Chapter 954: Art Warfare

When Rich People Turn Art Into Warfare

The bidding war was already heating up when Aurelia Royce made her move.

She didn’t just raise her paddle. She didn’t politely offer the next

increment

like everyone else playing by the unspoken rules of auction etiquette.

She sat down in one of the velvet chairs near the front with the confidence of someone about to end a war before it started, and announced in a voice that carried across the entire gallery:

"Two million dollars."

Holy shit.

The room went completely silent for about three seconds—that pregnant pause where everyone’s brain needs to recalculate what the fuck just happened.

She’d just increased the bid by five hundred thousand dollars in one move. That wasn’t participating in an auction—that was declaring dominance. Setting the stage. Making it clear that she wasn’t here to play games with incremental raises.

Aurelia Royce just dropped two million on my painting like she was buying coffee. The corporate vulture has officially entered the chat.

Celeste’s professional smile widened into something genuinely delighted. This was the kind of drama that made auction houses legendary.

"We have two million dollars from the lady in black velvet!"

Celeste announced, her voice carrying that theatrical enthusiasm.

"Do I hear two million one hundred thousand?"

Oh, this is about to get absolutely insane.

For a moment, silence hung in the air like everyone was processing whether they actually wanted to compete with someone who just casually threw down two million.

Then a man in the back—some oil executive type with the kind of watch that cost more than cars—raised his paddle.

"Two million two hundred thousand!"

And we’re off to the races.

A woman near the center, dripping in diamonds that screamed "tech industry money," countered immediately.

"Two million five hundred thousand!"

She just jumped three hundred thousand like it’s pocket change. Rich people are absolutely

unhinged.

Another voice from the side—male, confident, probably hedge fund energy.

"Two million seven hundred thousand!"

Elise Montclair, sat near her brother Theo, raised her paddle with the casual grace of someone who’d been doing this since she could walk.

"Three million dollars,"

she announced, her voice carrying that finishing-school polish.

The Montclair sister just entered the arena. This was getting better by the second.

The bidding continued to escalate with the kind of competitive fervor that made auction houses wet dreams and accountants nervous breakdowns.

"Three million two!"

"Three million five!"

"Three million eight!"

"Four million dollars!"

A new voice—some tech CEO maybe? The type who probably saw this as a power move more than an art purchase.

Four million dollars for a painting about my

sexual complexity

and emotional void. This is either the best night of my life or proof that rich people have completely lost their minds.

From my seat between Charlotte and Madison, I watched the war unfold with the kind of detached fascination usually reserved for watching nature documentaries about predators fighting over territory.

Except the territory is my art, and the predators are

billionaires

in evening wear.

Charlotte leaned over slightly, her voice quiet. "They’re not just buying the art."

"I know," I murmured back.

They’re buying access. Connection. The chance to make an impression on the mysterious artist nobody knows.

Madison’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing gently. Her eyes were sparkling with the kind of excitement that came from watching her boyfriend’s work get valued at millions.

My girlfriend was getting off on watching rich people fight over my

emotional issues

rendered in oil paint. This relationship is perfect.

The bidding continued its upward climb.

"Four million three!"

"Four million six!"

"Four million eight!"

"Five million dollars!"

The oil executive again, his voice carrying determination.

Five. Million. Dollars. That’s more money than most people make in their entire lives, and they’re using it to bid on a painting.

But the really interesting part? The men bidding weren’t just wealthy collectors with good taste.

They know. They fucking know who I am, or at least know enough to understand that the artist behind this work is

connected

to something bigger.

These weren’t random rich guys fighting over pretty art. These were strategic players trying to establish connections, make impressions, buy their way into whatever circle they thought "Eros" represented.

They’re bidding on access to power disguised as appreciation for art.

"Five million two hundred thousand!"

"Five million five hundred thousand!"

A woman’s voice, cutting and confident.

The bidding slowed slightly as the pool of competitors narrowed. People were dropping out, their limits reached or their strategic calculations determining this particular investment wasn’t worth more escalation.

Finally, only four bidders remained in the arena: three men with the kind of wealth that let them casually discuss millions, and Aurelia Royce in her black velvet and ice-blue eyes.

Final boss energy from all four of them.

"Five million seven hundred thousand!"

One of the men, his voice starting to show strain.

"Six million!"

Another man, going for the psychological impact of a round number.

"Six million three!"

The third man, refusing to back down.

They’re all trying to outlast each other, but they’re not accounting for the

corporate predator

in designer clothing.

Aurelia Royce raised her paddle with the same casual confidence she’d shown throughout the entire evening.

"Six million seven hundred thousand dollars."

She just added another seven hundred thousand like it’s a fucking tip.

The three men exchanged glances. You could see the calculation happening in real time—was it worth going higher? Was this about the art anymore, or had it become a pissing contest they couldn’t win?

One by one, they lowered their paddles.

Aurelia Royce had psychologically demolished three of them with one bid. Respect.

Celeste let the moment breathe, scanning the room with professional precision.

"Six million seven hundred thousand dollars," she announced, her voice carrying triumph.

"Going once..."

Silence.

"Going twice..."

Nobody fucking moved.

The gavel slammed down like the lid on a coffin full of money.

"Sold!"

Celeste’s voice cracked through the gallery like a whip made of silk and spite. "

’Lust and Me’

to the lady in black velvet for

six million seven hundred thousand dollars!"

Six point seven fucking million.

For a painting that was basically me confessing on canvas that I could fuck the entire world into submission and still

wake up

hollow

.

ARIA’s going to run Monte Carlo simulations on this price tag for the next six months, cross-referencing it against every known psychological profile of billionaire impulse buyers, and still come back with

error:

human behavior not found.

The gallery detonated.

Not polite

rich-people

golf claps.

Real, feral, almost sexual roaring approval. Phones flashed like paparazzi lightning in a thunderstorm.

Whispers turned to shouts turned to outright exclamations of disbelief and envy. Someone in the back actually whistled—low, appreciative, like they’d just watched a public execution performed with perfect form.

This was

gladiatorial foreplay

disguised as high culture.

Celeste swept her gloved hand toward the stage, smile splitting wide enough to show every razor edge of her teeth.

"If our visionary creator and our victorious collector would do me the honor of joining me center stage?"

Showtime, motherfucker.