The lead enforcer, a man whose face was etched with a lifetime of Vespera’s grit, remained on one knee, his head bowed so low his chin nearly touched the grimy cobblestones. The other syndicate thugs stood frozen, their blades hanging uselessly, their expressions a mix of fear and utter bewilderment. The air reeked of scorched insulation and diesel, heavy with a discipline far beyond street enforcers. “Get up,” Kyros’s voice was low, devoid of its usual mocking lilt, yet it carried an authority that resonated deep in Qadira’s bones. The enforcer scrambled to his feet, avoiding eye contact. “Consider this… a misunderstanding. These materials are already accounted for. Inform your superiors.” The enforcer gave a sharp, almost military nod. “Understood, *sir*.” He barked orders at his crew, who, still looking dazed, began to disentangle themselves from the wrecked truck. The sudden shift was so abrupt, so absolute, that Qadira’s mind struggled to reconcile the scene with the chaos of moments prior. She stared at the black card in Kyros’s fingers, then at him. He simply tucked it back into an inner pocket of his tattered jacket, offering her another one of his infuriatingly unreadable smiles. “Well,” he began, dusting gravel from his cuffs, “that was an eventful morning. Now, about those stones…” “Stones?” Qadira exploded, rubbing raw red grooves into her wrists. “You think that little magic trick explains anything? Who *are* you? What was that card?” “Just a… premium membership, darling,” he drawled, pushing a stray lock of dark hair from his brow. “Got me out of a few scrapes before. Now, we’re late for your little gem circus, aren’t we?” He gestured dismissively at the retreating syndicate crew, who were now ushering onlookers away from the crash site as if nothing untoward had happened. They were *gone*. Just like that. Her jaw worked, grinding her teeth. The rage was a hot coal in her gut. She’d married this man for Zeki, but every second spent with him twisted a new knot in her already frayed nerves. Still, the auction. The Grand Carat Exhibition. Zeki. These were her priorities. She had to get those gems. “Fine,” she spat, turning on her heel. “But this marriage? It’s over. The second this bidding is done, we’re getting an annulment.” Kyros chuckled, following her as she navigated the crowded, neon-drenched alleyways of the Artisan District. Zeki, who had been silently observing the entire bizarre exchange, fell into step beside her, a curious glint in his sharp eyes. He was already two steps ahead, she knew. Her little brother absorbed information like a sponge, filing away every detail. They pushed through the bronze-plated doors of the Velvet Loupe, the district’s premier contraband exchange. The air inside hummed with the low murmur of anticipation, spiced with the aroma of imported incense and the metallic tang of wealth. Displays of raw, gleaming stones sat under focused spotlights, their potential value whispering through the room. Qadira marched straight to the administrative desk, a formidable woman with a severity etched into her features presiding over a mountain of paperwork. “I need an annulment,” Qadira declared, slamming her hand on the polished counter. “Qadira Zaim. And Kyros Moradi.” The clerk, a woman named Fadia with eyes like polished obsidian, didn’t even look up from her ledger. “Marriages in the Artisan District are binding for a minimum of one year if they involve trade allowances, Mrs. Moradi.” Qadira blinked. “Mrs. Moradi? No. And trade allowances? What are you talking about?” Fadia finally lifted her gaze, dipping an antique stylus in ink. “The Guild changed the terms last week. Spousal resource allowances are now legally pooled. Separation within the year automatically transfers the primary account holder’s access to the other spouse, unless a pre-nuptial waiver was filed.” A cold dread began to coil in Qadira’s stomach. “No pre-nup. This was… impromptu.” “Then your stock, Mrs. Moradi, becomes his stock. And if he fails the Guild’s showcase requirements, you both lose eligibility. Including any ongoing custody disputes tied to professional standing.” Fadia’s eyes, usually impassive, held a flicker of something close to pity. “A Mr. Jaleel Othman was just in here, inquiring about the specifics of your marital status. Very thoroughly.” Jaleel. The vindictive snake knew every angle. He had engineered this. He planned to exploit the loophole, deny her the exhibition, and steal Zeki. Her fists clenched. She whirled on Kyros, who had been leaning against a velvet rope, observing the scene with unnerving calm. “You! This is your fault! Why didn’t you know about this rule?!” “My apologies, darling,” Kyros said, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I admit, my knowledge of Vespera’s marital laws is not as extensive as my expertise in… other areas.” Just then, the murmuring crowd parted. Jaleel Othman swaggered into the room, flanked by two burly bodyguards. His custom-tailored tunic shimmered with embedded onyx, and a sneer was permanently etched on his face. His eyes, glinting with malice, found Qadira immediately, then swept over Kyros with dismissive contempt. “Qadira, my dear,” Jaleel purred, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Still slumming it with the likes of… *him*? I heard about your little ‘marriage.’ A shame. Such a bright future, wasted on a street rat.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on Kyros’s worn clothes. “And to think, you married a man who can’t even afford raw garnets, let alone showpieces. Pathetic.” Jaleel’s eyes gleamed toward the central dais. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous. I’ll make sure the carmine stones don’t fall into the wrong hands.” He pointed to a brass tray of deep crimson, fist-sized corundum under a spotlight—the exact rough Qadira needed for her line. The room fell silent, sensing the brewing confrontation. The auctioneer, a bald man with a booming voice, cleared his throat. “Lot 73, five kilos of pristine Zarkash Rubies. Starting bid, 50,000 Vesps.” “50,000!” Jaleel bellowed, a triumphant smirk fixed on his face, “and for Mrs. Zaim’s… *husband*… a lesson in true wealth.” He glanced at Kyros, expecting him to wilt. Fifty thousand Vesps was a small fortune. Her savings, combined with what Zeki had earned from his illicit data recovery gigs, barely scraped together twenty. Kyros had nothing. She knew it. He was a street rival, not a philanthropist. He couldn’t possibly. Kyros, however, didn’t flinch. He merely stretched, his gaze sweeping over Jaleel as if he were an irritating fly. “A hundred thousand Vesps,” he announced, his tone flat and bored. The sum bounced off the vaulted rafters. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Jaleel’s jaw dropped, his face contorting into an ugly scowl. “What did you say, you pauper?!” “A hundred thousand,” Kyros repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “Is that not clear enough? Or do I need to speak in smaller denominations for your… limited comprehension?” Jaleel spluttered, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. “You can’t afford that! You’re a nobody!” “Apparently, ‘nobody’ can afford a little more than ‘somebody’ these days,” Kyros shot back, his eyes glinting with an almost predatory amusement. “Any other bids, or shall we wrap this up?” “A hundred and ten!” Jaleel screamed, slamming his palm against a display pedestal, voice cracking. He was losing face, and he knew it. “Two hundred,” Kyros countered without hesitation, treating the sum like spare coppers. The floor erupted in frantic whispers. Jaleel stood rigid, chin trembling. The price was ruinous, economically reckless for Zarkash corundum, even with his syndicate backing. He was outmaneuvered, financially crushed. The auctioneer, wide-eyed, stammered, “Any… any further bids for Lot 73? Two hundred thousand Vesps… going once… going twice… Sold! To the gentleman in the back!” He pointed a shaking finger at Kyros. Qadira stared, utterly dumbfounded. Her stones. Secured. By Kyros, a man she had taken for an impoverished gutter jeweler. He had just broken Jaleel before the district's elite. Sharp triumph flared in her chest, followed by one burning question: *How?* As the crowd parted, Jaleel stalked past, ash-faced with humiliation. He drew a burner handset from his coat, thumbs racing over keys. Zeki sidled into the walkway, colliding lightly with his hip. A flicker of fingers, a breath of misdirection, and the black casing vanished from Jaleel’s grasp, tucked into the hem of Zeki’s denim vest. “Pleasure doing business, darling,” Kyros said, nudging Qadira out of her stupor. He sauntered towards the payment counter, a cool confidence in his stride. As he slipped his hand beneath his coat lapel, pulling out a heavy black card emblazoned with three silver stars over a serpent, Qadira caught the flash of a timepiece at his cuff. Hand-turned platinum framing black diamond markers, stamped with the unmistakable sovereign seal of Qalara. A chronograph worth more than the Loupe's entire vault, gleaming on the wrist of the penniless workshop rival she had dragged to the registrar.

Bidding Wars and Burner Phones