I looked at Leila and couldn't help the sneer that crept across my face. Watching her squirm beside her puffed-up husband was like watching a bad soap opera written by someone with a taste for humiliation.
Her face flushed an angry shade of red, while Vincent, still playing the part of a man with power, glared at me like I'd just insulted his lineage.
"What's the matter?" he snapped. "You think I, heir to Westside Media Industries, can't scrape together a few billion?"
I raised a brow, leaned back in my chair, and regarded him the way one might observe an overconfident waiter attempting ballet.
"Actually, yes," I said, dry as dust. "I do suspect that. The real question is, though, what exactly are you planning to do about it?"
He tried to laugh, but the sound came out brittle. Desperate.
Then, with a clumsy burst of bravado, he slammed his palm on the table.
"$1.7 billion!" he bellowed, like he'd just dropped a nuclear warhead.
The room went silent.
Right after that, gasps followed.
"He really doesn't value money, does he? $1.7 billion?"
"Vincent West's a legend! Show that brat how it's done!"
"Yeah, if Mr. Blackwood hears about this, he'll be touched. A few billion? That's nothing to a family like his."
The applause Vincent received from his entourage just puffed him up further. He stood tall, chest out, a smirk plastered on like it had been sculpted there.
He looked down at me with all the subtlety of a rooster trying to win a fashion show.
"Come on then, brat," he sneered. "If you've got the spine, keep going."
I let out a chuckle and looked him square in the eye. "West, I've been doubling my bids. You, meanwhile, are inching along by the billion like it's coming out of your weekly allowance. And I'm the cheap one?"
For a moment, just a flicker, his expression cracked.
"You—go on, then! Raise it again!" Vincent shouted, wide-eyed, like a man begging to be punched.
I leaned forward just a touch, my tone casual—almost bored.
"Let's not pretend this is me picking on you," I said evenly. "I'm guessing the West family's total assets in Uptown are hovering around $50 million, give or take?"
I gave him a cool look, then leaned back again, crossing my legs. "In that case, I'll bid $50 million. Think of it as a benchmark for someone as hopelessly uninformed as you. Sound fair?"
A smirk tugged at my lips as I sat back and watched the color drain from his face.
It wasn't just Vincent who froze. The entire hall did.
"Did he just say… $50 billion?"
"Is he actually trying to auction off the main table seat?"
"This is madness. It was crazy at $50 million, but now? $50 billion?"
"I think he's doing this just to humiliate Vincent West. That's not confidence, that's bloody malicious."
I heard every whisper. Every sneer. Every sideways glance.
They were all buzzing like flies around the edges of the room.
And they were half right.
My real target wasn't Vincent. He was just a puppet.
It's Leila West—the one who was pulling the strings.
Vincent was just a nouveau riche dragged into this by his gold-digger wife.
She was the reason I was sitting at this table in the first place. And now she was staring at me like I'd just stolen her crown.
With the dramatic flair only a narcissist could manage, Leila turned to the room and declared, "Ladies and gentlemen, don't be fooled. This man's clearly bitter. I mean, look at him. When I was with him, he had nothing. Not a cent to his name. That's why I left him."
She then looped her arm through Vincent's, the picture of smug entitlement. "And now he shows up here, shouting numbers, thinking it'll get my attention? Please. Vincent and I are truly in love. He's everything I ever wanted. You should give up, Nick."
Then, she kissed Vincent full on the mouth, loud enough to be theatrical and slow enough to be calculated. Her gaze was fixed on me the whole time, clearly trying to make me jealous.
The crowd clapped like trained seals as if they'd just witnessed some grand romance instead of a desperate charade.
Meanwhile, Vincent raised an eyebrow at me, silently daring me to speak.
I obliged. "You two are the perfect portrait of a deluded social climber and her most generous simp. What a peculiar, sickening pair!"
I didn't bother hiding the venom. They'd earned every syllable.
Leila let out a forced laugh. "Keep pretending, Nick. I can see it all over your face! You're bitter. Jealous, even."
Then she turned toward Richard Barclay, who had been silently observing the scene like a man watching a chess match between amateurs.
"Hey, Barclay, old man," Leila said, voice soaked in malice, "if Nick here fails to deliver the money, don't drag me into it. I want nothing to do with this mess."
