Taming My Sugar Mommy

The entrance to the Rothschild estate was a vision of old-world grandeur, a towering marble archway leading into a sprawling courtyard bathed in golden light. Luxury cars lined the drive, their polished exteriors gleaming beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers hanging from the stone archways. Valets moved with quiet efficiency, their white gloves catching the evening light as they opened doors for the city's elite.

Liam stepped out of the black Mercedes, adjusting the cuffs of his deep charcoal suit. The fabric sat perfectly against his frame, tailored to precision—whether by Isabella's choice or simply a way to ensure he didn't embarrass her, he couldn't be sure. Either way, he looked the part, even if he didn't feel it.

Beside him, Isabella was a force of quiet command in a deep emerald gown that clung to her with effortless elegance. Diamonds glinted at her ears, understated yet unmistakable. She didn't look at him as they entered, her posture alone parting the crowd as though she were royalty. Liam followed half a step behind, neither guest nor bodyguard. Just a man walking into unfamiliar terrain.

Inside, the auction hall exuded quiet wealth. Gilded frames lined the walls, displaying centuries-old artwork. Waiters in crisp uniforms moved through the crowd, balancing silver trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Conversations hummed through the air, full of old money charm and quiet competition.

Liam caught the weight of curious eyes on him. Some were merely intrigued. Others assessed, measured. He wasn't one of them, and they knew it.

A man in his late fifties approached, dressed in a navy double-breasted suit that spoke of generations of refinement. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back with precision, and his sharp blue eyes flicked between Isabella and Liam with clear interest.

"Lady Ashworth," he greeted smoothly, lifting a glass of champagne. "I see you've brought company this evening."

Isabella didn't spare him a glance. She lifted a flute from a passing tray, took a slow sip, and remained silent.

Liam almost smirked. 'So this is how she plays it.'

Not one to be ignored, he extended his hand. "Liam. Pleasure to meet you."

The older man's brows lifted, but after a pause, he shook Liam's hand. "Richard Montclair. I don't believe we've met before."

"Probably not," Liam replied easily. "I don't frequent these circles often."

Montclair's lips quirked. "And yet, here you are."

Liam returned the half-smile. "Here I am."

A subtle tension balanced between them, but Montclair seemed more entertained than dismissive. He gestured toward a nearby painting—a hunting scene rendered in bold oil strokes. "Do you appreciate art, Mr. Liam?"

Liam took a moment to study the piece. He could feel Isabella's gaze on him, watching every move.

"I appreciate skill," he answered finally. "The patience it takes to create something like this—layers upon layers, every detail deliberate. You can almost feel the movement in the brushwork." He glanced at Montclair. "It's impressive."

Montclair studied him for a beat longer before nodding. "You have a good eye."

Liam shrugged slightly. "Observation is part of my job."

Montclair chuckled. "And what job is that, exactly?"

Liam took a sip of champagne, keeping his posture relaxed. "Whatever needs doing."

The answer was vague, deliberately so. He wasn't about to make it easy. Montclair seemed to appreciate that, his smile widening ever so slightly.

"Interesting," Montclair mused before turning to Isabella. "You always did have a taste for unpredictability, my dear."

She sipped her champagne, offering nothing in return.

Montclair chuckled, clearly amused. "Well, I won't keep you. Enjoy the auction."

With a polite nod, he strolled away, seamlessly blending back into the sea of wealth.

Liam exhaled slowly, knowing Isabella was still studying him.

"You didn't tell him your last name," she murmured, voice smooth but laced with something unreadable.

Liam smirked, finally turning to meet her gaze. "Didn't see the need."

For the first time that evening, something flickered in her amber eyes—something close to approval.

"Let's see if you keep up," she murmured before stepping forward, leading him deeper into the night.

The Auction Begins

The hush that fell over the grand hall was immediate as the auctioneer took his place on the elevated stage. His presence commanded attention, his polished mahogany podium gleaming beneath the golden chandeliers.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice rang out, smooth and practiced. "Welcome to the Rothschild Annual Auction Gala. Tonight, you will have the opportunity to acquire some of the rarest and most exquisite pieces available."

Liam stood beside Isabella as she lifted her champagne flute once more. Her face betrayed nothing, yet he could feel the sharpness in her gaze, reading the room with quiet precision.

The first item was unveiled—a 19th-century Fabergé egg, adorned with delicate gold filigree and encrusted with diamonds. The bidding began at £100,000.

"120," a voice called out.

"150," another countered.

Isabella remained silent, simply observing.

The bids climbed steadily, each number rolling off tongues as though discussing dinner reservations. Eventually, the egg was claimed for £380,000 by an older woman who accepted the final gavel tap with a satisfied nod.

More items followed—paintings by forgotten masters, antique jewelry once worn by queens, a hand-stitched Persian rug from the Ottoman Empire. The competition grew fiercer with each passing piece, the thrill of ownership tightening the air.

When an early 17th-century Italian dagger was presented—its aged ivory handle still bearing faint etchings of nobility—Isabella finally joined in.

"£200,000," she stated, her voice carrying through the room like silk over steel.

Liam noted the subtle shifts in posture, the way others in the room reacted to her presence. They respected her. Maybe even feared her.

Another bidder raised the stakes. "£220,000."

Isabella didn't hesitate. "£250,000."

The man hesitated, then shook his head. The final gavel struck. The dagger was hers.

"You like old weapons?" Liam murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

She didn't glance at him. "I like history."

The auction pressed on, the bids growing sharper, the room growing warmer with the quiet buzz of competition. Liam still wasn't sure what Isabella was testing, but he knew the night was far from over.

Then, the atmosphere shifted.

It was subtle—barely noticeable to the untrained eye—but Liam felt it immediately. The lights dimmed slightly, the conversations softened, an almost imperceptible tension settling over the room.

The auctioneer's voice took on a quieter, almost reverent tone. "And now, we move on to the night's most exclusive offering."

A murmur passed through the room. Liam caught the way people leaned forward ever so slightly. Interest. Anticipation. Something else.

The curtains on the side of the stage parted, revealing a row of figures standing in the shadows.

Liam's entire body went rigid.

They weren't paintings. Or antiques. Or relics.

They were people.

For the first time, Isabella's fingers curled slightly around the stem of her glass. Her expression didn't shift, but something in the air around her did.

Liam exhaled slowly.

'The game had just changed.'

And now, he had to figure out where Isabella stood in it.