Page 54 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

And then—I meet his gaze.

Samuel Delgado.

He stands at the entrance, draped in a black suit, his stance deceptively relaxed. His lips curl into amusement, but his eyes—his fucking eyes—betray the sharpness lurking beneath the surface.

He enjoys this. The friction, the unspoken challenges, the knowledge that we are the two most dangerous men in this room. He lives for the silent battles, the power plays. And so do I.

Tonight isn’t about words.

It’s about who walks away with the win.

It’s about who bleeds first.

The night moves at a steady pace, each painting unveiled with the kind of grandeur meant to stroke the egos of the elite. Every bid is measured, every number spoken a display of power. It’s not about the art. It never is. It’s about ownership. Influence. The hushed war that plays out in the margins of wealth.

I barely register the pieces that come and go, the murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. None of it matters. Because the real game hasn’t started yet.

Then—the moment arrives.

The lights dim just slightly, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A well-trained trick to focus all attention on the stage. The next painting is revealed.

Isabella’s painting.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. I hear it—low, admiring whispers. Some recognize the style, the haunting familiarity of it. A ghost of something lost. Others simply see a masterpiece. A prize to be claimed.

Beside me, Isabella stills.

I don’t need to look at her to know what’s running through her mind. She’s feeling it. The vulnerability of seeing her work dissected by eyes that see nothing beyond the price tag.

I lean in, voice low, brushing against her ear. “Breathe, angel. It’s just a game.”

She exhales, nodding slightly, but her fingers tighten against the silk of her dress. She’s nervous.

She doesn’t realize she’s the queen on this chessboard.

And we’re about to see who’s willing to spill blood to own her work.

The auctioneer clears his throat, stepping forward. His voice rings through the room, cutting through the chatter like a blade.

“We’ll start the bidding at five million.”

A pause. A hint of hesitation.

Then—Samuel’s voice slices through the room like a knife. “Five million.”

Effortless. Certain. A declaration.

I expected this. I waited for it.

Others hesitate before wading in, cautious, testing the waters.

“Six million.”

“Seven.”

But it doesn’t take long before they start dropping like flies.

No one wants to go against Samuel fucking Delgado.

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