Chapter 11

The jewelry world was not all sparkle and polish. Behind every gleaming stone was a battlefield, and Gie was preparing for war.

Her invitation to the auction had come wrapped in black velvet, sealed with wax, and embossed with the emblem of the Maison D'Or auction house—the highest, most exclusive platform for high-stakes gemstone bidding in the country.

Only top-tier designers and art jewelers were invited. Only those who had proven, through blood, brilliance, and bank accounts, that they deserved access to the rarest stones the world had to offer.

This was where kingdoms traded their family treasures. Where emeralds with ancient curses changed hands. Where sapphires stolen in war were now worn on red carpets.

And it was where Gie would source her crown jewel.

One piece in Laurent's collection was still missing. The centerpiece. The statement. A necklace to end all necklaces. And she needed a stone that could speak before the design ever did.

She arrived in Paris three days before the bidding.

Jetlagged, caffeinated, heart pounding with both excitement and dread, Gie checked into the penthouse suite she always reserved for moments like this. It was her ritual. Tall ceilings. Wide views. A space big enough to let the nerves out.

Her assistant, Marit, had already laid out the dossiers of the stones up for auction. Pages of detailed gemological reports. Clarity grades. Provenance records. Estimated value ranges. Photos under every possible light.

Gie went through them with surgical precision, scribbling notes in the margins, comparing refractive indices, and circling lot numbers.

One stone caught her breath.

Lot 43.

A 12.1 carat unheated Burmese sapphire. Cushion cut. Velvet blue. Near-flawless. Its origin certified by multiple international labs.

It wasn't just rare. It was near-mythical.

And she wanted it.

Needed it.

It would become the heart of the collection—a piece so radiant it would silence rooms.

But Gie knew she wasn't the only one who had seen it.

Rumors had already begun swirling in her inbox. Whispers of who else would attend the auction.

Collectors. Rivals.

And one name she hadn't heard in years.

Saskia Wynn.

She tasted blood just thinking about her.

Saskia was also an art jeweler, one of the few who worked with sculptural metals and rare stones the way Gie did. Once, they had admired each other from afar. But admiration had turned to bitterness after Saskia allegedly copied a design Gie had debuted years before.

Saskia had called it a coincidence. The press had called it a scandal. Gie had called her a thief.

They hadn't spoken since. But now, they were bidding in the same room.

Gie dressed with sharp intention the night of the auction.

All black. High collar. Diamond studs. Hair in a sleek, severe bun. She looked expensive, dangerous, and wholly unapproachable.

As she stepped into the grand hall of Maison D'Or, all marble and velvet, the air buzzed with power. Waiters in white gloves offered champagne. The chandeliers reflected a hundred tiny rainbows on the polished floor.

Designers, investors, royals, and oil heirs filled the space with quiet murmurs.

And then, as she crossed the room, she saw him.

Alexander.

Tall. Composed. A tailored coat in deep navy. His profile carved like a sculpture against the warm gold of the chandelier light. He stood next to a foreign dignitary, speaking quietly, his lips barely moving.

She stopped breathing.

That night—the one she refused to think about—flashed like heat lightning through her spine.

The way she'd whispered his name, shuddered his name.

No. Not here. Not now.

She turned immediately.

Avoided eye contact. Slipped behind a tall banker. Focused on the stones.

He was just a man. A man who had worn her earring and didn't know the full weight of what she had poured into it.

She had no time for ghosts.

Lot 43 was set to go near the end. Gie waited, arms folded, mask in place, heart ticking like a bomb. The room blurred until only the stones mattered. One after another, they were displayed, their backlit cases wheeled in like royalty.

And then—

"Lot Quarante-Trois," the auctioneer called.

The room went silent.

The sapphire appeared under the spotlight.

Gasps.

Even in a room full of people trained not to react, the stone earned its awe. It shimmered like the edge of twilight, rich and endless. It looked like it knew secrets. Like it had watched empires fall.

Gie raised her paddle first.

She wasn't waiting. This was hers.

The bidding war began.

She recognized Saskia's number immediately. Of course.

The paddles flew. Numbers soared.

Gie refused to blink. Refused to flinch. This was not just a stone. It was the culmination of every sleepless night, every sketch, every cut she'd bled for. Her art had already imagined this sapphire in gold, suspended between fire and breath.

She bid again. And again.

And just when it looked like Saskia would win—

A new paddle lifted.

Alexander.

Her blood turned to ice.

Why was he bidding?

Why this stone?

She fought the heat crawling up her neck. She wanted to scream, to demand what he wanted with that sapphire. But she stayed silent. Professional. Cold.

And then he looked at her.

Across the room.

Straight into her.

A glance. Barely a flicker. But it was enough.

He knew.

He was doing this on purpose.

Gie raised her paddle higher.

If he wanted to challenge her, he would bleed for it.

The numbers climbed.

The tension snapped and twisted in the air.

In the end, the hammer fell.

Sold. To Paddle 77.

Gie.

Her lungs deflated. Her fingers shook.

The sapphire was hers.

But so was the attention.

Alexander said nothing. Just tilted his head, the faintest curl on his lips.

And Gie, despite herself, felt that treacherous heat again.

She turned away.

This was her world. Her war. Her win.

But damn him, he had almost stolen it.

And she had let him.

She clenched her jaw.

Never again.