Chapter 110
Chapter 110
The auction hall transforms as the lights fully dim.
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What was a social gathering of masked elites becomes a theater–red velvet curtains drawn across the front, plush seats arranged in ascending rows, everything designed to make art feel like performance.
Which, I guess, it is when you’re selling it for millions.
Julian guides me backstage, where other artists are gathered in various states of nervous excitement. Some are pacing. Others are checking their phones obsessively. One woman in a spectacular gold mask looks like she might throw up.
I feel her pain.
“You’ll be fine,” Julian whispers, squeezing my hand. “Your work is incredible. They’re going to lose their minds p>
“Or they’ll hate it and I’ll go home with nothing p>
“Pessimist p>
“Realist p>
The auctioneer takes the stage–a silver–haired man in an immaculate tuxedo and a mask that probably costs more than my rent. His voice booms through the space, polished and professional.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s exclusive collection. We have thirty–seven extraordinary pieces from some of the most talented artists in the contemporary supernatural art world p>
He continues talking, but I tune him out, too focused on the fact that my entire financial future is riding on the next few hours.
The first painting goes up for auction—a landscape by someone called “The Crimson Hand.” It’s good. Really good, actually. All sweeping vistas and dramatic lighting.
Bidding starts at fifty thousand.
Within minutes, it sells for three hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
The artist–a young guy in a simple black mask–actually starts crying with relief as he watches the numbers climb.
I don’t blame him.
Three hundred thousand dollars would change my life. Would change Aedion’s life.
Please let mine sell. Please please please.
The second painting goes up. Then a third. Then a fourth.
Each one sells for six figures minimum. The artists backstage are hugging each other, crying, celebrating in hushed whispers so as not to disturb the auction.
I’m painting number forty–seven out of thirty–seven total pieces.
Which means I’m near the end.
Which means I have to stand here, anxiety eating me alive, while forty–six other pieces get sold first.
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Chapter 110
This is torture.
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I’m contemplating making a run for the champagne table when suddenly, the auctioneer stops mid–sentence.
The entire room goes quiet.
A man in a suit hurries onto the stage and whispers something in the auctioneer’s ear.
The auctioneer’s eyes widen behind his mask.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, his voice taking on a reverent quality, “if I may have your attention. We have a very special guest joining us this evening. A patron of the arts whose generosity and discerning taste have made events like this possible. While we cannot reveal his identity, we are honored to welcome… A p>
The room erupts in polite applause.
But beneath the applause, I can hear whispers. Excitement. Anticipation.
Who the fuck is this guy?
Every single person backstage–painters, assistants, even the stage crew–rushes to the curtain to peek through.
“Oh my god, it’s really him,” someone whispers.
“I heard he bought a Monet last month for thirty million p>
“I heard he once paid fifty million for a single sculpture p>
“He’s loaded. Like, obscenely, criminally loaded p>
I push forward, curious despite myself, and find a gap in the curtain to peer through.
The man walking down the center aisle doesn’t walk–he prowls. Commands space just by existing in it.
He’s tall. Broad–shouldered. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that probably costs more than my car. His mask is simple but elegant–black, covering the upper half of his face, leaving his jaw and mouth visible.
A very familiar jaw.
A very familiar mouth.
No.
My heart stops.
No no no no no-
But even as my brain screams denial, my body knows.
The way he moves. The set of his shoulders. The commanding presence that makes everyone in the room unconsciously shift to accommodate him.
I know that presence.
I know it intimately.
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It can’t be. It can’t be him. He’s at the Imperial Pack. He’s broken. He’s-
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The man–A–reaches his designated throne and pauses, scanning the room with the kind of attention that misses nothing.
And then his eyes–those amber–gold eyes that haunt my dreams–lock directly on the curtain.
On me.
I jerk back like I’ve been burned, my hand flying to my chest where my heart is trying to escape my ribcage.
He didn’t see me. He couldn’t have seen me. I’m behind a curtain wearing a mask, there’s no way-
“You okay?” Julian materializes beside me, concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost p>
I think I have.
“I’m fine,” I manage. “Just nervous p>
“Well, try to channel that into excitement, because if A bids on your work?” Julian grins. “You’re set for life, babe p>
I nod numbly, unable to form words, my entire focus on not having a complete breakdown backstage at an art auction
It’s not him. It can’t be him. Alaric is at the Imperial Pack. Wade said he hasn’t left in three years. Wade said-
But Wade also said no one’s seen him.
That he’s disappeared.
That Beta Cole is running everything.
Fuck.
The auction resumes, and I force myself to focus on breathing. On staying upright. On not completely losing my shit.
Paintings thirty through forty sell in a blur of numbers and applause.
Forty–one. Forty–two. Forty–three.
Each one climbing higher in price, the crowd getting more excited, the energy building.
Forty–four sells for 1.2 million to a woman in a red mask who looks thrilled.
Forty–five sells for 800k.
Forty–six–the piece right before mine–goes up.
It’s beautiful. A portrait of a woman made entirely of flowers, delicate and haunting.
Bidding starts at one hundred thousand.
It climbs to three hundred. Four hundred. Six hundred.
Finally sells for 1.4 million.
The artist–a woman in her fifties–actually sobs with relief.
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Chapter 110
And then it’s my turn.
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“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer’s voice rings out, “we have something truly special. Three pieces from an artist who has captivated the contemporary market–the enigmatic S. Nocturne p>
My paintings are wheeled out on stands, displayed under perfect lighting.
The storm over mountains. The woman dissolving into autumn leaves–complete with Aedion’s small handprint in the corner. The lone wolf on the cliff.
They look even better under stage lights than they did in my apartment.
“These pieces,” the auctioneer continues, “represent a trilogy of transformation. Loss, change, and solitude. Each one tells a story of p>
He pauses, and someone hands him an envelope.
“Ah, it appears the artist has provided a letter. How wonderful.” He opens it carefully, and my stomach drops.
Oh god. I forgot about the letter.
Julian had suggested it weeks ago–a personal note to accompany the paintings, something to give them context, make th more valuable.
I’d written it at two in the morning, slightly drunk on cheap wine and overwhelmed with emotion.
I’d never thought they’d actually read it.
The auctioneer clears his throat and begins to read.
“These paintings are for the man I loved but had to leave p>
No.
No no no no-
“We had something rare. Something that should have been forever. He gave me everything–safety, passion, a future I didn’t know I needed. He built me an art studio filled with sunlight and called me his queen p>
My hands are shaking.
“But love alone couldn’t bridge what stood between us. His world was violence and power and choices that broke my heart. I tried to stay. God, I tried. But some wounds run too deep to heal, even with a bond that promised eternity p>
I can feel tears gathering behind my mask.
“So I ran. I chose my grief over his love, and that choice has haunted me every day since. These paintings are what I couldn’t say to his face, that I’m sorry. That I miss him. That I hope he’s found peace without me p>
The room is completely silent.
“And to whoever buys these–know that they were painted in the early hours when sleep wouldn’t come. When memories were too loud and the future felt too uncertain. They were painted while my son slept in the next room, looking more like his father every day p>
Fuck. Why did I mention Aedion?
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“Your son looks exactly like you,” the auctioneer reads, his voice softer now. “He has your eyes. Your smile. Your strength. And every time I look at him, I see everything I lost and everything I saved by leaving p>
The letter ends.
The auctioneer folds it carefully, and I can hear the emotion in his voice.
“Heartbreaking,” he says quietly, “Truly heartbreaking. Now–shall we begin the bidding p>
“Five hundred thousand!” someone calls out immediately,
“Six hundred p>
“Seven–fifty p>
The numbers climb fast, voices calling out from all corners of the room.
“One million p>
I grip the curtain, watching through the gap, my heart pounding so hard I might pass out.
“One point two p>
“One point five p>
And then I see him.
Wade.
Second row, raising his paddle with a small smile.
“Two million,” he calls out.
Relief crashes through me. Wade. Of course Wade would bid. He wouldn’t let me walk away empty–handed.
The bidding continues, others jumping in, but Wade matches every offer.
“Two point five p>
“Three million!” Wade counters.
The room is buzzing now, everyone leaning forward, invested in this particular auction in a way they haven’t been for
others.
“Three point two! ”
“Three point five!” Wade again.
The auctioneer looks around the room. “Three point five million, going once-
And then he speaks.
The man in the throne.
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Chapter 110
His voice is deep, commanding, achingly familiar.
“One hundred million p>
The entire room gasps.
One hundred million.
The number doesn’t even feel real. Doesn’t feel possible.
The auctioneer actually stutters. “I–I’m sorry, did you say p>
“One hundred million dollars.” A’s voice is calm. Final. “For all three pieces p>
Complete silence.
No one moves. No one breathes.
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The auctioneer recovers, though his hands are shaking. “One hundred million dollars! Going once-” He pauses, locking around the room. “Going twice p>
Please let someone else bid. Please let Wade counter. Please-
But no one does.
No one would dare.
“SOLD!” The gavel comes down with a sharp crack. “To the gentleman in the mask, for one hundred million dollars p>
The room erupts in applause.
And I can’t breathe.
Can’t think.
Can’t process that I just sold my paintings—my heartbreak made art–for one hundred million fucking dollars.
Behind the curtain, other artists are congratulating me, hugging me, crying with joy for me.
But I’m frozen, staring through the gap in the curtain at the man in the throne.
At A.
He’s looking directly at the curtain again. Directly at me.
And this time, I don’t look away,
This man just bought my paintings for one hundred million dollars.
Oh, fuck.
The auctioneer’s voice cuts through my panic.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as is tradition with our most prestigious sales, the buyer will now have the opportunity to meet the artist.” He gestures toward the stage. “S. Nocturne, if you would please join us p>
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Chapter 110
My blood turns to ice.
“What?” I breathe.
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Julian grabs my arm, grinning like Christmas came early. “Did you hear that? You get to meet him! The A! This is incredible p>
“I–I can’t p>
“You have to! It’s part of the deal!” He’s already pushing me toward the stage entrance.
“Julian, wait p>
“This is your moment, Sorin! Go p>
I stumble forward, my legs moving on autopilot, my brain screaming at me to run.
But I can’t run. Can’t hide. Can’t do anything except walk toward the stage, toward the light, toward the man who bough confession for more money than I can comprehend.
The curtain parts.
The spotlight hits me.
And somewhere in the audience, I hear a sharp intake of breath.
The sound of recognition.
The sound of a heart breaking all over again.
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