Nico
I headed toward my seat, moving with a slow, deliberate stride that felt like a victory lap before the race had even started.
As I passed the row where Alaric was standing, our eyes t again. He didn’t hide it this ti; he looked at with pure disgust.
I didn’t mind. In fact, I loved it. To make him even angrier, I winked at him.
Alaric de Villier. The na felt heavy, like old money and ancient trophies, but it didn’t quite fit the face I was looking at in person. On the screen, he was a living legend, a fallen king—but up close? He was pretty. Seriously, dangerously pretty. With those high cheekbones and his defiant stare, he looked like he’d been born to stand in front of a cara lens rather than a steering wheel.
My gaze traveled down, taking in the way he stood. He was tall, easily as tall as I was, and the way his suit hugged his fra made my thoughts take a sudden, sharp turn into the gutter. If he was this long, lean, and muscular everywhere else... I couldn’t help but wonder if there was sothing else just as impressive hidden beneath his expensive suit.
I shook the thought away with a silent, inward chuckle. "Focus, Nico," I muttered as I took my seat a few rows back, leaning into the velvet cushion. My manager, Dylan, leaned in close.
"Have you set your mind on sothing, Nico?" he whispered, glancing at the catalog. "There are a few rare watches..."
"No," I said. My eyes were fixed firmly on the back of a certain blonde head a few seats down. "I want the painting."
My manager blinked in surprise. "The Crimson Tide? I didn’t know you were into mariti storms."
"I’m not," I replied smoothly, crossing my legs and adjusting the cuff of my shirt.
I didn’t give a damn about the painting, even though it was a beautiful piece. The red sky and the crashing waves ant nothing to . But after seeing the way Alaric looked at it—the way he looked like he had seen the most beautiful thing in his life—it made want it, too.
He wanted it. He needed it. And that was exactly why I was going to take it from him.
The auction started once everyone was seated. So many billionaires at the tables started bidding, but I stayed quiet and waited for the right mont.
"The bidding for ’The Crimson Tide’ will begin at fifty thousand dollars," the auctioneer finally announced after thirty minutes. Imdiately, I felt a surge of adrenaline that was better than any shot of espresso.
This wasn’t about the art. This was about watching Alaric de Villier realize that in my world, he doesn’t get to keep anything he loves—because I will always make it mine.
"Sixty thousand!" a voice called from the left.
I sat back, my fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the armrest, waiting for him to take the bait.
Go on, Alaric. Make your move.
"Hundred thousand!" another person called on my right, and the room started murmuring.
I stayed silent, watching the way Alaric’s shoulders stayed rigid. He was waiting for the right mont to strike, his Alpha pride probably telling him he could scare the rest of the room off with one big move. If only he knew what I was planning.
"One hundred and fifty thousand!" Alaric finally called out.
His voice was clear, ringing through the hall with the kind of authority that usually made people back down. He didn’t even look back; he just stared straight at the painting, thinking he had won.
I leaned forward, a slow smirk spreading across my face. Finally, it was ti to play. I held my paddle up and called out, "One hundred and sixty."
Alaric snapped his head around, casting a glare at that could have lted the engine block of an F1 car. It was filled with pure hatred, like he could murder with his eyes right there.
I didn’t even flinch. I just t his gaze and smirked wider, enjoying the way his chest heaved with a sharp, irritated breath.
"One hundred and eighty!" Alaric snapped back, his voice rising.
"Two hundred," I countered instantly.
"Two hundred and fifty!"
The room went dead silent. Even the auctioneer paused, sensing the shift from a charitable donation to a personal vendetta. Beside , Dylan shifted uncomfortably, leaning in to whisper urgently in my ear.
"Nico, stop. This is getting ridiculous," he hissed. "The piece isn’t worth half of that. It’s way too expensive for a tax write-off."
I ignored him, my eyes locked on Alaric’s profile. He was starting to look desperate—the kind of desperation that cos when you realize your legacy is being bought out from under you by a "nobody."
His words, not mine.
"Five hundred thousand," I stated, my voice echoing through the room.
Gasps rippled through the hall and fingers pointed toward . Even Alaric froze. It was a ridiculous price—obscene, even for a charity gala—but I didn’t care as long as I won.
Dylan groaned beside , burying his face in his hands, but I didn’t care about the money. I cared about the way Alaric’s face had turned red with anger. I expected him to counter , but he didn’t.
"Five hundred thousand, going once..." the auctioneer began, his voice trembling with excitent. "Going twice..."
Alaric looked at the painting, then back at , his eyes searching for so sign that I was bluffing. I just stared back, still smirking at him.
"Sold! To Mr. Nicholas Park for five hundred thousand dollars!"
The gavel ca down with a final thud and the room erupted into polite, confused applause.
My eyes t Alaric’s one last ti and I could see the smoldering fury on his face. Then, he stood up and headed toward the right side of the room.
Where was he going? My eyes followed him until he disappeared down a hallway.
I stood up imdiately to follow.
"Where are you going, Nico?" Dylan asked.
"Business," I responded. I adjusted my tie and walked away, not bothering to hear the rest of his words.
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