Tonight, he had not just outbid Raphael Martel. He had outmaneuvered him. And as the golden egg was handed over to its overpriced new owner, it was clear to everyone present: Klaus Whitlock had already won. The price had soared beyond reason, a bidding war turned blood sport. Martel had taken the bait, pushed to the edge of logic, and now he sat with a hollow victory. The room hummed with the quiet energy of spectacle, champagne glasses poised at lips as guests exchanged knowing glances. Klaus leaned back in his chair, allowing himself the indulgence of a slow sip of scotch. The liquor burned just enough to anchor him, but not enough to distract from the real prize—the flicker of fury in Martel’s eyes. His opponent’s fingers drummed against the polished wood of the auction table, a restless staccato betraying what his carefully schooled expression would not. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flared—rage barely leashed beneath a mask of civility. Then, just for a moment, the mask

Instead, there was something far more dangerous. Interest. The air in the room thickened, pressing down like an invisible weight. Light flickered against the walls, casting restless shadows that stretched and curled like tendrils of dark intent. And there she stood—poised, motionless, yet utterly in control. Her presence didn’t just command the space; it consumed it. She wasn’t merely beautiful. She was the kind of captivating that made Klaus forget to breathe. The elegant curve of her neck, the quiet confidence in her stance, the way her eyes held secrets darker than the room itself—she was a masterpiece crafted to ensnare. But it wasn’t her beauty that unnerved him. It was the silent, dangerous promise in her gaze, the kind that made a man lean in when he knew he should turn away. A gloved hand lifted, a single finger resting just above her lips. The pause stretched, deliberate, a moment carved out of time itself. It wasn’t a gesture of thoughtfulness. It was a spell, a calculate

Raphael Martel swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass, watching the reflections dance like firelight. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, tracked Klaus Whitlock and his group of new friends as they left the lavish estate that housed the prestigious party. He leaned forward, the golden glow of the city casting long shadows across his face, accentuating the cruel smirk tugging at his lips. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Martel believed in one truth—order. His order. Those who defied it had to be reminded of their place, and tonight, Klaus Whitlock, Isabella Rossi, and their little entourage would learn that lesson in pain and blood. Klaus exhaled sharply as he settled into the plush leather of his Rolls-Royce Phantom, but the tension in his chest didn’t ease. He had expected Victor Martel to make an appearance at the event, yet the man had been conspicuously absent. A deliberate move. A warning in itself. The others followed in their own vehicles, their convoy weaving through

"Sir, we’ll be landing soon." Klaus leaned back in his seat, a smirk ghosting his lips. This was only the beginning. ------- The sleek, obsidian-black jet descended smoothly onto the private LuxSky and Marine agency’s landing strip, its engines purring like a satisfied beast. As soon as the wheels kissed the ground, Klaus unbuckled his seatbelt and adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit. He always enjoyed moments like these—where power and perception played their little games. As the jet taxied toward its designated spot, a man stormed onto the tarmac. Dressed in an ostentatious red blazer, gold-rimmed sunglasses perched on his nose, and a scowl that could peel paint off a car, Richard Langston—the self-proclaimed "Shipping Magnate of the South"—was clearly in a foul mood. Or at least, that’s how he presented himself. In reality, Richard Langston was no shipping magnate—he was a pastor, one who had shamelessly siphoned off donations from his church members to buy the cheap

Once the keys were in his hand, Klaus casually walked to the parking lot, opened the door of his newly purchased Ferrari, then—without hesitation—slammed the door shut, climbed onto the hood, and, with a single decisive movement, stomped his heel through the windshield. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the lot. Gasps erupted from the small crowd forming around them. Phones were pulled out to capture the spectacle, flashing lights illuminating the chaotic scene. Klaus hopped off, dusting himself off as he turned to Derek with a smirk. "It’s just money, right?" Derek was speechless, his face a mask of horror as cameras caught every moment. The entire spectacle was later uploaded to his own gaming reality show, Shaw Unfiltered, where millions of subscribers tuned in to watch his daily life. Instead of flaunting his wealth, he had been utterly humiliated, turned into a meme overnight. Isabella exhaled, still processing. "Did you really just do that?" Klaus’s smirk wa