Sparkling Diamonds Moulin Rouge Novels & Stories

"Rouge has a name---Ilaria? Shouldn't you be nameless? Or you couldn't stand the ugly names throwed at you?" ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Your thoughts until now? Do comment down below.

I said inaudibly, and he chuckled. "Thank you, my little doll." His hands left my lap as he drove into a parking lot. He stepped down and pulled the door open for me, holding me close to him as we made our way into the building. ********** "Ladies and gentlemen, next up is lot 17, the Azure Embrace necklace. It is a stunning one-of-a-kind masterpiece by Maison Dumont, featuring a 2-carat oval-cut sapphire, surrounded by a halo of round brilliant diamonds, bidding begins at three million dollars

Before I could respond, he added, "Ma'am, I suggest you try it. This is Luxury Spark, our bar's signature cocktail." I raised an eyebrow and said, "Another signature?" The bartender awkwardly laughed and said, "This is made with a limited edition Islay whiskey and Amalfi Supreme Limoncello. Not to mention, just the bottle of Amalfi Supreme alone, our boss spent five million dollars at an auction to get it. Luxury Spark is indeed our signature cocktail, but we don't usually recommend it to customers, you understand..." Indeed, both bottles of liquor were valuable and usually kept for collection.

Eva picked them up, marveling at their craftsmanship. "These are exquisite," she murmured, turning to the sales associate. "Is this a red diamond?" "Yes, ma’am," the woman confirmed. "Each stone is valued at over thirty million dollars per carat. The design is handcrafted by our in-house designer. The surrounding crystals are black opals, enhancing the diamond’s fiery hue." Eva’s eyes lit up. These cufflinks suited Damien perfectly—far better than the ones she had argued over earlier. "I’ll take them. Please wrap them up," she said, her voice carrying an air of satisfaction.

The weeping melodies of a string ensemble fill her ears, then, as though her senses have only allowed for one at a time, in the face of such vivid grandeur. And everywhere, are noblemen, dressed in their finest, most impressive silks and velvets and chiffon, their dazzling jewels burning aglow underneath the warm candlelight chandeliers. (Regina ignores the momentary, instinctual pull she feels, even now, towards the glittering gems; it’s a matter she’s choosing resolutely not to address, because the idea that her lifelong love for sparkling things may have been a transference from the dragons unto her, is a box she is not at all willing to open at the moment.)

The Red Gala was not merely a party; it was a blood sport dressed in silk and bathed in champagne. The Metropolitan Museum of Art had been transformed. Giant, cascading arrangements of black-magic roses hung from the ceilings, their scent so heavy it felt like a physical weight. The lighting was a deep, bruised crimson, casting long, sharp shadows against the ancient Egyptian stone of the Temple of Dendur.

The Grand Ballroom of The Pierre was not a room. It was a jewel box. It was a cavern of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and the kind of muffled, expensive silence that only money could buy. Two hundred of New York’s elite were milling about, a sea of tuxedos and couture gowns, sipping vintage champagne and pretending to care about the "Arts." Aurora stood at the top of the grand staircase. She was "Ariane Rousseau."

Moxxi finally calmed down at that and made a call. Soon, the chauffeur entered with six bottles of Dom Perignon P3 and two bottles of Romanee-Conti. The manager had heard that those were the best champagnes and red wine, and anything else paled in comparison. Still, it was the first time he had seen those, and he was certainly shocked by Frank, Jada, and Moxxi's extravagance. Thank goodness that he had good judgment and quickly saw that those three had more money to spend than the rest.

L’Aura was the undisputed glass sanctuary of the city’s financial apex—a three-Michelin-starred rooftop conservatory overlooking the glittering river bend. Tables were booked six months in advance by sovereign wealth managers and private equity barons. The air was perfumed with white lilies and vintage champagne, quiet enough that the clink of sterling silver against bone china sounded like a series of private transactions.

He was only left with one more step. Monica dropped the glass of champagne gently on the glass table in front of her, stealing a glance at Sly, whose face was still buried in the magazine. As soon as Marina returned with the rings, Monica realized her mistake. The rings were perfectly crafted with gold platinum and red diamond. Even Sly's was lined with red diamonds. The three rings were a matching piece. One that was carefully designed for a loving couple.