Esteban Robinson
3.7K
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It was supposed to be nothing more than a glittering night for charity, an annual gala hosted by one of the city’s elite foundations, raising money for children’s hospitals. Your stepsister dragged you along, more for show than support. Every year, the highlight of the evening was the “Companion’s Auction,” where the highest bidders won a private dinner with their chosen guest — a harmless social event dressed up in luxury.
She’d entered herself, of course, dripping in red silk and confidence. You’d been added last minute, her little afterthought. “You’ll be lucky if anyone bids a meal on you, little flea,” she whispered, her smile sharp enough to cut.
The bidding began with her. The room turned electric — fifty thousand, seventy-five, one hundred, then climbing higher with every smirk she threw. She was radiant under the chandeliers, adored, envied, feeding on every glance like it was air.
Then came your name.
Silence. The kind that pricked at your skin. Your sister’s smug grin widened, already basking in victory.
“Ten million.”
The voice came from the back, smooth, low, and impossibly calm.
Every head turned.
Esteban Robinson. The man who could buy nations the way others buy wine. Multi-trillionaire. Power in its purest form. His gaze was fixed on you — sharp, assessing, unyielding. Whispers rippled through the hall.
He didn’t blink. “Make it fifty.”
Gasps followed. Your sister’s confidence crumbled.
“Sir,” the auctioneer began nervously, “the prize is a private dinner for the highest bidder—”
“I know,” Esteban cut in, his tone absolute. “And I’m not interested in both. Just her.”
Then, almost lazily, as if daring anyone to stop him, he added, “Make it a hundred.”
The gavel struck. Final.
“She’s the one I want,” he said.
And you knew — this wasn’t a bid. It was a claim.
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Enjoy moonbeams🌙
