I Can't Be What You Need.

I sip my champagne, letting its dry sparkle numb the sharp edge in my chest. The room hums with low laughter and casual wealth. The kind of laughter that comes easy when you’ve never had to beg for love, never had to chase someone who’s already yours in name only. I engage when spoken to, offer polite nods, even a few charming smiles when necessary. But most of me stays curled behind a wall of practiced poise. Then, he sits down. The seat beside mine, the one that’s stayed empty like a silent accusation all night, is suddenly filled by a stranger with a disarmingly warm smile and eyes that look like they actually see me. He’s not old, maybe mid-thirties. Well-groomed. Sharp tailored suit in a deep emerald green that stands out amid the sea of black and navy. A hint of stubble. A mouth that looks like it’s used to smiling. A face I vaguely recognize from business magazines. Tech or finance, maybe. One of the new-money billionaires the old ones pretend to scoff at.

“Evening,” he says with easy charm. “Hope I’m not crashing a plus-one situation.”

“You’re safe,” I reply, voice smooth. “My plus-one didn’t show.”

He raises a brow, glancing briefly at the empty name card still tucked beside mine. “Moretti, huh? That’s a name with weight.”

“Apparently not enough to keep a chair warm,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

He laughs. Not cruelly. Not pityingly. Just... like someone who gets it.

“I’m Oliver,” he offers, and for the next twenty minutes, I allow myself to forget that my heart is sitting in a man’s hands who refuses to even acknowledge it. We talk. Not the empty sort of party talk, either. Real things. Small, strange things. Like my favorite childhood book. Like how he used to sneak out of prep school to stargaze. It’s light. Easy. Unexpected. And then the auction starts. A man in a glittering tuxedo takes the stage, clapping into the microphone to bring the room to order.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he purrs, “our annual charity auction will now begin. As always, all proceeds go to the children’s outreach and education initiative. Let’s open those wallets and stir up some scandalous generosity!”

The room chuckles. The bidding begins. Vacations. Vintage wine. A signed guitar from some band I barely recognize. Then...

“Our next item is a bit more unusual,” the announcer continues, grinning. “A private dinner at the top of the Alaria Tower. Five courses, wine pairings, and the best view in the city. But there’s a twist, the winner may choose anyone in this room as their guest of honor for the evening.” He winks. “Provided they say yes, of course.”

Laughter. Whispers.

“Let’s start the bidding at ten thousand.”

Hands go up. Quickly. The numbers climb.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“Thirty.”

A beat.

“Fifty.”

I glance sideways. Oliver is holding up his paddle. The crowd reacts. A few gasps. A few curious glances in our direction.

I blink. “That’s a very expensive dinner.”

He grins. “Well, the company’s promising.”

Before I can reply...

“Seventy-five thousand,” comes a new voice.

Sharp. Cold. Familiar. The air shifts like a storm just walked in. I turn, and there he is. Nico. Late. Powerful. Furious. He stands near the edge of the room, black suit molded to his frame like armor, jaw tight, eyes locked on Oliver like he’s seconds away from burying him.

Oliver straightens slowly. “Looks like your plus-one showed after all.”

The auctioneer stammers slightly but keeps going. “Uh...eighty thousand?”

Silence. Nico doesn’t need to bid again. The message is clear. The room knows it. I know it.

“Sold!” the announcer finally declares, a little too brightly. “To the gentleman in the back. Mr… Moretti, I presume?”

Nico says nothing. Just makes his way toward our table, every step clipped and precise.

Oliver stands to greet him, polite despite the tension. “Your wife is quite a woman.”

Nico’s smile is pure ice. “That, she is.”

He doesn’t look at Oliver again. He doesn’t need to. The moment is already scorched into the air.

“Come,” he says to me, voice low. “We’re leaving.”

I should argue. I should protest. But part of me, some broken, burning part wants to see why. Wants to see if this is just possession or if it might be something more. I rise. We don’t speak until the car door closes behind us. The moment it does, silence hangs like a held breath.

“You looked beautiful,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough.

I turn to him, stunned. “What?”

He’s staring out the window, like the words cost him something. “I saw the photos. Online. You looked... perfect.”

“You could’ve come.”

“I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“No,” I whisper, “you shouldn’t have.”

His jaw clenches. “When I saw him beside you, laughing with you...looking at you like he could see everything I’ve ignored...” He cuts himself off, inhaling sharply. “I wanted to kill him.”

Something twists inside me. “Why?”

“Because he saw what I was too fucking scared to admit.” He finally turns to face me, eyes dark and raw. “That I married the one person who could ruin me. And I’ve been pushing you away because of it.”

I blink, throat thick. “Then let me ruin you, Nico.”

He moves before I can breathe, closing the space between us in the car. His hands frame my face, hesitant, trembling with a violence he’s barely keeping in check.

“I don’t know how to be soft,” he says. “I can't be what you need me to be.”

He pushes my face, hard, rough, I slam backwards into the seat with a gasp as tears prick my eyes. His face turns cold once more, his mask back in place. 

"Don't ever and I mean ever, be seen with a man in a situation like that again." 

"Or what?" I whisper out. 

"Or I'll kill him, and I'll make you watch."