After eight years of struggle, I stood tall in the polished halls of Blackwood Estate, now leading Morningstar Group.

It was meant to be a quiet return. But, as usual, nothing ever turned out as expected.

At the homecoming party, the first familiar face I stumbled upon was Leila West—née Young, my former fiancée. She draped over her new husband like arm candy with too much attitude.

Then and there, she spotted me before I had a chance to pretend that I didn't see her.

"Oh my, Nick! You're alive?" she gasped, mock surprise dripping off her voice. "I thought you'd died out there. Didn't expect you to have the nerve to crawl back! And looking like that? Honestly, you working here as a waiter is an insult to the building."

Leila's words landed like cheap perfume—loud, synthetic, and impossible to ignore. She and her husband stood there, smug as anything, treating me like I was part of the décor.

Background noise. An afterthought.

They didn't even realize I hadn't made my entrance yet.

Instead, I was on the edge of the room, listening as they auctioned off the main table seat like it was a prize in a charity raffle.

"Go on, keep bidding," Vincent West, her husband, said with a self-satisfied smirk. "I'll toss in another $10 million to celebrate the triumphant return of Dominic Blackwood."

I raised my brow.

Then I said flatly, "One glance at your face, and suddenly, I've lost all interest in dinner."

——

Instantly, the room went silent.

Then came the laughter—loud, rough, and unfiltered.

"What's this? Talking to Mr. West like that?"

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"A bloody waiter mouthing off? Know your place, peasant," someone sneered.

It was a feeding frenzy.

One by one, they piled on like dogs in heat, desperate to be heard, desperate to impress Vincent.

None of them had a spine of their own.

Vincent drank in the chaos like champagne. Arms folded, chin high, reveling in the attention.

"You pathetic little thing," he sneered. "You dare insult me? You really think I couldn't make someone like you disappear overnight?"

He took a step forward, puffing out his chest like that would make him look threatening.

"Still the same, aren't you, Nick?" Leila chimed in, clinging to Vincent's arm like she was born for his wallet. "Still full of that fake confidence. And still flaunting the Blackwood name like it means something."

She let out a cold little laugh.

"You're lucky they let you keep the name. But don't fool yourself into thinking you're actually the heir. Let me make this clear—we'll be at the main table with Mr. Blackwood tonight. You will be in the corner, carrying plates."

Eight years had gone by, and Leila hadn't changed a day.

Same shallow eyes. Same brittle pride.

Honestly, dodging that marriage felt like divine intervention in hindsight.

I looked her over once, then turned my attention back to Vincent.

"Sit at the main table?" I said, scoffing. "With that pitiful face? Do you even know what the word worthy means?"

I shook my head, sneering, not bothering to mask the contempt.

The crowd wasn't done.

"Did you hear that? This pompous bastard just said Vincent isn't worthy!"

"Vincent's got more status in his cufflinks than this guy has in his whole bloodline."

"Mad as a hatter, that one."

Their noise only made Vincent angrier. His face turned scarlet, his fists trembling at his sides.

"Enough!" he snapped, voice low but shaking with rage. "A waiter like you dares speak to me like this?"

He stepped in, chest up, hands balled into fists. "You clearly haven't been taught how to behave."

"Oh?" I lifted an eyebrow, unbothered. "And how exactly do you intend to teach me how to behave?"

The challenge landed squarely, and Vincent's expression soured. His jaw clenched, veins straining in his neck. He looked like a man trying very hard not to come apart.

Leila leaned in toward him, her voice syrupy with condescension. "Darling, don't waste your time on him. He's clearly just trying to get a rise out of me. Honestly, let him kneel and apologize, and we'll let it go."

Vincent smirked, slow and smug, like he was holding court.

"Since you ask so sweetly," he said, as if bestowing charity, "I'll give you one chance. Kneel. Apologize. And we'll let you leave in one piece."

I leaned back in my chair, crossed one leg over the other, and gave him the faintest smirk.

"Kneel?" I repeated, my voice dry. "I'm afraid your luck's far too small to be playing in this league."

That did it.

"You—!" Vincent's voice cracked with fury. His fists trembled at his sides as he stormed toward me, posture braced for a swing.

But then came a single cough.

The room went still.

Vincent froze mid-step, his bravado evaporating as quickly as it came. He turned stiffly toward the sound.

"Mr. Richard Barclay," he said, his voice now lined with strained respect.

Richard stepped forward—tall, composed, and cutting. He was a senior figure at Morningstar Group, a man whose presence carried weight.

"Today marks the homecoming of Sir Dominic Blackwood," he said coolly. "Anyone creating a scene here is, effectively, spitting in the face of the Blackwood family."

Silence followed. Heavy. Absolute.

Vincent's face fell. But even as he shrank back, he managed to shoot me one last glare, eyes full of venom.

"Consider yourself lucky, brat," he muttered. "The Blackwood family's rules are shielding you for now. But once you leave this hall..." He paused, his voice sharpening. "You'll regret ever crossing me."

I let out a short, snappy cackle. Vincent's attempt at playing the high roller was almost sweet, if not so embarrassingly hollow.

"West, that rule exists to protect you, not me," I said, unbothered.

He looked like he wanted to say something bold in return, but I didn't give him the chance.

"And let's not kid ourselves. Even if I walked out of here right now, you still wouldn't have the means to sit at the main table. With your current finances? You're barely scraping together a seat at the overflow table. Keep dreaming."

The words landed. I didn't even need to look to know they did.

Leila's shifting in her chair gave it away. Her composure was starting to fray. The flush in her cheeks was no longer from champagne.

"You've got a big mouth, you know that?" she snapped, her voice brittle. "Do you have any idea how much of this city's entertainment industry belongs to Vincent's family?"

Ah, there it was. The defensive bark of someone trying to shout over a truth one couldn't silence.

Vincent's expression tightened. He was clearly trying to keep his cool, trying to look unbothered, but the tension in his jaw gave him away.

"You're the first person to tell me I can't afford it," he said through gritted teeth. "Fine then. I'll bid $50 million for the right to sit at the main table! Anyone care to outbid me?"

He puffed himself up, looking around as if expecting the room to cheer. The moment he said it, the place fell into a hush.

Whispered glances. Half-formed sentences.

$50 million for a seat.

Not even a stake. Just a seat.

'It's just pathetic.'

"$50 million?" I repeated, tone light and bored. "West, you really are… poor and pitiful."

I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.

I simply gave them the number: "$100 million."

Silence.

They were neither surprised nor amazed. It was a heavy silence that dulled everyone's thoughts.

Then came the murmurs.

"$100 million? Is he mad?"

"He's just a waiter, isn't he?"

"There's no way he's got that kind of money. He's bluffing."

They looked at me like I'd grown a second head.

Unbothered, I leaned back in my chair, fingers resting on the tablecloth, calm as anything.

Vincent blinked, startled for a beat, then shook his head and gave a laugh he clearly didn't believe in.

"You think throwing out a number like that scares me? You're bluffing. If you've got it, show us. Otherwise, I'd love to see how Mr. Blackwood's people deal with your little stunt."

Every eye in the room turned toward Richard.

As the Executive Assistant Director of Morningstar Group, when Richard spoke, it wasn't just him speaking.

It was the Blackwood family itself.

Richard narrowed his gaze slightly, then said in that familiar, frigid tone, "This concerns Morningstar Group. No one dares speak out of turn. The auction continues."

Vincent's mouth twitched, and his hand clenched into a fist on the table. "Fine, if you want to play, then let's play. I'll raise you another $10 million."

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Really, West?" I said, stretching slightly. "Just $10 million? That's barely a bump."

I gave him a slow, deliberate smile. "Double it."

"$22 million!" I declared with a flick of the wrist as if ordering another drink.

Vincent's face turned a furious shade of red. "$300 million!"

I chuckled effortlessly, "Do you even have the liquidity to keep up, West? Be careful. You might bankrupt the entire West family trying to look impressive."

"$600 million!" he roared.

"$700," I replied without blinking.

He was shaking now, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.

"$800 million!" he shouted, almost choking on it.

I smiled. "$1.6 billion."

The room froze.

Not a murmur. Not a breath. Just stunned, open-mouthed silence.

Even the chandeliers seemed to be holding still.

And then, as if on cue, Leila lost it. "You're just shouting random numbers! You're insulting Mr. Blackwood! This is outrageous! If you can't back this up, you'll be finished!"

Her voice sliced through the silence like glass under pressure.

Vincent, snapping out of his fog, added fuel. "Exactly! This isn't just a bid—it's a slap in the face to the Blackwood family! If you can't deliver, you'll never recover from this!"

All eyes were on me.

I leaned forward slightly, my voice calm and unapologetic.

"Leila," I said, smiling faintly, "I wouldn't have placed the bid if I couldn't back it."

Then I turned my gaze to Vincent.

"And the two of you… You've spent the entire evening doubting me. Questioning me. Maybe that says more about you than me. Could it be you're afraid? Afraid this might not be a bluff and that you've already lost?"

Let them sit with that for a moment.

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."