bChapter /bb192 /b

ADRIAN’S POV

“Alright,dies and gentlemen, this auction has officially begun. And just like it was stated in the invitation, the starting price begins from twenty million US dors. Bidding may now begin,” the manager’s voice echoed across the hall, firm but polite, carrying a practiced energy meant to stir excitementb. /b

Almost immediately, a wave of whispers rippled through the room. I watched people lean closer to each other, heads tilted, lips barely moving- calcting, guessing, deciding how deep they were willing to go. Some faces were familiar to me: old money from New York, oil heirs from the Gulfb, /bba /bcouple of self–made tech founders whose arrogance practically announced itself louder than any bid.

Then, finally, the first paddle went up.

“Twenty million, seven hundred and five thousand dors,” an older male voice dered.

I turned my head slightly, eyes locking on the man who spoke. He had a receding hairline, a suit a shade of wine red that felt slightly out of fashion, band /bba /bnervous flicker in his gaze. That was it? He’d only added seven hundred thousand dors to the base price? My lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. Maybe it was his first auction, or maybe he was too cautious with his funds. Either way, he was exactly the type James would call a “small fry.”

“Wonderful! The man in the wine color suit says twenty million, seven hundred thousand dors–going once, going twice…” the manager began, his

voice rising with trained theatricality.

“Twenty–one million dors,” another male voice cut through, younger and steadier. His paddle raised confidently.

My eyes flickered to him. Slightly younger, face sharper, probably someone who’d been here a few times. He’d at least dared to push the price up by ba /bfull million. Better. But still ying cautiously.

“Very good! We have twenty–one million–going once…”

“Twenty–one million, five hundred thousand dors,i” /ianother voice interrupted, paddle lifting.

Interesting. He’d added five hundred thousand, showing just a hint of aggression but still holding back. The pattern was predictable–each was testing the waters, not wanting to reveal how high they could actually go.

“We’ve gotten a higher bid of twenty–one million, five hundred thousand dors–going once, going twice…”

“Twenty–three million dorsi,” /isomeone else announced, paddle raised boldly.

Now that was more like it. My eyes tracked the bidder, a man in a pale yellow tie, looking ba /blittle too pleased with himself. He’d raised it by almost two million, clearly hoping to intimidate the others or make them think he had deep reserves.

“Very nice! Twenty–three million dors–going once…”

“Twenty–five million dors,” came the next callb, /bcrisp and decisive.

My brow lifted slightly as I traced where the voice hade from. The man didn’t look like an overdressed yboy here to collect business cards. His suit was sharp but discreet, his posture calm, gaze forward–not darting around to see who reacted. That bid wasn’t just money, it was intent. Serious intent.

For a moment, the energy in the room shifted. The weaker bidders stiffened, leaning back, eyes flicking between each other as bif /bsilently bconceding /bbthe /bgame. The real contest was about to start.

And yet, something tugged at my attention.

I turned my gaze to Damien Cole. All this time/he hadn’t so much as lifted his paddle. His expression hadn’t changed, he bsat /bbthere/bb, /bba /bbcalm/bb, /bbalmost /bamused look in his eyes, as if the auction hadn’t even begun. That was unusual. The waiting strategy–to let the small bfish /bdrive bup /bbthe /bbprice /bbuntil /bbthey /bran out of breath before stepping in—was something I thought only a handful of experienced bidders used.

So why hadn’t Damien joined the dance yet?

b1/3 /b

15:10 bMon, /b2ADUNVEI

Chapter b192 /b

If Damien was btruly /bas wealthy andpetitive as everyone imed, he should have raised the stakes by nowb. /bOr was he foolishly wading for the ini bfirst/b? Because if that was his n, then it was a grave mistake. On my first move, I intended to push the price up to fifty bmillion/bb. /bThat number whats bto /bintimidate–it was meant to bury thepetition. After that, unless he was willing to go even higher, the car would be mine.

Suddenly, someone from the crowd spoke up, interrupting my train of thought.

“Thirty million dors.”

The manager, who had been scanning the crowd eagerly, nodded quickly, “We have thirty million dors! Going once…”

My eyes flickered toward James, who had been quietly observing the crowd’s mood beside me. Without saying a word, he gave me a short, bsubtle /bnod, it was time. The unspoken signal we’d rehearsed in so many other auctions.

I took a slow breath, just to make sure my voice woulde out calm and strong. Then I raised my bidding paddle and deredb, /b“Fifty million dorsb. /b

The effect was instantaneous.

A collective gasp rippled through the hall, like a wave breaking against the shore. For a moment, even the manager seemed stunned, his mouth half- open as he tried to process what had just happened. Around us, the whispers turned into ba /btorrent:

“Did he just say fifty million?”

“That’s Adrian Westwood, right? He must really want that car.”

“Fifty million on the first bid? He’s insane.”

A small, confident smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Let them talk. Let them whisper. I had always believed in letting my actions speak louder than my words. Just a few minutes ago, the crowd had been convinced Damien was untouchable. But now, all eyes were on me. That was the power of making a bold move.

“Fifty million dors from Mr. Adrian Westwood!” the manager finally announced, finding his voice again. “Going once…”

I turned slightly, letting my gaze drift toward Damien. His face was calm, annoyingly so, almost as though he was entirely unbothered by the bidding bwar/b. Was this some kind of act? Or did he truly have ino /iintention of bidding?

But it wasn’t Damien who caught my attention next. It was the woman beside him.

The one with the mask on, and though her eyes were partly hidden, I could feel her gaze locked on me.

Then, she did something unexpected: she smirked. Just a small, knowing smirk thatsted barely a second. But it was enough to make my pulse quicken.

What was that supposed to mean?

My confidence didn’t waver outwardly, but inside, my curiosity red to life. Why hadn’t Damien made a single bid yet?

I forced my eyes back to the car, I could already see it parked perfectly beside my other prized vehicles–another trophy to remind me why I never lost. “Fifty million going twice…” the manager’s voice came again, tinged with hesitation.

I let out a slow breath. This was it. After this, it would be overi. /iAnd if Damien wasn’t stepping up, then no one else would dare to. I’d already seen bthe /bfear in the eyes of the earlier bidders. Fifty million wasn’t just a bid; it was a statement: I will not lose.

But just as the words “going twice” were sinking into the roomb, /ba new voice cut through the hush.

“Sixty million dors.”