Chapter 580: The Auction Eros Entrace

The Celestial Grand’s private drive curved like a marble river through manicured hedges and fountains that caught setting sun in silver arcs. One by one, the cars arrived—each a silent declaration of power.

A white Phantom glided in first. Valets in white gloves lifted the doors. Out stepped a Saudi prince in dove-gray thobe, his wife veiled in couture silk that probably cost more than my first car. A matte-black Cullinan followed, disgorging a hedge-fund titan and his third wife, diamonds flashing like weapons. Then a vintage Aston Martin—the driver opened for a man; a tech billionaire in midnight linen, no tie, cufflinks the size of coins.

The air smelled of orchids, leather interiors, and the faint ozone of serious fucking money.

I stepped from the Maybach.

The valet hesitated—just a fraction of a second. My face unfamiliar. My presence unannounced. I didn’t wait. Circled the car, opened Madison’s door first.

She emerged in white silk halter dress, diamond choker catching every eye within fifty feet. I offered my hand. She took it briefly, then let go.

Protocol. She was engaged to Peter Carter in the public eye. No lingering touches.

Amanda followed from the other side. I opened her door, palm steady at the small of her back as she stepped onto marble in beige linen jumpsuit, belt cinched tight. She stayed close—close enough for warmth, far enough for decorum.

We moved as a trio. Madison to my left. Amanda to my right. Not touching, but aligned.

The crowd parted without thinking.

The lobby was a cathedral built to worship money, like I remembered it since I was here so many times than remember.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto black-and-white marble floors. A string quartet played Debussy in the corner—soft enough to converse over, sharp enough to remind everyone they were cultured.

Waitstaff in white gloves circulated with flutes of Krug ’98. White truffles drifted from tasting stations.

Elites clustered in constellations.

Near the grand staircase: French hotelier laughing with Japanese real-estate empress, voices low, eyes scanning for advantage. Qatari sheikh examining brochure with Swiss banker, both pretending not to notice Russian oligarch’s daughter in the corner, gown slit to her hip. Hollywood producer greeting Dubai princess with air-kisses, his wife’s emeralds flashing like warning lights.

Then my presence ripple began.

A woman near the champagne table turned first. Mid-forties, London money, pearls and stare that could freeze gin. Her gaze locked on me as my auras touched her. Lips parted. Forgot the flute in her hand.

Just for the sake of it... I spread my Pheromones now. I didn’t target any woman in particular and just let it go

wild.

The ripple spread.

Saudi princess mid-sentence to companion. New York socialite adjusting gloves. Brazilian heiress who’d been laughing at husband’s joke. All of them turned. Not subtle. Not polite. Just compelled.

I felt it—the Lust Presence unfurling like heat off asphalt. Taboo Aura thrumming beneath my skin, making the air around me taste like forbidden fruit. My face, godly in symmetry. My body carved from the kind of beauty that made women forget their husbands’ names.

Madison walked beside me, chin high. Torres heiress everyone recognized. Whispers followed like perfume.

"Isn’t that Madison Torres?"

"With him? Who is he?"

"She’s engaged to Peter Carter—"

"Then why is she—"

"Look at him. God."

Amanda stayed on my right, warmth a quiet anchor. Didn’t need to touch me. The world already assumed.

Cluster of women near the quartet—three of them, wives of European tycoons—leaned together. One whispered. Another bit her lip. Third adjusted neckline without realizing.

I didn’t smile. Didn’t need to.

Madison’s voice, low whispered "They’re

eating

you alive."

Amanda, softer followed. "And they haven’t even seen you bid yet."

We moved deeper. Quartet shifted to Ravel. Chatter rose and fell like tides. Some tech founder in bespoke tux tried to catch Madison’s eye. She gave him the polite nod of a woman who’d already decided he wasn’t worth the oxygen.

Edward Sterling stood near the center. Silver-haired, navy three-piece, brother at his side.

They hadn’t seen us yet.

But the room had.

And it was already mine.

The air thickened with my Pheromones.

Lust Presence worked like low-frequency pulse—invisible, undeniable, threading through every breath in the room.

Woman in emerald silk—CEO of somewhere, husband worth eight figures—had been laughing. Mid-laugh, her gaze snagged on me. Sound died in throat. Pupils dilated so fast the green vanished. Tongue touched lower lip, slow, unconscious.

Flute in her hand trembled. Champagne sloshed over the rim, dripped onto wrist. She didn’t notice. Too busy staring, chest rising faster, silk over breasts tightening with each breath.

Ten feet away, Brazilian

heiress

in gold lamé leaned against marble column. Had been scrolling phone. Now screen dimmed, forgotten. Her thighs pressed together beneath dress slit, subtle shift, but calf muscle flexed like she was fighting urge to cross the room and kneel. Flush crawled up throat, dark against gold. Her husband said something. She didn’t hear.

Eyes glassy, fixed on line of my jaw, open collar, pulse beating slow at my throat.

Taboo Aura layered beneath—darker note. Whispered:

He’s not for you. He’s forbidden. He’ll ruin you and you’ll thank him.

Made wives clutch pearls tighter. Made engaged women remember every buried fantasy. Made single ones wet lips and wonder how my name would sound moaned into pillows.

Cluster of three near quartet—European wives, all married to men who owned islands—stood frozen mid-conversation. One reached to tuck hair behind ear and missed, fingers brushing own neck instead, lingering. Another’s hand drifted to stomach, pressing just above gown waistband, as if feeling heat pooling low.

Third simply stared, mouth parted, breath shallow—hunger that made her forget string quartet, forget husband’s hand on elbow, forget own name.

Madison walked untouched—immune by proximity and choice. Amanda felt edge of it, warm thrum against skin, but leaned into it like sunlight.

The rest? Drowning.

Server passed—twenty-two, crisp white gloves—with tray of canapés. Eyes flicked to me. Tray tilted. Single truffle rolled off, hit marble, shattered. He didn’t bend to pick it up. Couldn’t. Gaze locked, throat working, pulse rabbit-fast.

Even men weren’t safe. My godly presence didn’t discriminate. They felt uncomfortable and jealous.

Near grand staircase,

Qatari

princess in midnight abaya turned fully toward me. Fabric shifted, revealing hip line, waist curve. Fingers curled against thigh, nails digging crescents into silk. Her companion—some oil baron—followed her stare and frowned. She didn’t care. Lips parted on silent exhale, the kind that came right before moans.

String quartet hit high note in Ravel’s Pavane. Woman in front row gasped—sharp, involuntary. Husband glanced over, confused. She was staring at me like I’d just slid hand between her thighs under table.

I didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t need to.

Lust Presence and Pheromones did the work. Wrapped around throats, slipped under gowns, curled into ears like smoke. Made pulses race, knees weak, made every woman imagine my mouth on her skin, my hands spreading her open, my voice telling her exactly how filthy she could be.

Taboo Aura sealed the deal with

You’ll never have him. But you’ll dream about it for the rest of your life.

Madison’s voice, dry as champagne: "You’re going to start a riot."

Amanda, quieter: "Let them burn."