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."

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?"