Chapter 8 - The $20 Million Slap
The Great Hall seemed to shrink around us.
Damian’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again, like a fish gasping on dry land. The smug arrogance that had defined his face for six months had completely evaporated, replaced by the sheer, unbridled terror of a man who realized the ground beneath his feet had turned to quicksand.
"Ava... what is this?" Damian choked out, glancing nervously at the high-profile donors watching the spectacle. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"
"She is here with me," Gabriel answered, his voice slicing through the hall with the quiet finality of a guillotine blade. "And unlike you, Damian, she didn't need to grovel to an inheritance committee to earn her invitation."
Victoria stepped forward, her face taut with fury, her polished socialite mask cracking at the seams. "Gabriel, this is absurd! You’re parading this... this charity case around to insult my family! She was living in a slum this morning!"
"Was she?" Gabriel tilted his head, his cold gray eyes locking onto Victoria with lethal precision. "Curious. Because according to city property records filed at two o'clock this afternoon, Ava Collins is the sole owner of the residential complex on St. Marks Avenue. In fact, she purchased the entire block through Thorne Capital."
I kept my expression completely neutral, though my pulse leaped. *He bought the block?*
"Which means," Gabriel continued, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that commanded instant terror, "that your petty little eviction notice this morning was an illegal trespass. My attorneys have already filed the complaint with the state bar against the notary who signed it. That was your signature, wasn't it, Damian?"
Damian swayed on his feet, his skin turning a sickly shade of gray. "I... it was a misunderstanding, Mr. Thorne. A clerical error—"
"Save your apologies for the ethics board," Gabriel dismissed him with a flick of his fingers, as if brushing away a persistent gnat.
Before Victoria could unleash another tirade, the master of ceremonies tapped the microphone from the raised dais at the front of the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, desperate to defuse the palpable tension suffocating the room. "Please take your seats for the premier lot of the evening: The Langford Imperial Emerald, donated by the Langford Trust to benefit the Metropolitan Restoration Fund."
Victoria shot me a venomous look before dragging a trembling Damian toward the front-row VIP table. "Come on, Damian. Let them talk. My father is bidding on that stone tonight to celebrate our engagement. Let’s see what their fake paper wealth can actually buy."
Gabriel guided me to the table directly opposite theirs. As we sat, waitstaff swarmed our table, pouring vintage Krug champagne into our flutes.
"Did you really buy my apartment building?" I whispered, leaning slightly toward Gabriel.
"I bought the building, the two adjacent lots, and fired your former landlady," Gabriel murmured, his shoulder brushing mine, sending a wave of delicious warmth through my silk gown. "No one evicts my fiancée, Ava. Not even for an hour."
"The Langford Emerald," the auctioneer declared, holding up a display case containing a massive, teardrop-shaped Colombian emerald surrounded by diamonds. "We will open bidding at five million dollars."
Victoria’s father, Richard Langford, a silver-haired patriarch with cold, haughty eyes, raised his paddle immediately. "Six million."
"Six million to the Langford family," the auctioneer chanted.
Damian raised his chin, looking back at our table with a pathetic attempt at defiance, whispering something to Victoria that made her smirk.
"Seven million," another bidder called out.
"Eight million," Richard Langford countered instantly, asserting his dominance over the room. The Langford family was renowned for never losing a public auction; this emerald was supposed to be the centerpiece of Damian and Victoria’s upcoming engagement announcement.
"Eight million going once..." the auctioneer said, looking around the quiet room. No one dared challenge the Langford patriarch on his home turf.
Gabriel didn't even look up from his champagne glass.
He raised his black paddle with a flick of his wrist.
May you like
"Twenty million," Gabriel said.
***