CHAPTER 1

The golden glow from the grand chandelier bathed the auction hall, casting reflections over sparkling champagne glasses and the glittering jewelry of the elite guests. The air was thick with opulence, filled with murmurs of wealth, power, and history. But for Lilia, none of that mattered.

Her eyes were fixed on the painting—the last item of the night. "Horizon’s Lament," a masterpiece by Elian Devereux, the last work from the renowned artist before his untimely death. She had spent months studying it—memorizing every brushstroke, tracing the artist's intentions in catalog prints, and immersing herself in its history. This was more than just a painting. It was her last connection to something pure, something untouchable. And tonight, she was determined to win it.

The auction hall buzzed with excitement as guests chatted, some distracted by the grandeur of the event, others caught up in the historical significance of the piece. Lilia could barely hear them. Her focus was entirely consumed by the canvas before her, the vivid blues and fiery oranges contrasting against a dark, stormy sky. "Horizon’s Lament" felt like the artist's final cry, a raw, emotional goodbye to a world that had taken him too soon.

“Have you seen it?” a voice whispered from behind.

Lilia didn’t turn around. She knew it wasn’t important. Nothing mattered except the painting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve reached the final item of tonight’s exclusive auction!” The auctioneer’s voice boomed across the hall, cutting through her thoughts. “A one-of-a-kind masterpiece—Horizon’s Lament, the last known painting of Elian Devereux. This is more than art; it’s a farewell, a final piece of the artist’s soul.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, the anticipation reaching a fever pitch. Lilia’s fingers tightened around the auction paddle. Her heart was racing, pounding in her ears. This was her moment.

“The bidding starts at twenty million dollars.”

A brief silence passed before a few murmurs of interest filled the air. Lilia barely noticed. She didn’t hesitate. This was her time.

“Twenty-five million.”

A wave of whispers swept through the room at her bold move. The auctioneer acknowledged her bid with a nod.

“Twenty-five million! Do we have thirty?”

Seconds passed, stretching into eternity. No one raised their paddle. Lilia’s pulse thundered in her chest. Was she really about to win?

Then, a voice cut through the stillness.

“Forty million.”

The room fell silent. A heavy, almost suffocating stillness washed over the hall.

Lilia’s breath caught in her throat. Her head whipped around, searching for the man who had spoken. He sat at the far end of the room, relaxed, a glass of red wine in his hand, his posture effortlessly composed. The moment she laid eyes on him, her chest tightened.

The overhead light cast shadows across his razor-sharp features—a face that was both dangerous and mesmerizing. His dark gaze held an air of absolute authority, as if he belonged here, as if the entire event revolved around him alone.

His presence was commanding. Even his posture—so composed, so untouchable—set him apart from the rest of the guests, who were now quietly watching the exchange unfold.

Who is he?

Lilia didn’t know, but she didn’t like the way the room seemed to fall silent at his mere presence.

“Forty million dollars! Do we have forty-five?”

Lilia’s hands trembled, her mind racing. This was insane. But she couldn’t back down now. She had fought for this. She couldn’t let him take it from her.

She lifted her paddle. “Forty-five million.”

For the first time, the man’s gaze shifted to meet hers. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He tilted his head, analyzing her with the same cool detachment he had shown the room. It was as if she were just another piece of art he was evaluating, not a person.

Then, with a slow, almost amused smile, he spoke.

“Fifty million.”

A sharp inhale swept through the room. The tension was unbearable.

Fifty million.

This wasn’t just about the painting anymore. It was about dominance. A way to crush his competition with sheer financial power.

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Lilia felt dozens of eyes on her, the weight of their judgment pressing down on her. She was out of her depth. She couldn’t win against him. Not with money. Not with power.

Her fingers clenched around the paddle, her mind racing. Should she go higher? But how much was she willing to sacrifice for this?

Then, just as she was about to speak, the auctioneer’s voice rang out.

“Sold for fifty million.”

The gavel slammed down, and the sound echoed in her chest like a dull thud.

It was over.

The masterpiece she had fought so hard for now belonged to a man she didn’t even know.

Her hands clenched into fists. Across the room, the man stood up, adjusting his suit jacket with a slow, deliberate motion. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t acknowledge her.

Instead, he turned and walked toward the exit, his movements casual, as if none of this had mattered to him at all.

Something snapped inside her.

Without thinking, Lilia stood up and followed him. She wasn’t going to let him walk away without an answer.

She trailed him down a long corridor, the golden light of the hallway casting his imposing silhouette in sharp relief.

The further they walked, the quieter it became. Lilia’s heartbeat was loud in her own ears, each step heavier than the last.

She should stop. She should turn around.

But she couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.

Finally, he reached an exclusive VIP lounge. A staff member opened the door for him, and he stepped inside.

Lilia didn’t hesitate. She followed him in.

The door closed behind them, and the air shifted. The room was dimly lit, with a luxurious bar and deep leather chairs that created a sense of intimacy and exclusivity.

The silence in the room felt thicker, more oppressive.

Lilia turned toward the man, her frustration boiling over. “Who the hell are you?”

The man, now standing by the bar, poured himself another glass of wine before finally looking at her properly.

There was amusement in his dark gaze, as if he had expected her to follow him all along.

He took a slow sip of wine before answering. “You followed me here just to ask that?”

His voice was smooth, deep, and entirely unconcerned.

Lilia gritted her teeth. “You deliberately raised the bid just to take the painting from me.”

He swirled his glass lazily. “Maybe.”

Her frustration flared. “Do you even care about that painting? Or was this just some game for you?”

Finally, he put down his glass and walked toward her. His movements were deliberate, slow, like a predator closing in on its prey.

She forced herself to hold her ground, but when he stopped just inches away, the air between them thickened.

She could feel his warmth, his power, his presence pressing into her space.

Then, he leaned in, his breath ghosting against her ear, his voice dangerously low. “You always ask the wrong questions.”

Lilia stiffened. Before she could react, his fingers brushed lightly against the curve of her wrist—a fleeting, deliberate touch that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

Then, as effortlessly as he had approached, he pulled back, as if sensing her sudden unease.

And with the faintest smirk, he finally said what he had intended all along.

“We’re engaged.”

Lilia froze.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced, trying to comprehend what he had just said.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

She stared at him, searching his face for any sign that this was a joke, that he was lying, anything to tell her this wasn’t real.

But his expression remained unreadable, except for the faint, almost mocking curve of his lips.

It wasn’t a joke.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was the beginning of something she never saw coming.