Chapter 262: Humbled

Chapter 262: Chapter 262: Humbled

Back at the auction, the micro-LED screens above the stage refreshed, bringing up the updated docket for the second half of the Grace Heritage Invitational. The auctioneer cleared his throat, leaning slightly over his podium as the room settled after the preliminary lots.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as we enter the core catalog of tonight’s fifteen-car auction, the stakes are rising considerably," the auctioneer announced, his voice steady over the house audio system.

Down on the floor, tension crackled through the air. The earlier dominance of the young Middle Eastern heir had set a ruthless baseline, but the crowd was far from intimidated. This was a room packed with sovereign wealth managers, private equity moguls, and centuries-old European aristocrats—apex predators who viewed empty intimidation as nothing more than cheap entertainment.

The stage displays illuminated Lot 05: a pristine 1990 Ferrari F40 LM, finished in raw competition red with stripped carbon Kevlar body panels.

"We begin our headline block with Lot 05," the auctioneer declared. "One of only nineteen official factory LM variants produced. Starting bid at fourteen million dollars."

Before the opening call even settled, a paddle shot up in row three—a Russian shipping magnate flanked by two imposing security officers. "Sixteen million!"

"Sixteen million to the floor," the auctioneer called out.

An American hedge fund manager in the front row immediately raised his paddle. "Eighteen million!"

The Russian magnate turned his head, locking eyes with the American, and spoke in a low, gravelly voice loud enough for the surrounding seats to hear. "You push this further, my friend, and you won’t enjoy your yacht trip back to Monaco."

A wave of quiet, amused laughter broke out across the surrounding rows. Two old Swiss bankers nearby openly chuckled, shaking their heads at the overt theatrical flex. In a room where every second guest owned an offshore fleet, personal threats were treated like bad dinner theater.

"Keep your threats for the dock, Volkov!" a British venture capitalist called out from the side stalls, raising his paddle with a grin. "Twenty million!"

The room erupted into light applause at the banter. The Russian scowled, slamming his paddle down on his knee.

In VIP Box Six, Adrian leaned forward, his cold eyes fixed on the raw carbon weave of the F40 LM displayed on the ultra-HD screen. He tapped the armrest console with a singular, deliberate movement.

’Chime.’

"Twenty-three million dollars from VIP Box Six!" the auctioneer shouted, his voice surging with energy.

The British capitalist glanced up at the tinted glass of Box Six, raised his hands in dramatic defeat, and dropped his paddle. "All yours, gentlemen!"

"Twenty-three million, going once... going twice... Sold to VIP Box Six!"

"Clean strike," Adrian noted dryly, watching Elias log the confirmation.

Next came Lot 06: a ultra-rare, gold-trimmed Pagani Zonda Cinque Coupe—number three of five ever constructed.

The bidding ignited into pure chaos. A Japanese tech tycoon, a private Dubai investment fund on the phone, and a South American energy titan fought in lightning-fast one-million-dollar leaps. The price skyrocketed from twenty million to thirty-two million within ninety seconds, the phone bidder finally seizing it for thirty-four million dollars after a brutal war of attrition.

"Thirty-four million..." Fancy whispered from her chair, staring at the screen as if her eyes were playing tricks on her. "They’re spending country-budget money in under two minutes!"

Aliya turned her vlog camera toward Fancy, snickering into the mic. "Guys, Fancy is literally experiencing economic culture shock right now. Look at her face!"

"Hey! It’s insane!" Fancy protested, pointing at the displays. "That car costs more than an entire luxury high-rise!"

"That brings us to Lot 07," the auctioneer’s voice reverberated through the hall as the stage screen transitioned to a silver-blue, quad-turbocharged legend. "The 1994 Bugatti EB110 Super Sport. Prototype provenance, lightweight carbon chassis, and pristine factory condition."

Marcus’s posture straightened instantly. His eyes narrowed, his fingers lingering over his bidding terminal. "This one doesn’t leave without me."

"Starting bid at eight million dollars," the auctioneer opened.

"Ten million!" a German pharmaceutical director called out from the main floor.

"Twelve million!" a private collector from London countered.

"Fourteen million," Marcus entered directly from VIP Box Six.

’Chime.’

"Fourteen million to VIP Box Six!"

Down on the floor, an arrogant young tech executive in a brightly patterned velvet suit stood up slightly, glaring toward the upper boxes. "Sixteen million! And don’t bother tapping that screen again, Box Six! Some of us actually drive these things!"

Laughter rippled through the lower floor at the young tech CEO’s grandstanding.

"Oh, look at the big boy talking tough," Noah chuckled, crossing his arms. "Marcus, please ruin his night."

Marcus didn’t even crack a smile. He simply pressed the terminal button with cold, mechanical precision.

’Chime.’

"Eighteen million dollars to VIP Box Six!" the auctioneer called instantly.

The tech CEO’s face flushed red. He thrust his hand back up. "Nineteen million!"

’Chime.’

"Twenty-one million dollars to VIP Box Six!"

The speed of the response was so instant, so dismissive, that it left the tech CEO looking like he was arguing with an automated machine. The surrounding aristocrats chuckled under their breath, watching the young executive slowly sink back into his velvet seat, utterly defeated by the silent brick wall above.

"Twenty-one million dollars, going once... going twice... Sold to VIP Box Six!"

Marcus leaned back, adjusting his cuffs with a calm smirk. "Snatched."

"You didn’t even let the poor guy breathe," Leon laughed, shaking his head.

Over the next four lots—including a classic 1957 Mercedes-Benz 300 SL Gullwing, a Koenigsegg One:1, a Porsche 911 GT1 Strassenversion, and an Aston Martin Valkyrie AMR Pro—the floor descended into an absolute bloodbath of high-society rivalry. Phone bidders were getting cut off mid-sentence, private collectors were getting flexed out by institutional funds, and the room was buzzing with electric adrenaline.

By the time Lot 12 rolled around—the legendary 1998 McLaren F1 LM-Specification—the Middle Eastern heir who had dominated the opening lots tried to make a dramatic comeback.

"Twenty-five million dollars!" the heir yelled, throwing his paddle high into the air the moment the car appeared on screen.

"Twenty-eight million!" an Italian steel magnate countered instantly.

"Thirty million!" the heir barked back, standing up and glaring around the room as if daring anyone to challenge him again. "Thirty million!"

From the corner of the floor, an old French billionaire who had remained silent all evening casually raised his finger toward the floor clerk. "Thirty-five million."

The heir snapped his head around, his jaw dropping as the French billionaire didn’t even bother looking at him, quietly sipping his champagne. The heir slowly sank back down, realizing his financial intimidation tactics were useless against true old money. The McLaren F1 LM sold for thirty-five million dollars to polite applause.

Lots 13 and 14—a Ferrari Monza SP2 and a Pagani Zonda HP Barchetta—were snapped up in quick succession for fourteen million and twenty-six million dollars respectively, setting the stage for the ultimate prize.

The house lights dimmed. A low, dramatic hum echoed from the hidden speakers as the micro-LED displays shifted to live feeds from the secure airfield outside Geneva.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, his voice dropping into a solemn, reverent hush. "We have reached Lot 15. The final, crowning jewel of the Grace Heritage Invitational."

The screen displayed a vehicle finished in a deep, metallic sapphire blue that seemed to swallow the spotlight—the 2021 Bugatti La Voiture Noire. A bespoke, factory one-of-one masterwork featuring an eight-litre quad-turbo W16 engine and hand-hammered carbon composite bodywork.

"Bidding for the La Voiture Noire will open at fifty million dollars," the auctioneer declared.

The entire hall went dead quiet. The air grew impossibly thick.

The Middle Eastern heir, desperate to reclaim his pride after being humiliated throughout the night, shoved his paddle straight into the air. "Fifty-five million!"

"Sixty million," the phone clerk from Monaco countered instantly.

"Sixty-five million!" the heir roared, standing up in the aisle, his body shaking with aggressive determination. He looked around the room, shouting, "Try and top that! Go ahead!"

Up in VIP Box Six, Jake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his cold, unreadable gaze fixed on the sapphire Bugatti displayed on screen.

"Elias," Jake said softly.

Elias touched the primary bidding console, punching in the updated figure.

’Chime.’

The green LED above Box Six flashed like a beacon across the dark hall, glowing brighter than any other indicator that evening.

"One... One hundred million dollars from VIP Box Six!" the auctioneer shrieked into his microphone, completely abandoning his refined composure as his eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

An instant, deafening silence blanketed the entire auction. The room frozen in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Nobody moved. Nobody even seemed to breathe.

Then, the floor exploded.

"A hundred million?!" a German industrialist shouted, throwing his hands up in utter disbelief. "That’s a thirty-five million dollar single jump! Is he out of his mind?!"

"A hundred million for a single automobile?!" an American hedge fund manager sputtered, turning to his colleagues. "Some of the superyachts docked outside didn’t even cost a hundred million! That’s absolute insanity!"

Whispers spread across the rows like wildfire as guests frantically gestured up at the acoustic glass.

"Who is in Box Six?!" an Italian aristocrat demanded of a passing floor clerk. "Which conglomerate is that? Is it a sovereign wealth fund from Asia? A Silicon Valley titan?"

"That isn’t company capital, nobody’s board approves a hundred-million-dollar flex on a car!" another billionaire countered, staring up at the tinted window in awe. "That is raw, personal liquidity. What kind of business empire is backing that guy?!"

Down in the aisle, the Middle Eastern heir stood utterly paralyzed. The color vanished from his face, leaving him a ghastly pale. The paddle slipped from his numb fingers, clattering loudly against the carpet. A hundred million dollars in a single stroke wasn’t just outbidding him—it was a display of wealth so absurd, so astronomical, that it rendered his family’s flexes completely insignificant.

"One hundred million dollars..." the auctioneer stammered, his hand trembling uncontrollably as he raised the heavy brass gavel. "Going once... going twice..."

’Clack!’

"Sold! For one hundred million dollars to the gentleman in VIP Box Six!"

The room broke into an unprecedented, roaring ovation—not just for the car, but for the sheer, terrifying display of financial dominance they had just witnessed.

Up in the box, Leon stood up, clutching his stomach as he laughed until tears hit his eyes. "A HUNDRED MILLION! Jake, you broke the auctioneer! The man looked like he was having a stroke on live television!"

Fancy sat frozen in her seat, her mouth hanging open as she stared at Jake like he was an alien species. "A hundred million... you just spent nine figures on a car..."

Aliya zoomed her camera directly onto Jake’s completely unfazed face, whispering into the mic with wide eyes, "Guys... my brother just set the internet on fire. A hundred million dollars. That’s how we wrap up the night."

Jake stood up smoothly, buttoning his tuxedo jacket as Elias stepped up with the digital receipts glowing with the confirmed eight-figure charge. "Elias, finalize the transfers. Have the EB110 SS, the F40 LM, and the La Voiture Noire prepped for transport."

"Right away, Mr. Rivers," Elias bowed deeply.

Jake turned his gaze toward the door, his voice returning to a cold, razor-sharp calm. "Let me know when the jet is ready. Monday is coming, and we have a company to dismantle."

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