Bidding love

Going Once, Going Twice

Setting:

Park Avenue Auction House, New York City.

An elite, members-only modern art auction held in a towering marble hall beneath crystal chandeliers. The atmosphere buzzes with whispered valuations, clinking champagne, and masked intentions.

Harper Lane adjusted the cuff of her blazer and tried to ignore the spotlight burning through her back. She'd never belonged in a room like this-not when she was scrubbing brushes in Julian Rhodes's gallery at nineteen, and not now, ten years later, standing alone in Prada heels she couldn't quite afford.

But she looked like she belonged. And sometimes, that was half the battle.

Sienna (whispering):

"You're breathing like someone about to rob the place."

Harper glanced at her best friend, who stood just behind her, clutching a clipboard like it was a weapon.

Harper:

"I feel like I'm about to rob the place. Or be robbed."

Sienna (smirking):

"Relax. You're here to scout, not steal. That painting-Untamed Bloom-it's the one. If we land it, the foundation's launch gets credibility overnight."

Harper:

"I still don't understand why it's being auctioned here. It should be in a museum. Or a shelter."

Sienna:

"This is the art world, babe. Everyone's selling something. Even grief."

Harper's mouth tightened. She knew that truth too well.

The auctioneer tapped the mic twice. Murmurs hushed. The lights dimmed slightly as the spotlight hit the first piece.

Auctioneer:

"Lot Number 7: Untamed Bloom, oil on canvas, anonymous female artist, 2014."

Harper's heart stuttered. That painting-bold crimson petals erupting from a tangle of black brushstrokes-was a visual scream. She remembered seeing it once in an underground exhibit years ago and feeling seen for the first time.

Now it hung framed in gold, commodified.

Sienna (elbowing her):

"You bidding or breathing?"

Harper lifted her auction paddle. Steady. Silent.

Auctioneer:

"Opening at one hundred thousand dollars."

The first paddle went up. A row over. Then another.

Sienna:

"Two-fifty."

Harper raised her card.

Auctioneer:

"Three hundred thousand. To the young lady with the dark blazer."

Then a pause.

A voice cut clean through the room like silk over steel.

Dominic:

"Five hundred thousand."

Harper turned slowly. The man in the tailored black suit two rows ahead didn't look her way. He didn't need to. His voice was enough. Cold. Commanding. Like he was ordering wine, not hijacking her dream.

Harper (hissing):

"Who the hell is that?"

Sienna (jaw dropped):

"That... is Dominic Storm. Billionaire. Venture capitalist. Owns half the East River. And, apparently, has taste in art."

Harper lifted her paddle again.

Auctioneer:

"Five-fifty."

Dominic didn't flinch.

Dominic:

"One million."

Gasps rippled through the room. Even the auctioneer hesitated.

Auctioneer (clearing throat):

"One million. Going once..."

Harper's hand hovered.

Sienna (low):

"Don't. We can't outbid him. He's not even blinking."

Harper (tightly):

"He doesn't deserve that piece. It's not decoration-it's survival."

Sienna:

"And if you go broke proving it, survival becomes theory."

Auctioneer:

"Going twice..."

Harper's hand slowly dropped.

Auctioneer:

"Sold. To Mr. Storm."

Polite applause. The gavel fell.

Harper didn't clap.

Scene 2 – Unlikely Confrontation

An hour later, champagne flowed like gossip, and Harper stood in the corner of the reception hall, glaring daggers into a flute of Dom Pérignon.

Sienna:

"Don't cause a scene."

Harper:

"I'm not. I'm silently planning one."

Sienna:

"Oh god, you're walking toward him, aren't you? Harper..."

She was already crossing the floor.

Dominic Storm stood alone near a minimalist sculpture that probably cost more than Harper's entire foundation launch budget. His profile was sharp, jaw tight, eyes impossibly silver. He turned before she spoke, like he sensed her irritation through the air.

Harper (coolly):

"You outbid me."

Dominic (raising an eyebrow):

"Is that a complaint or a compliment?"

Harper:

"It's a question. Why?"

Dominic (slowly):

"I liked it."

Harper:

"That painting isn't for people like you."

Dominic:

"And who exactly am I?"

Harper:

"The kind of man who buys beauty without asking who bled for it."

That landed. His gaze sharpened. He studied her, not like a man admiring-but calculating.

Dominic:

"Tell me something, Miss..."

Harper:

"Lane. Harper Lane."

Dominic (recognition flickering):

"Lane-as in the Lane Foundation?"