Page 7 of His to Possess
"Five million to Mr. Compton. Do I hear 5.1 million?"
Silence descended on the room. August glared at me, but remained quiet. I fought the urge to smile, keeping my focus on the prize.
"$5 million going once… going twice… Sold to Mr. Compton for $5 million!"
A surge of triumph coursed through me. I had won the painting, but my victory felt incomplete. My eyes found Laurel again. She was looking at me once more, a mixture of curiosity and something else—admiration?—in her gaze.
As the auctioneer's gavel fell for the final time, a palpable shift rippled through the room. The crowd began to disperse, but I remained rooted to my spot, savoring the thrill of my victory. The Veiled Maiden was mine, as she had always been meant to be.
I sensed August's approach before I saw him. His forced smile didn't reach his eyes as he extended his hand.
"Congratulations," he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. He barely tried to hide it, which only made the purchase sweeter. "Quite the acquisition you've made tonight."
I shook his hand, my grip firm and unyielding. "Thank you. It was certainly an exciting event. I'm sorry that you didn't have more luck tonight."
His façade cracked, just a little. "Five million for the Volkov," he said, shaking his head. "And let's not forget that little… impulse buy earlier. Tell me, have you developed a sudden fondness for throwing money at worthless paintings?"
I allowed myself a small, enigmatic smile. "Worthless? I wouldn't be so sure about that. Sometimes, true value isn't immediately apparent to the untrained eye."
His expression darkened. "Are you implying I lack discernment?"
"Not at all," I replied smoothly. "I'm merely suggesting that there might be more to these acquisitions than meets the eye. But then again, I've always had a knack for spotting hidden potential."
His jaw clenched, his composure slipping further. "Well," he said tersely, "I suppose we'll see if your… instincts pay off. Though I must say, it's unlike you to make such rash decisions."
I leaned in slightly, my voice low. "Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think, old friend."
With that, August turned on his heel and stalked away, the set of his shoulders betraying his fury. I watched him go, a sense of satisfaction settling over me. Let him stew in his anger and confusion.
As the crowd thinned, my thoughts turned to Laurel. I scanned the room, easily spotting her auburn hair among the sea of black suits and cocktail dresses. She was engaged in conversation with an older gentleman, her eyes bright with enthusiasm as she gestured towards one of the paintings. Her excitement was contagious. Even I fought the urge to smile at the way she gestured toward the piece, so immersed in whatever conversation she was having. I wanted to have her right in front of me. I wanted to know everything she had to say. I wanted to observe every inch of her beautiful skin, perhaps even reach for the auburn strands that seemed even more striking now.
I resisted the urge to approach her immediately. No, that would be too obvious, too eager. I had to think about the long run. So, instead of doing what I wanted to do the most, I mademy way to the bar, positioning myself with a clear view of her. I ordered a scotch, neat, and settled in to wait.
The pieces were in place now. The Veiled Maiden, the mysterious watercolor, and of course, Laurel herself. I had set the stage perfectly, creating an irresistible puzzle that I knew she wouldn't be able to resist. It was only a matter of time before curiosity got the better of her.
I took a sip of my scotch, savoring the burn as I watched Laurel from across the room. She was exquisite, a living work of art among the static paintings. And soon, very soon, she would be mine.
All I had to do now was wait for my prey to approach.
Chapter 3
Laurel
"You know, this painting wasn't easy to come by. A lot of money has been invested in it. I had to ship it all the way from Cuba. Secretly, of course, since I didn't want to risk anything happening to it, but that was well worth the risk. It looks perfect in my private collection. Speaking of, you still have to stop by and see it," Mr. Worthington went on and on about his latest acquisition, but I could barely focus. My heart hammered inside my chest, and my palms were sweaty.
I offered a slight nod and a polite smile—the best I could do, given the circumstances, though I remembered always to be kind to these people. One never knew when being in their good graces would come in handy. These people loved to talk about their possessions, and they loved to show them even more. Most of the time, that worked in my favour… But not tonight.
His words faded into the background noise of clinking champagne flutes and pretentious laughter. My eyes driftedacross the room, drawn like a magnet to the small watercolor hanging on the far wall.
Could it really be? An undiscovered Turner?
"So? What do you say?" Mr. Worthington's voice pulled me back into reality, shifting my focus. Once again, that same smile returned to my face, and I placed my hand over my chest momentarily.
"It would be an honor. Truly. We have to make this happen sometime," I said, even if I had no intention of keeping my promise. I just had to tell him what he wanted to hear. That was all. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" Before he could say another word about his collection, I made my way through the crowd. The buzz of excitement in the air was palpable, but for me, it was all white noise. My focus narrowed to that single painting, its swirling colors calling to me like a siren's song.
As I approached, my breath caught in my throat. If this was genuine… Christ, it would change everything. My career and reputation would all skyrocket overnight.
I stood before the painting, drinking in every detail. The brushstrokes, the use of light, the way the storm seemed to rage across the canvas—it all screamed Turner. But I couldn't let myself get carried away. I had seen too many fakes, and had too many dreams crushed under the harsh light of authenticity tests.
