Carat and Stick: The Billionaire’s Demand

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The Bulgari suite at the Hotel de Paris wasn't just expensive, it was obscene. Marcus Webb knew this because he'd paid for it himself, cash, no questions asked. When you're about to negotiate the sale of a 45-carat pink diamond that once belonged to a Mughal emperor, you don't skimp on ambiance.

What he hadn't expected was for him to show up.

Julian Ashford stood in the doorway like he owned the place, which, knowing Julian's family connections, he probably did. Tailored Brioni suit, platinum Patek Philippe catching the Monaco sunlight, that infuriating smirk that made Marcus want to either punch him or pull him close. Maybe both.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Marcus muttered, setting down his espresso harder than necessary.

"Lovely to see you too, darling." Julian stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounded like a threat. "I believe we're here for the same reason."

When Rivals Collide

The diamond world isn't for the faint of heart. It's all private jets to Antwerp, handshake deals worth more than small countries' GDPs, and enough secrecy to make the CIA jealous. Marcus had clawed his way up from appraising estate jewelry in Brooklyn to become one of the most sought-after independent dealers in the industry. Self-made, sharp-edged, no trust fund to cushion the falls.

Julian Ashford, on the other hand, was third-generation diamond royalty. Eton, Oxford, a last name that opened vault doors across three continents. They'd crossed paths exactly three times before: once at a Christie's auction where they'd driven the price of a yellow diamond up to ridiculous heights out of sheer spite, once at a private viewing in Dubai where Marcus had won a deal Julian thought was his, and once at a bar in Hatton Garden where they'd ended up in a storage room doing things Marcus still thought about at 3 AM.

That was two years ago. They hadn't spoken since.

"The Shah of Sunset deal is mine," Marcus said, trying to ignore how good Julian smelled. Tom Ford, probably. Everything about Julian was expensive, curated, perfect. It made Marcus's off-the-rack suit feel like sandpaper.

"Is it?" Julian moved to the window, looking out at the yachts dotting the harbor. "Because last I checked, Dmitri invited us both. A bidding war, if you will. Winner takes all."

Marcus's jaw tightened. Dmitri Volkov, the Russian oligarch with more money than sense and a pink diamond that could change Marcus's entire life. One sale. One massive commission. Enough to finally, finally stop hustling, stop proving himself, stop waking up terrified that one bad deal would send him back to nothing.

"I need this, Julian."

Something flickered across Julian's face, surprise, maybe, at the honesty. "So do I."

"Bullshit. You could buy this diamond yourself if you wanted."

"It's not about the money." Julian turned, and for once, the mask slipped. He looked tired. "My father's retiring. The board wants my brother to take over. This deal… it's my proof that I deserve the position."

Oh. Oh.

The golden child wasn't so golden after all.

The Art of the Deal

Dmitri arrived at seven, dripping in Hermès and bad decisions. His bodyguards swept the suite while he settled into the Louis XV chair like a Bond villain. Marcus had dealt with oligarchs before, they loved the theater of it all, the power play, the game.

"Gentlemen," Dmitri purred in heavily accented English. "I have a proposal."

Marcus exchanged a glance with Julian. This wasn't how these deals usually worked.

"You both want my diamond. Both have impressive credentials, yes? So we do this properly." Dmitri smiled, showing too many teeth. "A competition. Three days. Monaco is lovely this time of year. You will… how do you say… court me. Convince me. Show me why you deserve the Shah of Sunset."

"You want us to compete for the right to pay you millions of euros?" Julian's voice was flat.

"I want to be entertained. I am bored, Mr. Ashford. Show me something interesting." Dmitri stood, his bodyguards materializing from the shadows. "Whoever impresses me most wins the diamond at the agreed price. The loser…" He shrugged. "Perhaps considers a new career?"

The door closed behind him, leaving Marcus and Julian in silence.

"Well," Julian said finally. "This is unprecedented."

"This is insane." Marcus poured himself a whiskey from the bar, didn't bother asking Julian if he wanted one. "He's playing us."

"Of course he is. That's what men like Dmitri do." Julian appeared at his shoulder, took the glass from Marcus's hand, and drank. The intimacy of it, sharing the glass, standing this close, made Marcus's pulse spike. "Question is, do we play along?"

Marcus turned, suddenly aware of exactly how little space existed between them. Julian's eyes were the color of aged cognac, unfairly long lashes, a small scar above his left eyebrow from a polo accident he'd once mentioned. Marcus remembered more than he should.

"You could walk away," Julian said softly. "Find another deal."

"So could you."

"But we won't."

"No." Marcus took the glass back, finished it. "We won't."

Three Days in Monaco

What followed was the strangest seventy-two hours of Marcus's life. Dmitri wanted entertainment? Fine. Marcus took him to a private showing at a jeweler who specialized in Mughal-era pieces, arranged a meeting with a historian who could authenticate the diamond's provenance down to the week it was cut. He pulled every contact, every favor, everything he'd built in fifteen years of grinding.

Julian, naturally, went bigger. Helicopter tour of the Côte d'Azur. Dinner with an actual Saudi prince who collected pink diamonds. A private concert by a pianist Marcus had only heard on recordings. The Ashford name opened doors Marcus hadn't known existed.

They kept running into each other, in hotel lobbies, at viewings, once memorably in the casino at 2 AM when neither could sleep. The competition was fierce, professional, absolutely ruthless.

It was also foreplay.

"You're good at this," Julian admitted on the second night. They'd both ended up at the same wine bar, pure coincidence, sitting at opposite ends until Julian had walked over with two glasses of Château Margaux.

"So are you." Marcus accepted the wine. "Surprisingly."

"Ouch."

"I just mean… I thought you coasted on the family name."

"Everyone does." Julian's smile was sharp. "Which is why I usually win. People underestimate me."

Marcus studied him in the dim light, the perfect hair slightly mussed now, tie loosened, genuine warmth in his expression. This wasn't the polished aristocrat from the auction houses. This was someone real.

"I don't underestimate you," Marcus said.

"I know. That's why I like you."

The air between them crackled. Marcus was acutely aware of Julian's knee almost touching his, the way Julian's gaze dropped to his mouth for just a second.

"This is a terrible idea," Marcus said.

"Absolutely catastrophic."

"We're competitors."

"Rivals," Julian corrected. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

Julian leaned in, close enough that Marcus could count his eyelashes. "Rivals push each other. Make each other better. Competitors just want to win."

"And what do you want?"

"Right now?" Julian's voice dropped to something dangerous. "Something that has nothing to do with diamonds."

Marcus kissed him. Or Julian kissed him. Later, neither could say who moved first, just that suddenly they were tangled together, the wine glasses forgotten, years of tension finally breaking. Julian tasted like expensive wine and poor decisions, his hands were in Marcus's hair, Marcus's fingers were digging into Julian's perfectly tailored jacket, trying to find skin, find heat, find something real beneath all the polish.

They broke apart gasping.

"My room," Julian managed. "Now."

"We have Dmitri's final presentation tomorrow."

"I don't care."

Marcus laughed, breathless. "Liar. You care as much as I do."

"Fine. Yes. But after…" Julian's eyes were dark with promise. "After, we finish this."

The Billionaire's Choice

The final presentation was at Dmitri's yacht, because of course it was. Both Marcus and Julian came prepared with their final pitches: authentication documents, sale proposals, market analyses. Professional. Perfect. Everything a billionaire could want.

Dmitri listened to both presentations, asked pointed questions, looked bored.

Then he laughed.

"You think I care about any of this?" He waved at their carefully prepared documents. "I am bored of diamonds. I have too many. You know what I don't have? A good story."

Marcus and Julian exchanged confused looks.

"You two," Dmitri continued, grinning. "You hate each other, yes? Or maybe you love each other, is hard to tell. But there is fire there. Passion. That is interesting. That is worth something."

"I don't: " Marcus started.

"Here is my offer: Buy the diamond together. Partnership. Split everything fifty-fifty. Sell it together, keep the commission together. Or," Dmitri's smile turned predatory, "walk away with nothing. Your choice."

The room went silent.

Marcus looked at Julian. Julian looked at Marcus.

Every instinct screamed at Marcus to refuse. He worked alone, always had. Partnerships meant vulnerability, meant trusting someone else with his reputation, his livelihood, his future. Especially someone like Julian Ashford, who existed in a different stratosphere of wealth and privilege.

But Julian's expression wasn't triumphant or calculating. He looked as uncertain as Marcus felt.

"Forty-eight hours to decide," Dmitri said. "I will be in Cannes. Let me know."

The Real Deal

They ended up back in the Bulgari suite: neutral territory. Marcus poured whiskey. Julian loosened his tie. For a long moment, neither spoke.

"We could make this work," Julian said finally. "Professionally, I mean. Your street smarts, my connections. We'd be unstoppable."

"Or we'd kill each other in a week."

"There's that." Julian smiled. "But you don't actually hate me, do you?"

Marcus considered lying. Decided against it. "No."

"Good. Because I don't hate you either. Actually, I've spent two years trying to stop thinking about you, and it's been spectacularly unsuccessful."

Marcus's heart did something complicated. "Julian: "

"I know. Terrible timing. Terrible circumstances. But Dmitri's right about one thing: there's fire here. And I'm tired of pretending there isn't."

"This could ruin everything."

"Or," Julian moved closer, "it could be everything."

The kiss was different this time: slower, deeper, a promise instead of an explosion. When they finally broke apart, Marcus made his decision.

"Fifty-fifty," he said. "Equal partnership. On everything."

"Everything?"

"Business and… whatever this is."

Julian's smile was genuine, unguarded, beautiful. "I can work with that."

They called Dmitri in the morning. The Shah of Sunset sold six months later at Sotheby's for a record-breaking price. Marcus moved into Julian's London flat three months after that. They opened their own boutique dealing firm a year later: Webb & Ashford, with both names on the door.

And Marcus learned that sometimes the best deals aren't about winning.

They're about finding someone worth sharing the win with.

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