“Seventy.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Ninety.”
My pulse kicks hard with each number. Alexander hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. He’s still. Waiting.
“One hundred.”
“One-twenty.”
The numbers climb higher, faster. The room is alive with excitement, the air thrumming with wealth and competition. My throat feels dry, but then—
“Two hundred.”
His voice cuts through the noise. Calm. Smooth. Detached. As if he’s ordering a drink, not throwing down six figures like it’s pocket change.
A ripple of whispers spreads across the room. I can’t take my eyes off him.
“Two-fifty,” another voice answers.
I follow the sound. It’s from an older man, sharp in an expensive gray suit, with slicked-back hair and a smile that reeks of arrogance. The kind of man who’s never been told no.
“Three hundred,” Alexander bids again, unfazed.
“Three-fifty,” The man fires back instantly, leaning back in his chair, smug, confident. He thinks he’s already won.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until Alexander moves.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head and looks at the man. The expression on his face is chillingly indifferent, as if the man isn’t even worth the effort of a glare.
And then—his voice again, low, commanding, impossible to ignore.
“Five hundred thousand.”
The entire room falls silent.
The man’s face falters, his smugness cracking as if someone ripped the mask off. He opens his mouth to argue, but the auctioneer is already slamming the gavel down.
“Sold! To bidder forty-five.”
Half a million. For one painting.
But it doesn’t feel like that’s what just happened. This wasn’t about art. This wasn’t about money.
My knees nearly buckle under me. My heart is a drum in my chest, too loud, too erratic. Something about this isn’t normal. None of this is normal. Who is this man? And why does it feel like every move he makes pulls me deeper into something I can’t escape?
I force my eyes back to him. He isn’t looking at the painting. Not at the auctioneer. Not at anyone else in this room.
He’s looking at me.
The air feels too heavy, the walls too close. I can’t breathe. Shoving my tray into another server’s hands, I bolt.
The hallway is calmer, quieter, but it doesn’t help. My steps echo as I push through the bathroom door and grip the edge of the sink with trembling hands.
Cold water. I need cold water. Something to ground me, to drown out the pounding in my head.But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. Not the painting. Not the gavel striking down. Not the sheer weight of that half-million-dollar bid.
It’s him.
