Chapter One: The First War

~ ZEPHYRA LIONE

I sat at the backseat of my sleek black car, my legs were crossed, swinging idly as I stared out the tinted window of the car, my eyes scanning the hotel area as if I was waiting to catch someone.

"You really don't have to go in yourself," Elara, my manager and personal assistant, and maybe my only friend, said for the third time, her hands gripping the steering wheel like I was making her nervous and was about to ruin the whole month for her. "I can handle the bidding, you know that? I've always gone for auctions, why do you have to go to this one yourself? You don't need to show up just to prove a point."

I scoffed. "Elara, darling, have you met me? I don't think twice or hesitate when it comes to things I want. Those auctions you went for are not as important as this. I'm about the secure the most iconic book ever. Aren't you excited?"

She groaned. "Zeph, seriously. It's going to be crowded, the press might be there, and you're already on two hot lists this month, with what happened at the last event we attended. One more and PR team will murder me for not taking care of you properly. You're supposed to be totally away from the media's sight."

"PR team will be okay, you'll be okay too. Don't we always get over the media at the end? Why stress over them?" I replied, grabbing my lipstick from my clutch. A deep, blood-red shade. The color of war.

"You said you just wanted the book.... "

"And I’ll get it," I interrupted, uncapping the lipstick and carefully applying it on my lips, while looking at the reflection of myself in the mirror. "Myself."

"Fine." Elara said, finally giving up on convincing me. "Remember, you're using your personal money for this auction. No spending more than necessary for your iconic book. I already moved some of your funds to a separate account, you're only allowed to spend the amount on that account." She continued, handing me an atm card.

I looked at her surprised that she had prepared all this. "Fine, since you let me go, I should listen to you this time. How much is on the account?" I asked.

" 200"

"Thousand?" I asked, wide-eyed.

" Million! Don't overdo it. Anything more than that is a no-go for you. If you don't get your iconic book,it was never meant to be yours, okay? Goodluck." Elara said and unlocked the door and that meant she was done talking or negotiating.

I rolled my eyes and stepped out like the boss lady that I am, ready to seize what I came here for. No one would possibly want that book more than I do.

My dress clung to my body like it was painted on— a sleek black velvet gown with a V-neckline and a dramatic slit up my right leg, stopping just short of illegal. The back was open, held together by a thin crisscross of silver chains that shimmered under the moonlight. Designed by me, of course. Zephyra Lione's.

I tossed my wavy brunette hair over my shoulder, my silver stilettos clicking confidently as I headed toward the entrance of The Celestine Hotel. A five-star palace wrapped in gold trim and elegance.

Everyone who was anyone would be here tonight.

I wasn’t here to mingle.

I was here to win.

As I walked into the lobby, the warm lights greeted me. Guests flooded every corner, dressed in luxurious clothes, I could recognize some people wearing my brand also. My heels echoed on the tiled floor as I strutted past groups of onlookers. Heads turned. Whispers followed. Let them talk. That’s what I dressed for.

The elevators were packed, of course. Figures.

I waited, my arms folded and expression flat, until finally one door opened with a polite ding. Only one more person could fit. I moved to step forward—

And a man swept in from the side, sharp suit and colder audacity, sliding in and pressing the button before I could even blink.

The doors shut in my face.

I stared. "Excuse me?" I muttered to air. "What kind of gentleman steals an elevator ride?"

No one answered. Obviously.

The lobby was a jungle tonight. With the auction upstairs and fashion week prep around the corner, The Celestine was busier than hell. I tapped my foot, fuming as I waited for another elevator.

"Arrogant prick," I muttered under my breath. "Just let me catch you later. Elevator thief."

Eventually, I made it to the auction hall—a grand ballroom dipped in luxury. The chandeliers were a forest of crystal, the walls dressed in gold and champagne silk. Rows of velvet chairs filled the space, each one occupied by someone rich enough to donate to small country.

I slid into my seat near the front, crossing my legs gracefully. The lights dimmed and the screen above the stage came to life, showcasing the first auction piece.

Jewelry. Paintings. A diamond-studded globe. The usual circus.

I watched, bored, as desperate socialites raised numbered paddles and called out bids like it was blood sport. I sipped champagne, unimpressed. Until—

"Next," the auctioneer called, "we have a very special item."

The lights shifted. A spotlight landed on the stage.

"An unpublished design collection," the auctioneer continued. "A complete portfolio of original fashion concepts by the late Dalia Rose, never seen before. Donated per her request. All proceeds go to orphanages, schools, young, struggling designers around the world and other people who need it."

My glass paused mid-air.

Dalia Rose?

My pulse quickened. The legend herself. I’d studied her growing up. Feared her. Admired her. She was my role model. I became a designer with the dream to win designer of the year over her, but sadly, she passed away before I could even get a chance to compete. Her remaining works were now locked away in that book. That iconic book.

I leaned forward. The projection of the book flashed onto the screen. A worn, leather-bound masterpiece. My fingers itched.

I needed it.

The first bid started at 50,000 dollars. I let them play. 75. 100. 150. Still amateurs. 200. 350.

Then silence.

It was my time to strike.

I raised my card. "Seven hundred thousand dollars."

Gasps rippled through the hall. Eyes turned to me. The spotlight followed. I offered a smirk. The people in the fashion industry there quickly recognized me.

"Isn't that Zephyra Lione?" They all murmured.

"Seven hundred thousand," the auctioneer echoed, clearly stunned. "The unpublished Dalia Rose collection going for seven hundred thousand dollars to bidder number 24—do I hear another offer?"

Nothing.

"Going once... going twice—"

"One million dollars."

I didn't hear it well at first, until I actually heard it. One million dollars? My head snapped to the side. The voice was deep, calm, too close. I couldn’t see his face—one man sat between us—but the tone was rich and unbothered. It was like he waited for everyone to call low prices, before striking, just like I did.

"One million dollars to bidder number 36," the auctioneer called. "Do I hear more?"

I narrowed my eyes. This wasn’t over. He wouldn't go as far as 200 million for that book. Or would he?

"One point two million," I said flatly.

"One point five," the man answered immediately after.

What the hell?

I turned. The man between us shifted awkwardly, sensing a storm. He stood and left quickly.

And there he was.

The elevator thief.

I scoffed. "It’s you?"

He looked at me, expression blank. "Do I know you?" Then looked away like I meant nothing.

"Do I hear another offer? One point five, going once, going twice...."

I raised my card, about to speak the highest number I could. 200 million but that darned jerk interrupted me.

"200 million." He said cooly.

I was too shocked and angry to speak or even call out another number.

The auctioneer slammed the gavel. "Two hundred million dollars to bidder number 36! Sold!"

He stood, straightened his suit jacket, and walked off—but not before smirking at me like he’d won a war I didn’t know we were fighting.

I followed him outside. I wasn't going to allow him leave like that.

"You, wait. Elevator thief." I called.

He suddenly stopped in his tracks and looked back at me. He had sharp features and was very handsome. Too handsome to be a jerk. "What did you call me?"

"You stole my elevator ride and now my damn book."

"Why is it yours?" He spoke.

I blinked. "What?"

"Why is the design book yours? And the elevator ride? I got in there first. I bid the highest. You sound entitled. Did you think I’d stop and let you win out of pity?"

I was stunned by how irritating one man could be.

"I’m a designer," I hissed. "I wanted that book for inspiration. What would someone like you even do with it? Frame it next to your stock portfolio?"

He didn’t answer.

So I smirked. "You know what? I just realized I don’t even need it. I probably have better designs in my trash can."

His face shifted. Something in his eyes darkened, like I’d hit a nerve.

Good. He had started a war with me by stealing the very thing that I wanted.

That was our first war.