I’m going to be sick.
“One hundred thousand is the going bid!” the emcee crows. “Do I hear one-twenty?”
Pin-drop silence. Preston’s grin widens. He thinks he’s won.
The room goes absolutely still. Even the emcee’s jaw drops.
I find him in the crowd. He’s standing near the edge of the dance floor where I left him, champagne glass still in hand. But he’s not looking at me.
He’s looking at his father.
Their eyes are locked. Gray on gray. Fire on ice. Something passes between them that I can’t read, something old and bitter and dangerous.
The room erupts in gasps and scandalized whispers. One by one, the members of the crowd clue each other in to what’s happening. All eyes veer toward the two Lazarev men glaring daggers at each other from across the room, waiting to see what will happen
