TASTE OF LUXURY

My head was pounding. Not a gentle, "too much cheap wine" pound, but a jackhammer-to-the-skull, "did-I-get-hit-by-a-bus?" kind of pound. I pried my eyes open, the afternoon sun slanting through the gap in the curtains like a searchlight. Groaning, I managed to sit up, immediately regretting it as the room spun.

Where the hell was I?

The last thing I remembered was…wine. Lots of wine. And then…nothing.

My blurry gaze finally focused. Plush carpet, a panoramic view of the city stretching out below, and the hushed luxury of a hotel suite that screamed "expense account." And then I saw him.

Julian Davenport.

He was perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, bathed in the glow of a Macbook screen, all sharp angles and focused intensity. He looked every inch the CEO, even in a casual (but undoubtedly obscenely expensive) cashmere sweater. The click of the keys stopped as he registered my movement.

"Ah, you're awake," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine, even when I was in this state. "I was beginning to think you were going to sleep the day away."

"What…what happened?" I croaked, my throat feeling like sandpaper. "How did I get here?"

He closed the laptop with a snap and his gaze was all on me. He stood and walked over, his movements fluid and graceful. "You, my dear Liam, indulged a little too much last night. The wine, the excitement… It proved a potent combination. You passed out."

"Passed out?" I repeated, trying to piece together the fragments of memory. The cruise ship party, the endless flow of champagne, the way Julian had looked at me…

"Completely," he confirmed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "I couldn't very well leave you on the deck of the ship, now could I? So, I brought you here."

"Here" being the kind of place my parents could only dream of staying, even if they won the lottery. “Thanks, I guess,” I mumbled, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. This was all part of the plan, right? Seduction, revenge…it all felt a bit hazy now, especially with Julian's captivating aura.

He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made me uneasy. "Don't thank me just yet. We have an event to attend this evening."

"An event? I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards!"

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent another tremor through me. "Precisely why I've already taken the liberty of making a few arrangements." He gestured towards a side table laden with water, juice, and a plate of meticulously arranged canapés. "Eat something. You look like you need it."

He watched as I devoured a mini-quiche, the savory filling surprisingly comforting. He didn't break eye contact the whole time, a silent, unsettling observation. It wasn't predatory, exactly, but... assessing.

"What kind of event?" I finally asked, once I'd managed to choke down enough food to vaguely resemble a functioning human.

"A charity auction at the Getty Center."

My eyebrows shot up. "The Getty? Full of rich people in silly hats, bidding on paintings they don't understand?"

He smiled. "Something like that. Think of it as an opportunity to observe the… fascinating creatures that inhabit this particular ecosystem."

He then ushered me to a walk-in closet, the one that is bigger than my bedroom at home, now revealing rows upon rows of impeccably tailored suits and designer shirts. It was a sartorial wonderland, and utterly overwhelming.

"Pick something," he said, gesturing to the clothes.

Again with this ‘pick something’ "Pick something? I wouldn't even know where to begin."

He approached, running a hand over the fabrics. "Then allow me." He selected a charcoal grey suit, the material so soft it looked like it would melt in your hand. He paired it with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie in a deep shade of sapphire.

"Try this on."

The suit fit perfectly, like it had been made for me. Which, I suspected, it probably had. As I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. The suit had given me a polish, a confidence I'd never possessed.

"Not bad," Julian said, his voice a low murmur behind me. "Although..." He reached out, adjusting the tie with a practiced hand. "A little too… predictable. Let's try this." He swapped the sapphire tie for one in a dark, shimmering emerald green.

The effect was transformative. The green brought out the hidden flecks of color in my eyes, adding a touch of rebellious flair to the otherwise conservative suit.

"There," he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Much better."

As we drove to the Getty, I felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation. I was a fraud, a wolf in designer clothing, about to infiltrate a world that was completely alien to me.

The Getty Center was even more opulent than I'd imagined. The white marble buildings gleamed in the evening light, and the manicured gardens were dotted with sculptures that probably cost more than my parents' house.

Inside, the air thrummed with the murmur of polite conversation and the clinking of champagne glasses. The room was filled with people dressed in their finest, dripping in jewels and oozing wealth. I felt like an imposter, acutely aware of my own humble origins.

Julian, however, seemed completely at ease. He moved through the crowd with a confident grace, greeting people with charming smiles and effortless conversation. He introduced me to a parade of names I immediately forgot, each more influential and intimidating than the last.

I tried to keep my head above water, offering polite smiles and vague nods, trying to blend into the background. But Julian wasn't having it. He kept me firmly by his side, drawing me into conversations and making sure I had a glass of champagne in my hand at all times.

The auction itself was a bizarre spectacle. People bid exorbitant amounts of money on artwork that, frankly, I didn't understand. A splash of paint on canvas, a twisted piece of metal – they were all treated with reverential awe and sold for millions.

Then, Julian turned to me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "There's one piece I think you'll particularly appreciate."

He raised his paddle, and the bidding began. The price climbed higher and higher, and I gasped as he didn't falter in his pursuit. Finally, with a decisive nod, the auctioneer slammed the gavel.

"Sold! To Mr. Davenport, for $2.5 million!"

I turned to him, speechless. "You… you bought it? For me?"

He smiled, that devilish, utterly captivating smile. "Consider it a… gesture of appreciation."

The painting was… well, abstract. A swirling vortex of color and texture that pulled you in. I didn't know anything about art, but even I could sense the raw emotion, the power that radiated from the canvas. It was beautiful, expensive, and ridiculously extravagant.

As the evening progressed, I noticed Clara across the room. She looked stunning, of course, in a shimmering gold gown that accentuated her perfect figure. She was surrounded by a group of admirers, laughing and smiling, playing the part of the perfect beauty. And then her eyes met mine.

Her smile faltered. Her eyes narrowed. And for the first time, I saw a flicker of something other than serene perfection in her gaze. It was anger. Pure, unadulterated anger.

Julian must have noticed the shift in my demeanor. He placed a hand on my arm, his touch electric. "Something wrong, Liam?"

I turned to him, the weight of everything crashing down on me. The revenge plot, the seduction, the extravagant gifts, the confusing feelings… it was all spinning out of control.

"No," I said, forcing a smile. "Everything's perfect."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But before he could press me further, he led me towards the stage to announce me as his date for the night.

"Everyone, I'd like you all to meet Liam Moreau. My date for this evening," he announced, his voice projecting through the microphone for everyone to hear. Did he do that just to annoy Clara, his own fiancée? God, I didn't know him to be this much of a menace.

Clara's face was a mask of practiced composure, but the anger in her eyes was unmistakable. I'd finally gotten her attention. I'd finally made her jealous. But as I looked at her, at the shocked faces in the crowd, at Julian's knowing smile, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd made a terrible mistake. This game I was playing was getting more and more dangerous, and I wasn't sure I knew how to win. Or even if I wanted to anymore. The line between revenge and something else had blurred, and I wasn't sure which side I was on.