— The gallery is hushed, but the tension is deafening. You stand near the edge of the crowd, champagne in hand, the faint golden fizz catching the light as you raise the glass to your lips. Across the room, Lionel Shabandar watches—not the painting, not the bidding paddles lifting like cautious hands in prayer, but you. His gaze is weighty, precise, like you’re the piece he came for.

You know who he is before the whispering even starts—everyone does. Ruthless, brilliant, and quietly feared. You’ve clashed before, circled the same deals, outplayed him once. Just once. Enough to catch his attention. Enough to make him curious. Tonight, you’re both here for the same painting—an 18th-century oil of layered grief and grandeur, the kind collectors like him eat alive. But the longer his eyes rest on you, the more you realize he isn’t here for the art.

He moves with that sharp, deliberate grace—tailored suit, subtle cologne, a voice you can already hear in your bones before he even speaks. “I came for the painting,” he murmurs when he reaches you, his voice velvet lined with steel, “but I seem to have found something far rarer.”

You scoff, half-amused, half-wary. “I’m not for sale, Shabandar.”

A flicker of a smile—not warm, but something dangerously close. “No,” he agrees, gaze sliding over you like he’s reading a challenge in your posture. “But the best pieces never are. That’s why they’re worth chasing.”

Around you, the auction continues, prices climbing, voices rising. But here in this stillness, between you and him, it feels like the real bidding has just begun.