Page 15 of Stricken

Some overpriced Fabergé egg, no doubt. I stifle a yawn as more baubles parade across the stage. Glittering diamonds, ancient artifacts, priceless paintings—all meaningless trinkets to these people.

"Getting bored?" Ivan murmurs in Russian.

I grunt noncommittally. My fingers itch, wanting to be around the steering wheel, but I resist the urge to fidget. Must maintain the facade of the unflappable businessman. It's something I've been doing all my life. It comes easy to me.

A few more items are sold and then the massive screen behind the stage flickers to life, showcasing sleek red curves that make my breath catch. There she is—the car I came for. The video pans lovingly over her lines as the auctioneer drones on about specs and mileage.

"Let's start," he finally announces.

My pulse quickens. After weeks of meaningless negotiations, mind-numbing meetings, and unsuccessful attempts to track Shtyk, finally something worth my time.

I lean forward, hand poised to raise my bidding paddle.

"She is made for you, Vladimir," Ivan whispers. He hardly ever calls me by my full name. It's so strange to hear it sometimes because my mother called me that too—especially when she was upset with me or overly happy.

I nod curtly, trying to shove down the emotions that have no business resurfacing right now. My eyes are fixed on the screen where the prize is.

"We will begin the bidding at four million dollars," the auctioneer says at the front of the room. "Do I hear four and a half million?"

The familiar thrill of the hunt courses through my veins. For a moment, I almost feel alive again. My hand shoots up, paddle raised high. "Four and a half," I declare across the room. The Ferrari gleams on the screen, a temptress in red. I need this car—need to create a new memory to overshadow the one following me from Los Angeles.

"Four and a half, gentlemen in the back," the auctioneer repeats.

"Five million," a voice calls from the front row.

My jaw clenches, pulse jumps. Who dares challenge me?

"Five and a half," I counter swiftly, irritation prickling under my skin.

The voice from the front doesn't hesitate. "Six million."

Whispers ripple through the crowd. I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of my opponent, but the sea of heads obscures my view. There's something familiar about that tone, almost mocking. I've heard it before.

"Getting steep," Ivan mutters beside me.

I ignore him, raising my paddle again. "Six and a half million."

The room erupts in hushed murmurs. I can feel their minds turned to me, curious, wondering. Let them. I didn't come this far to lose. It was hard to get in to begin with. Going home empty-handed isn't on my agenda today.

"Seven million," the mystery bidder calls out, a hint of amusement in his tone grows only more distinct.

My blood boils. Who is this man, thinking he can toy with me? I grip the armrest with one hand, knuckles tight and locked. "Eight million," I growl.

Ivan shifts uncomfortably beside me. "Vlad, maybe we should—"

I silence him with a glare. This isn't about the car anymore. It's about winning, about showing everyone in this room who really holds the power in this town.

The auctioneer's face remains impassive as he looks between us, eyes bouncing from the back of the room to the front. "Eight million going once, going twice—"

"Nine million," the voice interrupts smoothly.

I rise to my feet, fury and desire to ruin warring within me. "Ten million," I say firmly, knowing that the car doesn't cost that much.

The room falls silent, all eyes on me. In this instant, I am the predator, and that unseen voice is my prey. I will have my prize, no matter the cost.

A chuckle cuts through the silence, sending a jolt through my body. "Fine, you twisted my arm into this." Pause. "How about eleven million?"

That voice. My chest tightens as recognition finally floods me. It can't be... I should be sitting down but I keep on standing. Because it's easier to see him this way when he rises to his feet too and glances at me from across the room. My heart pounds as he turns, confirming my suspicion. The stranger from LA, just as handsome as I remember, meets my gaze with that devious smirk of his.

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