Eight Years Gone, Now I'm Back to Take What's Mine

Richard's face flushed crimson. Understandable. It takes a special kind of arrogance to address a man of his rank like that in public.

But the real punchline? Vincent didn't even flinch. Didn't deny it. Didn't so much as lift an eyebrow.

I shook my head, already bored with the pair of them.

"So," I said, tone flat, "if you can't come up with the money, are you planning to sneak out the back quietly?"

A moment ago, the auction had slipped everyone's mind—Leila's dramatic little performance had derailed the attention in the room.

But with one sentence, all eyes returned to Vincent.

And the bidding wars still hung in the air.

Of course, I was here for the numbers, not Leila's repulsive theatrics.

"Are you sure you can produce $50 billion?" Vincent quickly asked, trying to sound calm. His frown was doing most of the heavy lifting.

I gave a nonchalant shrug. "It's pocket change. Why wouldn't I?"

That made his lip twitch.

He scoffed, though the sound was strained. "When Mr. Blackwood arrives later, I'll enjoy watching you squirm."

I could practically hear his brain trying to make sense of the situation. $50 billion to sit at a table, and no one in their right mind would throw that kind of money away.

Which, of course, is why I didn't mind doing it.

I clicked my tongue as if the thought had just struck me, then turned to him with a spark of curiosity in my eyes.

"Tell you what," I said, slowly, "since you clearly don't believe I have $50 billion or that I'd dare spend it just for a seat…"

I leaned forward slightly. "Why don't we make it interesting? A wager."

Vincent stiffened at the word.

"A wager?" he said, his tone dropping, suspicious now. "What are the terms?"

I smiled. Broad. Easy. The kind of smile that makes people very nervous.

"Let's bet on whether I can deliver $50 billion to Mr. Blackwood. If I win, you'll hand over your family's entire entertainment division in the Uptown District. A gesture of apology. Public."

His face faltered just slightly.

"And if you lose?" he muttered, grinding his teeth.

I kept my tone smooth and casual. "Then I'm yours, West. Do whatever you want—take my money, drag my name through the mud, humiliate me to your heart's content. How's that for generous?"

I leaned back, still smiling, still relaxed.

Vincent narrowed his eyes, then gave a short, humorless laugh. "Do you think I'm stupid? What do I gain from humiliating you? If you're lying about the money, your bid means nothing. You've got nothing to offer me."

He snorted and shook his head like he was trying to dismiss the entire conversation.

I clicked my tongue and tilted my head. "So you're backing down?"

That stopped him.

His eyes flared. "I just think it's unfair!"

"Cowardice usually wears that disguise," I replied, too smug for my own good but not wrong.

He shot back, "You're the one backing down!"

I gave him a sharp look. "No, West. You are."

He opened his mouth—some insult on the tip of his tongue—but it died there, fizzled out in the heat of his frustration.

Leila jumped in to rescue him. "Baby, what's unfair about this? He's never coming up with $50 billion. This is the perfect chance to watch him fall flat for free."

Her voice lit something in him. That familiar West family arrogance came slithering back.

Vincent glared at me, then smirked like he'd won something. "Fine, since you're begging for humiliation, don't say I didn't warn you. I accept. Let's bet."

He said it like he was granting a royal pardon.

I let him have the illusion.

The crowd, of course, went wild—mob mentality in silk ties and polished shoes.

"Vincent's too kind! That kid's got nothing. He's just putting on a show!"

"Exactly. Look at him! He doesn't even dress like someone with money!"

"Even if he had the money, who in their right mind would waste it just to sit at the main table?"