The light flickered from the soft flames of candles adorning the tables, casting an intimate glow over the patrons. Each face was masked by calculated coolness, but beneath the composed exteriors, they all knew why they had come: to obtain the rarest of treasures, at any cost.

  The auction was already in full swing.

  Near the center of the room, a man sat motionless—a force so palpable that even without moving, he commanded the entire hall. Lucian Castellan.

  His presence stretched across the space like a noose tightening around every throat. A silent pressure that grew heavier with every passing moment. Those near him shifted unconsciously, wary not to breathe too loud. The subtle shift in the air belonged to him now.

  The velvet-draped auction hall reeked of desperation and ambition. Chandeliers glittered overhead like frozen stars, but no amount of gold or crystal could mask the sickness that clung to this place—the insatiable hunger to possess what others could not. Waiters in black vests floated through the gloom, careful not to meet the eyes of the predators they served.

  He sat relaxed, clothed in a custom-tailored, midnight-black Tom Ford suit that sharpened the lethal cut of his frame. A portrait of restrained power.

  No need for words.

  Power recognized power—and fear did the rest.

  The faces around him blurred together: men and women desperate to wear their wealth like crowns, believing their fortunes could forge empires. They were mistaken.

  Money could buy them a seat at the table, but not power.

  Power was born.

  Across the room, Ashton Duvall shifted, catching the candlelight with the gleam of a navy Zegna suit. Respectable. Predictable.

  His platinum watch flashed as he leaned forward, the sharp glint of ambition bleeding off him.

  I watched him without much interest.

  He was eager. Always eager.

  If ambition had a face, it would look like his—polished, hollow, desperate.

  At the front, the auctioneer presided with crisp efficiency, offering up relics that had crossed centuries and oceans only to be reduced to trophies.

  A gold Egyptian idol.

  A Russian Orthodox icon.

  An ancient Chinese scroll.

  Each artifact found new hands willing to pay any price to feel significant, if only for a fleeting moment.

  I became the silence between their desperate bids.

  There was no need to play their games.

  Not yet.

  The next item—a golden Mayan relic—sparked a ripple through the crowd. The detail was exquisite under the soft light, each carved line whispering forgotten power.

  Predictably, Ashton leaned forward, his silver bell chiming sharply.

  “Two million,” he called.

  I arched a brow slightly, amused.

  Predictable.

  A Russian oil heir countered with 2.5 million. A bidder from Qatar raised to three million.

  The dance was desperate, vulgar—a feeding frenzy.

  I stayed still, detached.

  Because what I wanted hadn’t surfaced yet.

  Ashton eventually lost to the Russian after a few stubborn bids. His jaw tightened before he slipped his smug mask back into place.

  He shot a glance toward me—seeking acknowledgment, irritation, envy.

  I gave him nothing.

  The auction pressed on.

  A Byzantine chalice.

  An Incan crown.

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  Artifacts heavy with blood, now prizes for those who had never paid a price for anything real.

  The excitement dulled with each hammer fall.

  The tension wound tighter.

  Everyone was waiting.

  Including me.

  Only my patience wasn’t born from hope.

  It was something colder.

  The lights subtly dimmed as a velvet-draped cart was rolled onto the stage.

  Conversations died.

  Glasses froze midair.

  Even the chandeliers seemed to dim, as if the air itself knew something sacred was about to emerge.

  I felt it—the pulse in my veins, the whisper of something old waking inside me.

  The auctioneer cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen… the final piece of the evening.”

  A dagger.

  Ancient.

  Silent.

  Waiting.

  Its blade shimmered with an unnatural gleam, edges so fine they seemed to hum.

  At the hilt, a diamond—rare, perfect—devouring every thread of light it touched.

  Everything else faded.

  Only the dagger remained.

  The moment I laid eyes on it, something shifted inside me.

  A flicker of memory.

  Of blood.

  Of oaths whispered in the dark.

  It wasn’t just a weapon.

  It was a tether to everything I had fought to reclaim.

  The auctioneer hesitated before continuing, as if he too felt the wrongness of trying to put a price on it.

  “The reserve price stands at one hundred million. Do we have any bids?”

  Silence.

  Then Ashton’s bell rang out, sharp and arrogant.

  “One hundred and fifty million,” he declared, puffing up in his chair.

  Pathetic.

  A bidder from Switzerland, older, sharper, countered with two hundred million.

  Ashton twitched.

  Visibly unsettled.

  I let them squirm.

  Let them pretend they stood a chance.

  Without touching my bell, without shifting a muscle, I let my voice cut through the room.

  “Three hundred million.”

  The words dropped like a stone into a still pond.

  A ripple of shock spread.

  The auctioneer’s brows shot up, scrambling for composure.

  Ashton froze, disbelief carved across his face. For a brief, exquisite moment, I caught the crack in his armor—the seeping rage, the deep inadequacy he could never hide from men like me.

  The auctioneer searched the room, desperate for another bid.

  None came.

  They knew better.

  With a decisive slam, the hammer fell.

  “Sold—to Mr. Castellan.”

  A slow, dangerous smile pulled at my mouth—not because I had won.

  Because the dagger was already mine.

  Fate. Debt. Blood.

  None of it mattered.

  Some things weren’t bought.

  They were claimed.

  And tonight?

  Tonight was only the beginning.

  After the dagger was secured, Lucian Castellan left the auction with the same cold efficiency he entered it. No drawn-out conversations. No lingering. Only a few curt nods to those whose presence demanded a sliver of acknowledgment. His car was already waiting — sleek, black, armored — a vessel of quiet power.

  The city’s underbelly came alive at night, and tonight was no different. A private lounge, tucked into the folds of the city’s most dangerous district, awaited him. The meeting was prearranged — approved by Lucian himself, which in itself was a rarity. He didn’t waste his time unless there was something to be gained — or destroyed.

  Inside, the air was thick, golden with low light and the burn of expensive cigars. Rhythmic music pulsed low beneath the surface, like a heartbeat felt through the floor. Velvet and leather draped the interiors, and exotic dancers, oiled and glittering, moved to the music. None dared approach Lucian. Not unless summoned. They weren’t stupid — they understood the hierarchy of power in this room.

  Lucian sat like a monarch on a throne, whiskey glass lazily gripped in his hand, the finest single malt swirling inside. At his right was his brother, Rafael Castellan — a shade younger, a shade less brutal, but no less dangerous. Rafael was relaxed, his sharp gaze missing nothing, his demeanor calm in the way a coiled serpent is calm.

  Flanking Lucian and Rafael were three men — his incumbents. Men he had personally chosen. They weren’t born of the old families, not blue bloods — but survivors, street-slick and dangerous, skilled where it mattered. Beautiful men, ruthless in loyalty, lethal in execution.

  Xander, a man with the sharp mind of a hacker, sat back, his eyes flicking to the monitors hidden within the walls. His role in the empire was less about brute force and more about bending systems to Lucian’s will. Arlo, the muscle of the group, kept his eyes on the door, ensuring no unwanted guests intruded on the meeting. Dante, a cold and calculating manipulator, leaned forward, his voice a whisper as he offered insights into the man’s desperate bid for favor. They were ruthless, loyal to Lucian beyond any measure, but none of them were as fierce or commanding as the man who ruled them.

  The incumbents and Rafael entertained themselves with the dancers — flirtatious smiles, idle caresses, murmured promises of later sins. Rafael, for all his brutal tendencies, could charm when he wanted to, his voice a low hum against a dancer’s ear, making her laugh and blush in equal measure. Xander smirked, toying with a girl’s bracelet as if debating whether to steal her away for the night. Kai whispered something that made another dancer giggle, her hand resting on his thigh a little too familiarly. Damiano was colder, but even he allowed a woman to lean into him, his hand resting possessively against her hip.

  But Lucian — he watched. Silent. Detached. He engaged only when he chose, only when the moment bent to his will, not because he was tempted like a man with no control.

  Across from him, the guest of the night — a middle-aged man sweating into his too-tight collar — pitched his desperate proposal. He spoke of alliances, of territory exchanges, of how lucrative their union could be. And then, the unspoken offer slipped into the conversation — a marriage alliance. His own daughter, offered like a pawn across a chessboard.

  Lucian’s mouth curved in something that almost resembled a smile. Almost.

  Marriage. The idea of being bonded to someone for advantage alone was laughable. Lucian didn’t believe in love — he believed in power. Control. Fear. Marriage was a leash disguised as loyalty, and he wore no leashes.

  He took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the silence stretch until the man across from him shifted, fidgeted, his nerves unraveling.

  “No,” Lucian said simply, his voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. “Your offer doesn’t interest me.”

  The man tried to backpedal, to reframe, to salvage his pride — but Lucian had already dismissed him with a look. A king didn’t explain himself to a desperate merchant.

  The city pulsed outside the lounge. Inside, Lucian Castellan remained unmoved, unbothered. Unchallenged.

  As it should be.