Novel Full Chapter 955: Aurelia’s Flirting
Chapter 955: Aurelia’s Flirting
I rose from between Charlotte and Madison—slow, deliberate, letting the midnight wool of my suit settle over shoulders that had carried far heavier weights than this room could comprehend.
Adjusted the cuffs once.
Walked to the stage like I owned every square inch of carpet beneath my shoes.
Aurelia Royce was already waiting—poised like a black widow who’d just decided the fly was interesting enough to fuck before eating.
That black velvet gown clung to her like it had been woven from the shadows of dead stars, hugging every lethal curve, every deliberate swell, every line of muscle and promise.
Up close those ice-blue eyes weren’t just cold—they were cryogenic. Capable of flash-freezing desire in mid-throb, turning lust into something brittle and beautiful and doomed to shatter under the slightest pressure.
We met dead center beneath the spotlight’s merciless white burn. Celeste positioned us like sacrificial offerings for the society-page cameras: artist and buyer, creator and devourer, god and the woman who just spent seven figures to see if she could make the god bleed.
Aurelia extended her hand first.
Fingers long enough to wrap around a throat or a fortune with equal ease. Nails the color of fresh arterial blood. I took it.
Her grip was iron wrapped in silk—firm, confident, the handshake of someone who had signed death warrants, merger agreements, and lovers’ surrender papers with the same elegant pressure.
But then—
Hidden from every lens, every prying eye, shielded by the precise angle of our bodies and the drape of her sleeve—her thumb moved.
Slow. Deliberate. Obscene.
One long, languid stroke along the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse point, pressing just hard enough to feel my heartbeat kick against her skin like it recognized a predator.
Then another.
Slower.
Her burgundy lips curved—just enough for me to see, not enough for the room.
"Extraordinary," she breathed, voice pitched so low it vibrated against my eardrum like a secret sin. "Not just the painting. You."
Her eyes flicked downward—once, shamelessly—to where our hands remained joined, then dragged back up to lock with mine. Pupils blown wide beneath that glacial surface.
"The emptiness behind the power," she continued, thumb tracing a third slow, filthy circle over my racing pulse, "the void beneath the desire... it’s almost indecent how honest it is. Most men bury their hollowness under bravado or money or cock. You weaponize it. You paint it. You make it beautiful."
Her voice dropped another octave—barely audible, intimate as a tongue against skin.
"I wonder what it would feel like... to be with someone who’s already tasted every pleasure the world can offer... and still woke up hungry."
Translation:I see you. I see the seventeen-year-old god wearing human skin, staring back from those abyssal eyes. And right now, under all these lights and all these eyes, I’m telling you I want to spread my legs for that emptiness and see if it can fill me until I break.
I let my own smile answer—small, dark, edged with teeth.
Aloud, for the microphones and the flashing cameras:
"Thank you," I said, voice velvet-smooth and perfectly professional. "Though I have to say, it’s thanks to people like you who understand art beyond just the surface level—who see the layers beneath the technique—that work like this finds its real value and potential."
Translation: thanks for spending millions on my therapy session rendered in oil paint. Aurelia’s burgundy lips curved into a smile that was equal parts amused and knowing.
"No," she said with a soft chuckle that somehow made her seem more dangerous, not less. "A few million doesn’t justify what this piece is worth. I would’ve gone much further if my competitors had more fight in them."
She paused, and there was something almost regretful in her expression.
"Unfortunately, they didn’t."
She’s casually saying she would’ve paid more than 6.7 million dollars for my painting. This woman is either insane or sees something in this work that goes way beyond art appreciation.
I chuckled despite myself, recognizing the game she was playing—the subtle power move of suggesting the price, while astronomical, still undervalued the work.
Rich people are wild.
"Sorry I only spent 6.7 million, would’ve loved to spend more." That’s a flex I’ve never encountered before.
Her pupils flared again—visible only to me. Her thumb pressed once more—harder—against my pulse, feeling it spike.
Our hands separated with excruciating slowness. Her fingers trailed the entire length of my palm—feather-light, obscene in their innocence—nails grazing the sensitive skin just enough to leave invisible fire before she finally released me.
I gave her a small nod of acknowledgment before stepping away from the stage, heading back to my seat between Charlotte and Madison.
That was simultaneously the most expensive and most awkward social interaction of my entire life.
My girlfriend’s former corporate enemy just bought my art for nearly seven million dollars. That’s not weird at all.
Charlotte’s face was porcelain-perfect, but her eyes tracked Aurelia like a sniper reacquiring a primary target that had just painted a bullseye on her territory.
Madison, on the other hand, was practically vibrating—cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with the kind of feral joy that comes from watching your man become the center of a gravitational pull strong enough to warp reality.
At least one of my women is enjoying this completely surreal evening.
"She just eye-fucked you in front of the entire room," Madison whispered, leaning so close her lips brushed my ear.
"She did more than that," I murmured back.
Charlotte’s hand landed on my thigh under the table—firm, possessive, nails digging in just enough to remind me who had claim first.
"She bought your soul for seven figures," Charlotte said quietly, voice low and lethal, "and then she tried to seduce it right under everyone’s noses."
Madison’s fingers intertwined with mine again, squeezing hard.
"She failed," Madison said sweetly, almost sing-song.
"She didn’t fail," I corrected. "She tested the waters. And I think she liked what she tasted."
Celeste returned to center stage, glowing like someone who had just facilitated the single most lucrative transaction of her career and probably already had the commission wired to an offshore account.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, voice dripping honeyed authority, "what an unforgettable, unprecedented evening. Before we adjourn, I invite you all to ascend to the third floor for our grand finale—a masquerade to celebrate tonight’s extraordinary acquisitions. Masks will be provided at the entrance.
"Champagne will flow like sin. And I encourage each of you to celebrate these remarkable pieces... in whatever style most pleases you."
The crowd purred—low, hungry approval. Rich people fucking adore any excuse to hide their faces while still flashing their wealth, their bodies, their depravity.
Madison leaned closer, breath hot and teasing against my neck.
"You ready for round two?"
Round two of what? The evening? The social knife-fight? The increasingly tangled web of power, lust, jealousy, and ruin?
I looked across the glittering wreckage of money and ambition to where Aurelia Royce now stood—alone, champagne flute in hand, ice-blue eyes already finding mine again through the crowd like heat-seeking missiles.
Round two.
The masquerade.
The masks.
The hidden touches.
The open secrets.
The war that had just learned how to smile politely.
I smiled—slow, dark, inevitable.
"Always."
Bring on the fucking masks. This night is already a fever dream of wealth, sex, and power. Might as well lean all the way in and see how deep the abyss really goes.