Damien drifted through the ballroom, cigar unlit between his lips, until the polished oak of the bar caught his eye.
"A bottle of something heavy to accentuate my style," he muttered, waving off the waiter's approach.
Before the order could be placed, a sharply dressed man detached from the crowd and extended his hand.
"Mr. Voss," he said with a confident smile.
"Lucien Marchand, auctioneer to the world's most discerning collectors."
Damien glanced at Lucien's subtle Cartier ring, then at the sea of onlookers.
Perhaps my identity should remain secret, he thought, but curiosity won out.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Did you know I'd be here or did you recognize me?"
Lucien laughed lightly.
"A man of your stature is worth knowing, and tonight's gathering made it inevitable."
Damien inclined his head, finally accepting the handshake.
"Marchand. I've heard you procure anything, art, automobiles, antiquities. Have you something for me tonight?"
"Indeed. Follow me." Lucien led him through a velvet-roped alcove reserved for VIPs.
Three treasures gleamed on illuminated pedestals: a factory-perfect replica of a 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO, a five-carat pink diamond in an Art Deco setting, and a lost Monet sketch.
Lucien spoke in a low voice:
"The Ferrari, one of two replicas in existence. The diamond was uncut for a century, its hue unmatched. And Monet's sketch was rediscovered in a private collection. Gentlemen may bid."
Damien slid onto a velvet stool.
"Starting bid?"
Lucien named a figure in the low seven figures.
A nearby magnate raised his paddle.
Before he could press it, Damien tapped his phone twice.
His bid double the magnate's appeared instantly on the screen.
The challenger's face drained of color; Lucien nodded approvingly.
"Congratulations, Mr. Voss. The lot is yours."
"Send it home," Damien replied, pocketing his phone.
Lucien bowed.
"Consider this a preview. You're invited to my private auction tomorrow, an experience surpassing even tonight's."
"I'll attend," Damien smirked, enjoying the silent envy rippling through the onlookers.
Later with a bottle in hand, Damien wandered into a quieter gallery wing.
He paused before a wall of Old Masters when a soft voice interrupted his contemplation.
"Mr. Voss," said Reverend Solomon Cartwright, stepping forward in a crisp white shirt and suspenders.
"A pleasure, though I confess I question this extravagance."
Damien studied the reverend's gentle face, noting the absence of recognition proof the rumors of his late-night spree still spread.
He suppressed a grin and replied in a low, unbothered tone, "Do you mean the jewels, Reverend, or the souls who covet them?"
Solomon's smile remained steady.
"Money cannot purchase virtue, nor can it heal the emptiness that festers without purpose."
Damien chuckled softly.
"Yet this entire hotel stands on foundations built by money. Tell me, what price would you pay for a hospital in every city or a school in every village?"
Solomon's gaze drifted to the marble pillars.
"True charity transcends currency. It flows from compassion, not a ledger."
Leaning closer, Damien's voice dropped to a whisper: "Compassion is admirable, but funds fund factories, medicines, and research. Money is the universal language of change, everyone works for incentive. It may not be immediate, but it's far more reliable than altruism."
Solomon's calm façade flickered, but he pressed on.
"Mr. Voss, you reduce the world to transactions, yet the human spirit resists commodification. Faith, love, compassion, none of these come with a price tag."
Damien tilted his head, amusement lighting his features.
He raised a finger, as though composing a lesson.
"Reverend, you speak of faith as though it's eternal when, in truth, it's funded. Churches aren't built on prayer alone, they rise on tithes and endowments. Love isn't felt; it's facilitated, dinners, rings, homes. Compassion isn't given; it's delivered via hospitals, shelters, and relief funds. Every 'priceless' moment you cherish is backed by currency."
The reverend's lips parted, indignation sparking in his eyes.
"You twist language to fit your worldview. Money may underwrite services, but it cannot instill genuine selflessness."
Damien laughed, a soft, patronizing sound that echoed off the marble.
He glanced around the gallery, at the gilded frames and polished wood at every artifact that Solomon would call "culture."
"Tell me, Reverend, who paid for these paintings to hang here? Who funded the electricity that warms this hall, the security that protects these treasures, and the staff that preserves their value? Culture itself is a product line. Without money, it's forgotten, rot in basements, decayed in the dark."
Solomon's composure shattered for the first time.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Damien seized the moment, stepping closer until the reverend could feel the chill of his bespoke collar.
"You preach about the soul, yet you can't manage your pride. You stand in this cathedral of opulence, condemning the very currency that built it, which tells me your morality is either naïve or hypocritical." Damien said in a low cold tone
The reverend's face flushed crimson.
He lifted a trembling hand.
"Mr. Voss..." trying to salvage the conversation.
Damien cut him off with a cold smile.
"No, Reverend. It's time for clarity. Your sermons ring hollow because your pockets are empty. You demand that money stays in its place while relying on it every sermon, every building, every donation plate, every newspaper printing your words." He tapped Solomon's chest lightly, as though marking him.
"You crumble when I point out the truth. Money isn't everything, it's the only thing. It buys influence, power, and even forgiveness. It buys loyalty, cures diseases, builds empires, and yes, it can even buy redemption. Can you match that?"
Silence fell.
The reverend's shoulders slumped as the echo of Damien's words reverberated through the gilded corridors.
Around them, guests resumed their hushed conversations, but none dared approach.
Damien straightened, smoothing his cufflinks.
"Remember this, Reverend: the next time you preach about charity, check who writes the checks. Because without money, your sermons, and your church wouldn't exist."
With that, Damien turned on his heel, his coat flaring behind him like a banner of conquest, and walked away leaving Solomon to gather the fragments of his pride beneath the silent gaze of the world Damien had built.