Chapter 9 - The Fracture in the Facade
A collective gasp sucked the air straight out of the Metropolitan Museum.
The auctioneer froze, his gavel hovering three inches above the wooden block. "T-twenty million dollars? Mr. Thorne bids twenty million."
Richard Langford whipped his head around, his face turning an apoplectic shade of purple. To outbid an old-money family by twelve million dollars in a single jump wasn't just a challenge; it was a public execution of their financial vanity.
"Gabriel, this is unprecedented!" Richard barked, half-rising from his seat. "This stone belongs to the Langford estate!"
"Then buy it back, Richard," Gabriel replied smoothly, his arm resting lazily across the back of my chair, his fingers lightly brushing against my bare shoulder. "Unless, of course, your credit lines are as overleveraged as your municipal bonds."
Damian looked like he was about to vomit. Victoria was violently clutching her father’s sleeve, hissing in his ear, but Richard Langford’s jaw was clamped shut. Twenty million in liquid cash for a charity auction was an insane maneuver, even for billionaires—unless your name was Gabriel Thorne.
"Twenty million going once," the auctioneer stammered, his voice cracking. "Twenty million going twice..."
*Crack.*
"Sold! To Mr. Gabriel Thorne for twenty million dollars!"
The applause that followed was hesitant, terrified, and utterly mesmerized. Gabriel didn't even stand to acknowledge it.
He simply looked at the auction assistant scurrying toward our table with the display case. When the assistant presented the glittering green stone, Gabriel didn't touch it.
"Give it to Miss Collins," Gabriel commanded softly. "It matches her eyes far better than it ever matched Victoria’s."
The emerald was placed in front of me, blazing under the chandeliers. Across the aisle, Victoria rose from her chair so fast she knocked her champagne glass onto the carpet, bursting into furious tears before storming toward the grand exit. Damian scrambled after her like a lapdog trailing behind its master.
As the room buzzed with the scandal of the decade, Gabriel leaned toward me. For a fraction of a second, the cold, ruthless mask of the Ghost of Wall Street slipped, revealing a strange, darkened intensity in his eyes.
"You didn't flinch, Ava," he whispered, his thumb grazing the side of my throat just above the sapphire necklace.
"I spent four years watching every penny, Mr. Thorne," I answered, meeting his gaze without backing down. "I know the value of money. And watching them drown in their own arrogance was worth every cent."
Gabriel’s lips twitched into a genuine smile—not the cold smirk he showed the world, but something dangerously close to admiration.
May you like
"Careful, Ava," he warned softly. "You might actually make me enjoy this arrangement."
***