Sarah leaned back against the cool marble wall, letting out a long, shaky sigh. Tears still glistened in her eyes as she wiped them away, smearing her heavy makeup further. The heartbreak of being ignored by her closest friend for months had cut deep — she had truly believed Clara had turned her back on her, just like everyone else, when she needed help the most.
But hearing Clara's own pain now made guilt twist sharply in her chest.
"So… he didn't make a move on the trip?" Sarah asked quietly, voice thick. "Or has he moved his target to your mother now?"
Clara's eyes darkened instantly, her fists clenching so hard her nails dug into her palms.
"There is no way that bastard will leave me alone," she hissed, voice low and venomous.
She started explaining everything — the secret meetings, the way Mike kept appearing no matter how hard she tried to push him away, the growing, terrifying pull she couldn't fight, and the horrifying realization that he was now turning his attention toward her own mother.
Sarah listened in stunned silence, her face paling with every word.
Flashback – The Beach Resort (Earlier in the trip)
The sun was setting over the private beach, painting the sky in deep oranges and pinks. Clara had slipped away from Fin for a moment, stepping out of the private washroom near the beach club. She needed air. She needed space to breathe after another day of fighting the storm inside her mind.
She didn't get far.
Mike appeared from the shadows, wearing nothing but a pair of loose black swim shorts that hung dangerously low on his hips, his sculpted torso still glistening with seawater. Before she could react, he moved fast — pinning her gently but firmly against the smooth white wall of the resort building, one hand planted beside her head, his body blocking any easy escape.
Clara flinched, nerves spiking as her eyes darted left and right for any way out.
"Mike… what are you doing?" she hissed, voice trembling.
Mike smiled — that slow, dangerous, confident smile that always made her stomach twist. He leaned in closer, his bare chest inches from hers, the heat of his body radiating against her thin summer dress.
"How long are you going to ignore me, Clara?" he murmured, voice low and intimate. "Isn't it about time you stopped playing hard to get?"
Clara's back pressed harder against the wall. "You bastard… move the fuck away, or I will shout."
Mike's smirk deepened. He didn't move an inch. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
"Shout," he taunted softly.
Clara's breath hitched. "What…?"
"Go ahead. Shout if you can. I don't mind proving to everyone here how much I like you." He moved even closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I desire you, Clara. I want you to be mine."
Clara turned her face sharply to the side, her breathing quick and shallow, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Mike gently but firmly caught her chin, turning her face back toward him. His touch was surprisingly soft, but his eyes burned with obsession.
"What should I do to prove it to you, Clara? I really like you… Can't you just give me a chance?"
Clara said nothing. She didn't need to. She understood perfectly now.
Mike wasn't looking for answers. He was an obsessed sociopath — and he had no intention of letting her go.
In the luxurious washroom
Sarah leaned forward, eyes wide with a mix of concern and disbelief, her voice barely above a whisper.
"So… what happened next?"
Clara stared at the marble floor for a long moment, her jaw clenched tight.
"Nothing," she said finally, voice flat. "He left… saying some bullshit like 'I'll make you mine.'"
Sarah sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. "So you didn't feel anything? After all that…?"
Clara looked at her friend for a long beat, her jaw tightening even more. Shame burned hot in her chest, but she couldn't lie anymore.
"I got wet," she admitted, voice cracking.
Sarah's eyes widened. "Ufff… how the hell are you going to escape from all this, Clara?"
Clara didn't have an answer. The two friends stood in silence under the soft golden lights of the marble washroom, the weight of their secrets pressing down on them like the ocean outside.
Later at the private auction
The private auction was held in a secluded wing of the cliffside villa — an intimate, high-ceilinged salon with dark walnut paneling, crystal chandeliers, and thick velvet drapes that blocked out the outside world.
Plush leather chairs were arranged in elegant rows facing a raised stage where rare pieces were displayed under focused spotlights. Security was discreet but heavy, and only the most elite guests had received invitations. The air smelled of aged leather, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic tang of serious money changing hands.
Fin had come here with one clear purpose: a rare, unsigned painting by a legendary 19th-century master that his mother Eleanor had quietly admired for years. She loved art more than almost anything, and he wanted to give her something meaningful — something that wasn't just another expensive gift bought with the Harrington name.
Everyone took their seats.
Fin sat in the front row with Clara beside him. She was still shaken from her talk with Sarah, but she tried to appear composed in her elegant evening dress. Mike sat a few rows behind them with Lila, who kept stealing glances toward Fin. Marianne and Alain sat together, Marianne's crimson wrap dress still drawing eyes, while Alain remained unusually quiet and watchful.
The auctioneer stepped onto the stage, and the bidding began.
Several impressive pieces came and went — a rare sculpture, an original sketch by Picasso — with bids climbing into the hundreds of thousands. The atmosphere was electric, the room filled with quiet tension and the occasional sharp intake of breath as numbers rose.
Then the main piece Fin had come for was brought out.
It was breathtaking — a large, haunting oil painting of a lone woman standing on a stormy cliff, looking out at a turbulent sea. The brushwork was masterful, the emotions raw and alive. The starting bid was already high.
Bidding started aggressively.
Fin raised his paddle calmly.
The old man from earlier in the evening — still stinging from the previous humiliation — raised his paddle too, shooting Fin a defiant look.
The price climbed rapidly — £450,000… £680,000… £920,000…
Marianne leaned forward with interest, whispering something to Alain. Mike watched with a faint smirk, while Lila's eyes flicked between Fin and the painting.
The old man pushed harder, his face turning red as he bid £1.2 million.
The room fell quiet for a heartbeat.
Fin didn't hesitate. He raised his paddle again.
£2.4 million.
A collective murmur rippled through the audience. The old man's face went pale. He stared at Fin in disbelief, fingers twitching, but he didn't raise his paddle again.
The auction hall fell into a hushed silence as the old man in the white suit finally lowered his paddle, face flushed with defeat. The auctioneer raised his gavel, ready to seal the deal.
"Going once… going twice—"
A sharp click cut through the tension.
Mike raised his paddle calmly from his seat a few rows back.
Lila's eyes widened in pure astonishment. Clara's head snapped around. Alain and Marianne both turned, stunned. Even the rest of the crowd — the elite collectors and billionaires who had watched the bidding climb to £2.5 million — went completely still.
Fin slowly turned his head, his expression one of mild disbelief, as if watching a child trying to play in the big leagues.
Alain leaned toward Marianne, voice low and incredulous. "Has this guy lost his mind? How does he think he can compete with Fin?"
Marianne's eyes stayed fixed on Mike, a flicker of curiosity and genuine interest crossing her face. The crimson wrap dress hugged her curves as she shifted slightly in her seat.
"Who knows, Alain," she murmured, lips curving into a small, intrigued smile. "Maybe we really didn't know him yet."
Alain's eyes darkened. He scoffed under his breath, clearly irritated.
Mike, meanwhile, glanced down at his phone. A private chat window was open. The latest message from Dominus glowed on the screen:
"You can bid up to 10 million, my disciple."
Mike smirked, then raised his paddle again.
The bidding war ignited.
Fin countered immediately. Mike raised. Fin countered. The numbers climbed fast — £3.1 million… £4.2 million… £5.8 million…
The entire hall had gone deathly quiet. The auctioneer's forehead glistened with sweat, his hand trembling slightly as he announced each new bid, eyes wide with a mix of greed and disbelief at the sums being thrown around so casually.
At £6 million, the room held its breath.
Fin turned in his seat, looking back at Mike with calm, almost bored confidence.
"Are you sure you can outbid me?"
Mike laughed — loud, haughty, and full of arrogance.
"I don't know about that… but at least I can make it bleed you a little, Fin."
Fin's lips curved into a cold smile.
"Can you?"
Without hesitation, he raised his paddle again.
£12 million.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Several guests exchanged stunned looks. A few older collectors whispered furiously among themselves. The auctioneer actually paused for a second, clearing his throat twice before announcing the new bid, his voice cracking slightly.
In their row, Clara's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. Her eyes flicked toward Mike with clear mockery, as if silently saying, Try harder.
Lila sat frozen beside Mike, her mind racing. She had no idea what game he was playing, but the confidence in his posture told her he wasn't bluffing.
Marianne's gaze lingered on Mike with renewed interest, while Alain's jaw tightened, his earlier irritation now bordering on open suspicion.
The auctioneer's gavel hovered in the air, the entire room hanging on Mike's next move.
The private auction had just become something far more dangerous than anyone expected.