●Nicholas●
The driveway wound ahead of me, lined with manicured hedges and golden lights that glinted off luxury cars parked in careful disarray. At this hour, almost every guest had already arrived—which was exactly what I wanted.
Arriving late ensured attention.
I needed Jonathan Blake to notice me. Since we'd never met, curiosity would do the work for me. He would see an unfamiliar face and would question who invited him. When he asked around, he'd hear exactly what I wanted him to hear—that I came from money. Enough of it to matter.
And since Jonathan needed funding for his campaign, he'd want me close.
That was the plan.
I needed his trust. It wouldn't come quickly, and it wouldn't come easily, but eventually, it would come. When it did, I would slip into his inner circle, learn how he moved his money, how he laundered blood through politics, how deep his involvement in trafficking and weapons really went.
I studied my reflection in the rearview mirror. I was in a perfectly tailored suit. My hand reached up to the collar, tugging at it in irritation. Fuck. I hated these puffy clothes. They were so fucking suffocating and restrictive.
I loosened the black tie slightly.
"You should get used to the suits," Leon said from the driver's seat, his tone casual, almost teasing. "You'll be wearing them for a long time."
"Yeah. Sure," I replied flatly, shooting him a glare. He smirked, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
Leon and I had been partners for almost five years now. We'd been sent on missions that should have failed… operations that looked impossible to finish—and somehow walked away from them every single time. That was why I preferred working with him. I didn't like teams where I had to constantly watch someone else's back. Leon knew how to look after himself.
He reached into the console and handed me a pair of earpieces designed for covert ops. These ones wouldn't be detected by the security at the entrance. I took them and slipped them into my pocket.
Then I unholstered my gun and rested it carefully on the seat. Opening the door, I stepped out of the car, the sounds of the gala filtering toward me as the mansion loomed ahead.
By the time I was making my entrance, the auction was already in full swing.
"...Eight hundred thousand," a man near the center of the ballroom called out.
"Eight hundred thousand," the auctioneer repeated smoothly. "Do I hear nine hundred?"
"Nine hundred thousand," another voice answered.
The diamond pendant glittered beneath the chandelier, delicate and deceptively innocent. A piece meant to symbolize generosity, even though most of the money attached to it would never touch the hands of the people it claimed to help.
"One million," someone added.
The doors behind me closed quietly.
I stepped inside as the bidding continued, unnoticed for only a heartbeat.
"One point two million."
"One point five million," the auctioneer echoed, eyes sweeping the room.
I moved forward at an unhurried pace, letting the sound of my footsteps blend with the low hum of voices and clinking glasses. My presence shifted the air subtly—enough for a few heads to turn, brows knitting in curiosity.
"One point eight million," a woman said confidently.
"Two million," another bidder countered.
The room hummed with restrained excitement.
"Five million."
My voice sliced through the noise, and everyone stilled.
Every head turned toward me in unison, conversations dying mid-whisper as recognition rippled through the crowd. I slipped my hand into the pocket of my black suit and made my way toward my reserved seat in the second row, unbothered by the attention trailing after me.
The murmurs grew louder, curiosity turning obvious. I caught bits of conversation as they moved through the room—those who didn't recognize me asking questions, while the few who did know me answered without hesitation. My name passed quietly from one table to the next, followed by recognition, then interest. I stayed where I was, letting reputation speak for me.
The auctioneer blinked, momentarily thrown off, then recovered with practiced grace. "Five million," she repeated.
"Do I hear any higher bids?"
Silence answered her. "Five million going once." No movement.
"Five million going twice." Still nothing. "Sold."
She lifted the gavel, then hesitated. "May I have the name of our highest bidder?"
I didn't have a bidding number. I had arrived too late for formalities.
"Nicholas Kane," I said.
Recognition spread instantly. Kane. Even those who had never met me—or my parents—knew the name. My family sat among the top five richest families in the world, and wealth like that didn't need an introduction.
When the auction wound down and the donations were announced, the room loosened. Conversations bloomed, couples drifted toward the dance floor, and I found myself holding a glass of champagne I hadn't touched, entertaining people eager to attach themselves to my name. I excused myself from a man who had spent ten uninterrupted minutes praising his clothing company and hinting—poorly—at investors, when Mrs. Blake approached.
She looked far too young to be Jonathan Blake's wife. Nearly fifteen years younger, at least. The contrast was unsettling. She smiled warmly, the kind that felt genuine, and for a moment I wondered if she was wearing a mask or if she truly had no idea what kind of man she had married.
"Nicholas, you made it," she said.
"I wouldn't dare disappoint a woman as beautiful as yourself," I replied smoothly.
She laughed, pleased, then glanced past me. "You should meet my husband—" She lifted her voice slightly. "John."
Jonathan Blake turned, his gaze locking onto us before he started walking over. Everlyne sighed softly. "I would've introduced you to my daughter too, but I have no idea where she disappeared to. I haven't seen her since the auction started," she said with a tired sigh.
"I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to meet her too," I said easily, just as Jonathan reached us.