She hasn’t seen me.
And there’s something exquisite in that. This slow burn of anticipation, my eyes following her every move through this glittering cage, unaware of the force about to shift the axis of her night.
The moment I step forward, the air will change, and the ground will tilt. Everything between us will catch fire.
The energy shifts the moment the auctioneer steps forward. A ripple moves through the ballroom, and there’s a collective inhale wealthy people take when they’re about to prove something to each other. His voice rolls across the crowd, trained to turn excess into performance.
Trips. Art. Jewels.
Vacations no one needs. Experiences they’ll forget by morning.
Polite money floats back and forth, accompanied by soft laughter. Champagne glasses lift with bored grace. Bids rise to that perfect sweet spot where they signal status. It’s a dance of ego and etiquette, everyone pretending they’re above the thrill while chasing it desperately.
I hold still.
And then it appears. The Patek Philippe. 1940s. Gold. Elegant in the quiet, devastating way actual power never needs to announce itself. The kind of watch that belonged to men who built empires on their breath and buried rivals with a handshake.
Something I want to add to my collection.
The bidding opens fast, paddles rising in quick, confidentflicks. Smiles tighten, and predators dressed as philanthropists bare their teeth with money.
I don’t have a paddle. I don’t need one. My hand rises once, subtle and unhurried, the gesture of a man claiming something he already considers his.
The number climbs.
I answer each one without pause or blinking, without a drop of hesitation.
Across the ballroom, Laurette moves. Her dress flares under the chandelier’s molten light, and her head tilts—the slightest shift, as if her body recognizes something her eyes haven’t found yet.
She feels me. Of that I’m certain.
Another bid.
I lift my chin this time.
Conversations stall mid-sentence as people hear the escalating numbers. One man—the last holdout—hesitates before signaling again, his confidence cracking around the edges.
I don’t look at him. I simply lift my hand one more time.
The auctioneer’s voice warms, sensing blood in the water. Last call. The crowd murmurs about the figure and how it has climbed well beyond what most of the room expected.
The gavel drops, and the watch is mine.
The music unfurls, and the crowd shifts. Couples drift toward the center, skirts whispering against polished floors, hands finding hands, bodies sliding into practiced proximity.
I wait.
Richard turns away to greet another guest.
Jon David is at the champagne bar, pretending to listen to a man he doesn’t respect.
Her parents are in deep conversation with a donor whose laugh is too bright and eager.
And there’s Laurette.
Alone.
Just for a breath.
