared to his earlier bids of one or two hundred thousand, this sudden leap to a million had raised the bar by several times.

Compared to the relatively composed expressions of the others, the two young men from the Duncan family looked far less polite.

“He pushed the price too high—this is way beyond what we planned!”

The speaker, a prominent member of the younger generation of the Duncan family, withdrew his indifferent gaze from Lynch’s face and quietly complained to the older youth beside him.

Their original plan was to donate around five or six hundred thousand. But now, it looked like they’d need to give at least a million.

As one of the most powerful families in the Federation, the Duncans couldn’t allow themselves to be seen on the same level as lesser families.

If Lynch donated a million, they would have to give 1.5 or even 2 million to show the family’s stature and dominance.

The one he referred to as big brother wore a faint, unreadable smile. “It’s not that much money. Let’s just do it.”

He glanced sideways at his brother. “A great family should act like one. Let’s donate two million.”

The younger man nodded and said nothing more.

The auction continued at this pace. Mr. Wadrick donated his tie clip and bought it back for 1.2 million. Lynch had set the bar too high—he hadn’t intended to spend that much.

Mr. Patric donated Anna’s diamond hairpin and also bought it back for 1.2 million.

Everyone followed an unspoken rule. In high society, these rules were everywhere. Many newcomers, lucky enough to enter the upper class, often found themselves lost—like there was an invisible wall around them, keeping their behavior in check.

This was the price of lacking heritage: not even understanding the most basic rules.

In the end, the formal part of the charity auction concluded with the Duncan family spending two million on a wristwatch. The First Lady, visibly moved, announced the total amount raised—a stunning number.

It was more than double what she had expected, all thanks to Lynch’s unexpected high bid, which disrupted the entire price rhythm and forced everyone afterward to give more.

That single two-million donation equaled the sum of over a dozen previous ones.

The First Lady knew who deserved the credit, but she didn’t show it immediately. Lavishing too much praise on Lynch, or drawing too much attention to him at that moment, would only invite unnecessary resentment.

Once the event ended successfully, the President and First Lady began seeing guests off. When they came to Lynch, they made a point of speaking with him directly.

“This weekend, if you’re free, I’ll be hosting a barbecue in my garden. Will you come?” the President asked.

Lynch had done them a great favor. It was only right to repay him—by strengthening ties and starting discussions on future cooperation and interests.

“It would be an honor. I have a fine bottle I’ve been saving—I’ll bring it with me,” Lynch replied easily.

The President extended his hand again for a shake. “Then I’ll be expecting you. Come early—we’ll have time to talk.”

“Absolutely.”

As they said their goodbyes to the First Couple and stepped outside, they ran into Mr. Wadrick.

He had been speaking quietly with two others. When he saw Lynch, he ended the conversation and turned toward him.

“Got a moment to talk?”