POV : Emerald Circle Country Club
The Emerald Circle Charity Gala was supposed to be an evening of refined elegance, a place where the city’s wealthiest could sip champagne, bid on overpriced artwork, and pretend they cared about the less fortunate.
For Alan Trask and Jonathan Alroquette, however, it was a battleground.
Trask made his entrance with all the subtlety of a conquering emperor, shaking hands, flashing smiles, and making sure everyone in the room knew exactly how many charities he ran. Several guests barely had time to swallow their hors d’oeuvres before he reminded them that he was a man of philanthropy, a benefactor of the city. A true humanitarian.
Jonathan, meanwhile, arrived with the air of someone who had never needed to introduce himself. He didn’t have to. He was Alroquette money—old, deeply entrenched, and quietly powerful. He was here to enjoy the evening, have a drink, and, if necessary, remind a few people of their place.
It didn’t take long before the two of them crossed paths near the grand ballroom entrance.
“Jonathan,” Trask said smoothly, lifting his glass in a mock-toast. “Didn’t expect to see you here. I assumed charity wasn’t really your thing.”
Jonathan smiled, the kind of smile reserved for nuisances. “Oh, but Trask, I love charity. It’s one of my favorite tax write-offs.”
A few nearby guests coughed into their drinks.
Trask’s expression barely flickered. “That’s where we differ, I suppose. Some of us build something meaningful. Others just sign a check and call it a day.”
Jonathan took a slow sip of his whiskey. “Yes, you do run quite a few charities, don’t you?” He glanced around dramatically. “Remind me again, which one was it? The one that lost half its budget to ‘administrative costs’? Or the one with the suspiciously high ‘consulting fees’?”
Trask’s smile tightened. “A businessman knows that good work requires good infrastructure.”
“Ah yes,” Jonathan mused. “Good infrastructure. Is that what you’re calling your third vacation home?”
A few people outright gasped.
Trask let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to understand. I worked for everything I have. You, on the other hand…” He let his eyes drift across the room, smirking. “Well, let’s just say being born into wealth is quite the shortcut.”
Jonathan tilted his head, like he was observing something mildly interesting. “And you remind me of a man who just recently got money and still hasn’t figured out how to spend it with any taste.” His eyes flicked ever so briefly to Trask’s wife, who was standing just a little too stiffly in a designer dress that cost more than most cars.
Trask’s wife, Vanessa, was the perfect example of nouveau riche excess. She was tall, blonde, and had the kind of beauty that came with meticulous upkeep—courtesy of a surgeon with an eye for wealthy desperation. Her designer dress, a shimmering, gold-embroidered number that clung just a little too tightly, looked more like an attempt to prove something rather than a natural choice. The jewelry? Excessive. Diamonds, emeralds, and enough gold to make a dragon horny. And yet, despite all the wealth draped over her, there was something undeniably stiff about her posture, like she wasn’t entirely comfortable in the role she was playing.
Jonathan’s gaze flicked over her briefly before returning to Trask with an amused smirk. “You’ve got the money, Alan, but class? That takes generations.”
Trask’s grip on his drink tightened ever so slightly. “Jealous?”
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Jonathan leered at Trask’s wife. “I do appreciate a good investment piece.”
Another guest choked on their champagne.
Trask took a deep breath, visibly calming himself before his expression smoothed back into something self-satisfied. “Why don’t we settle this like men of means?” He gestured toward the grand auction hall. “Let’s see who really has the power here.”
Jonathan exhaled, bored but amused. “An auction war? Trask, you really are nouveau riche.”
Trask grinned. “Afraid to lose?”
Jonathan checked his watch. “Afraid I’ll be late for dinner, but fine. Let’s see who walks away with the biggest prize.”
They turned toward the auction stage, a crowd already murmuring with excitement. This was no longer about charity.
This was personal.
***
As Trask and Jonathan squared off, the tension in the room became thick. Not quite scandalous, but definitely the kind of rich-person drama that made for excellent dinner conversation later.
Near the bar, a woman in an emerald gown leaned toward her companion. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Her companion, a man nursing an overpriced cocktail, smirked. “You just know Jonathan’s going to bid on something completely ridiculous just to make a point.”
Another guest, adjusting the lapel of his tux, chuckled. “Of course. But Trask? Trask needs to win. He lives for this kind of posturing.”
A younger attendee, clearly new to these circles, whispered, “Wait, are they actually fighting?”
A more seasoned guest rolled her eyes. “Darling, this is fighting. This is how men with more money than common sense throw punches—by wildly overpaying for antiques.”
The murmurs rippled as Trask and Jonathan took their seats near the front, both looking far too composed for what everyone knew was about to turn into a financial bloodbath.
One particularly tipsy man in the back nudged his friend. “Bet you a hundred bucks Trask buys something stupid just to prove a point.”
His friend grinned. “Oh, definitely. But the real bet? How much will Jonathan spend just to watch Trask squirm?”
The buzz of anticipation grew. The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, oblivious—or perhaps very aware—of the brewing storm in front of him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Emerald Circle Charity Auction. Shall we begin?”
***
The Emerald Circle Charity Gala was supposed to be a night of refined elegance, where the wealthiest socialites and business moguls gathered to pretend they cared about something other than their bank accounts.
In reality?
It was a battleground of petty rivalries, disguised as philanthropy.
And at the center of the most entertaining grudge match of the night were two men who could never be in the same room without turning it into a contest of who had the bigger wallet.
Jonathan Alroquette vs. Alan Trask.
The auction had been standard billionaire nonsense so far.
A bottle of whiskey from the 1800s? Sold for $20,000.
A ridiculously oversized diamond necklace? Snatched up for $85,000.
A one-of-a-kind designer suit, tailored for a man six inches shorter than anyone bidding on it? Went for $13,000 to someone who definitely wouldn’t fit into it.
But that was just the warm-up.
Because now—now—came the Venetian Puzzle Box.
And before Jonathan could so much as process, Trask’s hand was already in the air.
“One hundred thousand.”
The auctioneer barely had time to breathe before Jonathan immediately countered.
“One-point-two.”
Trask didn’t even look at him. “One-point-five.”
Jonathan smirked. “Two.”
Trask exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was mildly inconvenienced. “Two-point-five.”
The murmuring in the ballroom was growing louder.
Jonathan leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. “Three.”
Trask snapped his fingers at the auctioneer. “Four.”
Jonathan raised a single eyebrow. “Four-point-five.”
Trask tilted his head just slightly. “Five.”
Now the murmuring had turned into full-blown whispering.
The auctioneer glanced between them, realizing that at this point, he was just a spectator in their personal war.
Jonathan smiled. “Six.”
Trask finally turned his head, looking at him directly.
Then he shrugged.
“A million.”
The room erupted.
A ripple of audible gasps and low whistles spread across the audience.
Jonathan’s jaw tightened.
Trask gave him a lazy, almost bored look.
“Still feeling competitive, Johnny?” he asked, swirling his wine.
Jonathan’s fingers twitched against his glass.
He knew Trask was doing this on purpose.
The man never even cared about the puzzle box.
He just wanted to win.
The auctioneer waited.
And waited.
And Jonathan—Jonathan did the unthinkable.
He hesitated.
The room was dead silent.
Then he exhaled sharply and waved a hand dismissively.
The gavel slammed down.
“Sold! To Mr. Trask for one million dollars!”
The audience burst into applause.
Trask leaned back, smug as hell. “Better luck next time, Johnny.”
Jonathan picked up his drink, took a sip, and plotted his revenge.
***
