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The invitation arrived on cream-colored cardstock with gold foil lettering, the kind of pretentious stationery that screamed "old money" louder than a Lamborghini revving at a stoplight. Exclusive Preview: The Rosewood Collection. By invitation only.
Marcus Chen held it between two fingers like it might bite. He'd received plenty of these over the years, came with the territory when you owned a string of luxury hotels across three continents. But this one was different. This wasn't just another charity gala where bored billionaires sipped champagne and compared net worths. This was automotive royalty.
The Rosewood Collection auto show only happened once every five years, showcasing the rarest, most expensive vehicles on the planet. We're talking cars worth more than most people's houses, vintage Ferraris, limited-edition Bugattis, prototype McLarens that hadn't even been announced yet. It was less of a car show and more of a religious experience for people who measured their self-worth in horsepower.
Marcus hadn't planned on going. He had a Bentley Continental GT that got him where he needed to go, and that was enough. But his business partner, the perpetually nosy Diane, had insisted. "You need to get out more," she'd said. "Meet people. Network. Maybe find a nice man who isn't emotionally unavailable or living in a different time zone."
So here he was, standing in the polished marble lobby of the Westbridge Center for Arts and Culture, surrounded by men in Tom Ford suits and women dripping in diamonds that could probably fund a small nation's GDP.
Chrome and Chemistry
The main exhibition hall was stunning, all soaring ceilings, track lighting, and enough chrome to blind someone. Each vehicle sat on a rotating platform like a work of art, which, let's be honest, they were. Marcus found himself gravitating toward a midnight-blue 1967 Shelby GT500, its curves catching the light in ways that should probably be illegal.
"The Eleanor," a voice said beside him. Deep, with just a hint of an accent Marcus couldn't quite place. "Though technically, the movie car was a '67 fastback, not the GT500. Common misconception."
Marcus turned. The man standing next to him was… well, unfairly attractive. Tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair swept back, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of expensive whiskey. He wore a charcoal suit that fit like it had been sewn directly onto his body, and a watch that Marcus recognized as a Patek Philippe Nautilus. Easily two hundred grand on his wrist.
"I didn't know there was a quiz," Marcus said, raising an eyebrow.
The stranger smiled. It was the kind of smile that made Marcus's stomach do something complicated. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. I'm Alessandro Vittorio." He extended a hand.
"Marcus Chen." The handshake lasted a beat longer than strictly professional.
"So, Marcus Chen," Alessandro said, his eyes doing a slow appraisal that Marcus felt everywhere. "Are you a collector, or just someone who appreciates beautiful things?"
There was a weight to that question that had nothing to do with automobiles.
"The latter," Marcus said. "Though I'm starting to think this whole event might be more interesting than I expected."
Under the Hood
They moved through the exhibition together, an unspoken agreement hanging between them. Alessandro had opinions on everything, the authenticity of a supposed 1955 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing ("The panel gaps are wrong"), the absurdity of a diamond-encrusted Rolls-Royce Phantom ("More money than taste"), the quiet perfection of a vintage Aston Martin DB5 ("Now that's timeless").
Marcus found himself laughing more than he had in months. Alessandro was sharp, funny, and refreshingly unpretentious despite clearly having the kind of wealth that made Marcus's own fortune look modest. He name-dropped designers and engineers the way some people talked about mutual friends, but never in a way that felt like showing off.
"You know a suspicious amount about cars for someone who's supposedly not a collector," Marcus observed as they stood before a pristine Pagani Huayra, its exposed carbon fiber body gleaming under the lights.
Alessandro's smile turned slightly sheepish. "I might have undersold my connection to the automotive world."
"Do tell."
"My family owns Vittorio Motors. We restore and broker rare vehicles. This is… kind of my office, actually."
Marcus blinked. Vittorio Motors. Of course. They were legendary in collector circles, the people you called when you wanted to find a car that only three people in the world owned, or when you needed a full restoration that would make a vehicle museum-worthy.
"So you're basically a professional show-off," Marcus said.
"Guilty." Alessandro stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But I promise, I'm much more interesting when I'm not at work."
The air between them crackled. Marcus was very aware of how close they were standing, how good Alessandro smelled, something expensive and subtle, cedar and bergamot maybe, and how those whiskey-colored eyes kept dropping to his mouth.
"That's a bold claim," Marcus said.
"I can back it up."
The After-Party
The official exhibition wound down around ten, but Alessandro leaned in and whispered an invitation that made Marcus's pulse spike. "The real show happens after hours. Private collection upstairs. Very exclusive. Interested?"
They rode the elevator to the top floor with a handful of other guests, all wealthy, all connected, all pretending not to notice the obvious tension between Marcus and Alessandro. The doors opened onto a private gallery that made the main exhibition look like a used car lot.
A row of vintage Ferraris in every shade of red imaginable. A matte-black Koenigsegg that looked like it had been designed by someone's fever dreams. And in the center, under a single spotlight, a car that made everyone in the room collectively hold their breath.
"Is that…" Marcus started.
"A 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO," Alessandro confirmed. "One of thirty-six ever made. Current market value somewhere north of seventy million."
"Dollars?"
"Dollars."
Marcus whistled low. "And I thought my hotel bills were excessive."
They drifted away from the crowd, finding a quieter corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The skyline glittered like scattered diamonds, but Marcus found himself more interested in the man beside him.
"So," Alessandro said, leaning against the window frame. "Hotels, huh?"
"Chain of luxury properties. Started with one boutique hotel in Singapore, built it up from there."
"Self-made man. I respect that." Alessandro's expression turned thoughtful. "Must be lonely, though. All that traveling."
"Says the man who spends his life chasing rare cars across continents."
"Touché." Alessandro smiled. "Maybe we're both just looking for the right person to slow down for."
It was the kind of line that should have felt cheesy, but Alessandro delivered it with such genuine warmth that Marcus felt his carefully maintained walls starting to crack.
"That's very smooth," Marcus said.
"I have my moments." Alessandro pushed off the window, stepping closer. "Can I be honest with you, Marcus?"
"Please."
"I came to this show tonight because it's good for business. Network, shake hands, remind people that Vittorio Motors is still the best in the world." He paused, his eyes locked on Marcus's. "But then I saw you standing in front of that Shelby, looking like you'd rather be anywhere else, and I thought… maybe tonight could be about something other than business."
Marcus's heart was doing things that felt distinctly unprofessional. "What did you have in mind?"
"Dinner. Tomorrow night. Somewhere quiet where we can actually talk without people trying to sell us extended warranties on eight-figure vehicles."
"I don't know," Marcus said, fighting a smile. "I've gotten pretty attached to these extended warranty pitches."
Alessandro laughed, and the sound made something in Marcus's chest feel warm and full.
"Is that a yes?"
Marcus pretended to consider, even though they both knew what his answer would be. "Pick me up at seven. And Alessandro?"
"Yes?"
"If you show up in something obnoxiously expensive, I'm making you take an Uber."
Alessandro's grin was pure joy. "Deal."
Shifting Gears
They exchanged numbers, traded contact information, lingered in conversation until the venue staff started giving them increasingly pointed looks. Marcus left that night with Alessandro's jacket draped over his shoulders: borrowed after Marcus mentioned he was cold: and a promise that felt like the start of something real.
In the Uber home, Marcus caught himself smiling at his phone like a teenager. Diane was going to be insufferable when she found out. But for once, Marcus didn't care about being professional or maintaining emotional distance or any of the other defense mechanisms he'd built up over years of failed relationships and crossed time zones.
Because sometimes: just sometimes: the most beautiful thing at a car show isn't the machinery. It's the person who makes you want to slow down and enjoy the ride.
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