The Bidder

Damien twirled the pen lazily between his fingers, his shoulders leaning back against the leather chair as he studied the board members through hooded eyes.

They sat around the long glass table like a jury, faces stern, hands folded, pretending this wasn’t already his decision to make. The faint ticking of a wall clock was the only sound beyond the soft rustle of papers and the occasional cough from someone attempting to hide their impatience.

In front of them lay the expansion proposal. His proposal.

It was bold. Risky. Expensive. The kind of move that made conservative men sweat and visionaries lean forward. If approved, it would drain a significant portion of the company’s liquid assets. If it failed, shareholders would howl. If it succeeded, Hardy Global would dominate the market for the next decade.

Damien had no doubt which outcome mattered.

Harold Whitman cleared his throat.

The sound alone irritated Damien.

“This is… a very bold move, sonny,” Harold said, peering over his glasses.

There it was.

The word always did it. *Sonny.* As if Damien hadn’t clawed his way into this chair with bloodied hands and sharper instincts than any of them. As if he were still some reckless boy playing CEO with his father’s toys.

Damien kept his face impassive, expression controlled. Inside, though, a quiet fire burned. He had long since learned that patience was far more powerful than temper—most of the time.

“How do you intend to handle the loss if this investment fails?” Harold continued, voice slow and deliberate. “Our competitors have deeper reserves. They can afford to outbid us if things turn south.”

Damien’s lips curved slightly, a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“As outlined in my proposal,” he said smoothly, tilting his head toward the neatly stacked documents at the center of the table, “we pivot.”

Several heads turned to the papers, though Damien doubted most of them had read beyond the executive summary. He had written the details with precision, foreseeing every possible objection. Still, it was amusing to watch them squirm in their ignorance.

“If we’re outbid after the initial investment,” he continued, “we shift manufacturing to a mid-tier service model. Lower margins, yes. But consistent demand. It mitigates losses while keeping infrastructure intact.”

Silence followed. A few fingers tapped lightly on the glass table, an attempt at nervous rhythm.

Then a voice cut in from the far end of the table.

“That’s not enough to justify the risk.”

Damien’s smile vanished.

He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Samuel Hardy.

His uncle. His father’s younger brother. The man who had come within a hair’s breadth of taking this seat for himself when Damien’s father retired. Samuel was the embodiment of entitlement—everything Damien despised in a man and, once, everything he had feared in himself.

Damien slowly turned his head.

Samuel sat relaxed, fingers steepled, his expression deceptively calm. There was always something smug about him, like he was perpetually waiting for Damien to stumble so he could say, *I told you so.*

“The company barely recovered from the last unnecessary gamble your father took,” Samuel continued. “The sideline acquisition nearly cost us everything.”

Several board members shifted uncomfortably. A few cleared their throats. Damien didn’t care. It was a low blow, calculated, but predictable.

Damien felt the familiar cold settle behind his ribs, threading outward like steel. His gray eyes hardened, turning glacial, and for a heartbeat, the room felt smaller, the air charged.

“Anything else you’d like to add, Samuel?” Damien asked quietly, deliberately slow.

Samuel glanced down at the papers as if seeing them for the first time, then shook his head. “No. I think that covers it.”

Damien exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Then we’re done here.”

He straightened, placing both hands flat on the table as he addressed the room, voice low but firm.

“It’s clear some of you need more time to review the proposal,” he said evenly. “We’ll reconvene in three days. My assistant will circulate revised notes.”

He didn’t wait for agreement. Authority didn’t need confirmation.

Gathering his documents, he slid them into his folder and stood. The meeting was over the moment he decided it was. As he walked out, he felt Samuel’s gaze burning into his back.

*Good,* Damien thought. *Stay angry. Let it fester.*

---

“I need a drink first,” Damien muttered later, stepping into his penthouse. “This can wait.”

Red followed him inside without a word, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

Damien shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it over a chair, loosening his tie as he crossed the open-plan living space toward the bar. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, lights glittering like a kingdom he ruled but never enjoyed. The faint hum of traffic below reminded him of how small everything looked from above.

He poured two glasses of scotch, the amber liquid catching the light. Sliding one across the marble counter toward Red, he lifted the other and downed it in one swallow.

It burned.

Did nothing to soothe his temper.

“So,” Damien said finally, refilling his glass, the ice clinking sharply, “what did you want to talk about?”

Red hesitated. Damien’s sharp gaze cut through him, already irritated by the silence.

“Rebecca Harlow is getting married today.”

The glass slipped from Damien’s fingers and shattered against the counter. The shards scattered across the marble, silver and sharp.

The sound echoed through the room, a punctuation mark of the news.

“When?” he asked softly, voice low but taut.

Red cleared his throat. Damien noticed, distantly, the first time he’d seen his bodyguard appear unsettled.

“Tonight,” Red said.

Damien stared at the shards, then laughed—a sharp, humorless sound that echoed against the walls.

"Why am I just finding out" he muttered in a deceptively soft voice

"She signed up for a husband lottery" Red hurriedly answered

“A husband lottery?” he said incredulously. “You mean that show for bloody washed-up whores, desperate women, and social leftovers?”

His laughter grew colder, harsher, carrying with it an edge that made Red flinch.

“I wonder which category she fits,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Red didn’t respond, silently waiting as Damien took another long pull from his glass.

“If she’s getting married tonight,” he said lightly, though his voice held the weight of a threat, “I suppose that makes me a groom as well.”

Red stiffened.

“Make sure no one else bids,” Damien continued, eyes narrowing.

“No man. Not one.”

“Yes, boss,” Red said, nodding once sharply before walking away to make the necessary call.

Damien moved toward the balcony, the city wind slamming into his face as he stepped outside. The cold gust tugged at his hair, and brought a shiver that somehow matched the thrill of his own fury. His reflection stared back at him from the glass doors behind, jaw tight, eyes dark with a storm that had been brewing for days.

He slammed his fist into the wall beside him. The impact rattled his knuckles, splintered plaster. The pain was almost welcome.

Rebecca Harlow.

The name tasted bitter on his tongue.

The sudden insistence of his father. The unwavering certainty. The refusal to explain. He had no choice. His father had made sure of that.

Whatever hold she had over his father, whatever reason she existed in his world, he would uncover it. And when he did, she would regret ever crossing paths with the Hardy family.

A knock sounded behind him.

“The show is about to start,” Red said.

Damien straightened, smoothing his shirt cuffs. His expression settled into cool indifference, though inside the storm still raged.

“Let’s go meet my bride,” he said, voice low, carrying that same lethal calm.

---

Damien entered the ballroom just as the lights shifted, dimming to emphasise the moment. The stage gleamed under spotlights, cameras sweeping across the audience. He stayed at the edge of the room, unseen, unannounced.

“Damien William Hardy.”

His name rang out, clear and trembling voice through the microphone.

For a heartbeat, the room went silent.

Then chaos erupted.

From the edge of the hall, he watched it happen. Then, finally, Damien walked into the chaos in the room sealing his fate.