The lights shown on me, momentarily blinding me so I wasn’t able to see the audience right away, to see exactly how many people stood below, watching me, judging how much my worth was. I stopped in the center of the stage, unsure how far to go, not even sure where they wanted me. And then I turned my head to the right and saw a man standing at a podium, his tortoiseshell glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his expression stoic, almost clinical.
I reminded myself this was a business affair, that I was the one who made things seem like this was some barbaric act of “selling a female.”
I turned my focus back to the crowd, my vision adjusting more so I could see the many people standing below and watching me. Although I couldn’t really make out their faces because of the angle of the light and the shadows surrounding them, I could imagine what they were saying, wondering why I was up here. I knew I no doubt stuck out like a sore thumb with how anxious I was.
Beatrix Bernard.
Twenty-five years old.
Graduate of Mount Plymouth Community College with an associate’s degree in English.
Enjoys reading in her free time.
The sound of the announcer reading off my stats and credentials, all the stuff they had me write down in a questionnaire they’d given me earlier this week, surrounded me. Mine was so plain in comparison to everyone else’s. Women who went to Ivy League schools, who had awards, major academic merits. They had humanitarian successes under their belts, scholarships, and wealth. And here I was, my only real success being my ability to read a novel in one day if I was really into it.
I’d never really felt less than adequate in my life. I’d always felt happy and content, pleased with what I accomplished. But as I stood here amongst wealthy, high-class society, it was painfully obvious that I was very out of place. And that made me uncomfortable and a little bit pissed.
It wasn’t Patrice’s fault I was here or felt this way. She didn’t force me to do anything. It was for a good cause, I told myself. Despite that, it still was a little disheartening, because I swore I could hear everyone’s thoughts, how my dress and jewelry were borrowed, and even if it wasn’t, I’d never be able to afford something so luxurious.
I don’t know how much time passed as I idly listened to the announcer, as I heard him start the bid at one hundred dollars. He started at that price for everyone. The most anyone paid for one evening with a woman standing up here had been five thousand dollars. I’d never come close to that.
I knew my worth, knew I was worth that and more... but to these people? I scoffed internally. I’d be lucky to hit five hundred.
“One hundred,” a male voice shouted out, and I felt my heart jerk in my chest.
“Do I hear one twenty-five? One twenty-five?” the announcer called out, and another man shouted out the number. Then other, and another, until my bid was up to five hundred.
I felt frozen in place, my head light and fuzzy, my hands sweating. I might pass out from how anxious and nervous I was.
“One thousand.”
“Two thousand.”
There was a moment of silence as I realized two men were in a. bidding war.
Over me.
Over me?
I couldn’t make out the two men, but they were standing at the front of the stage. I could make out that much.
“Two thousand and fifty,” one of the men said, and there was another pause. I assume that was it, the sum of what I was worth to these people, which in all honesty I didn’t think I’d get much of anything, and how sad was that? How insane was it that I allowed what these people thought about me to control how I felt?
“Going once,” the announcer said. “Going twice.”
“Ten-thousand dollars,” the second man said with such authority, such determination, I felt like what I heard in this moment was… possessiveness.
There was a second of hushed silence after the man spoke, and then there was a rush of murmurs, as it was clear the amount the bidder just shouted out was obscene for this type of event.
My heart was racing, my breathing coming out shallow, but it wasn’t because of the price tag someone had put on me, but the fact that I recognized that voice.
It was the voice of the man outside, Logan, and he’d just bid ten grand to have one date with me.
Chapter Seven
Logan
I didn’t know what made me follow everyone into the room that held the auction. I had no desire to bid on a woman. I’d come to the decision well before I’d seen Beatrix and became obsessed and transfixed by her that I’d just donate a nice sum to the charity and be on my way.
I didn’t know if I’d see her again at this party, but I was determined, a hunter when I wanted something. And I wanted her. I’d find out who she was. My connection ran long and deep, and despite only having her first name, I had no doubt I could find out who she was and where she lived.
I’d be a fucking stalker if it came down to it.
But here I was, watching as female after female stood on that stage, heard bidder after bidder call out amounts for a night with them.
Although this wasn’t a sexual exchange, I had no doubt the winning bidders would get a nice ending after it was all said and done, for the simple fact alone money called to money.
And in all honesty, a part of me hoped the woman who captured my heart with just an innocent glance—and that’s exactly what Beatrix had done as she looked into my eyes—would be on that stage. It would be the perfect setup, as if fate were interceding on my behalf. I’d never believed in destiny or soulmates, or whatever you wanted to call it, but then she’d literally fallen into my arms, and I swore the world tilted on its axis.
Woman after woman stood on that stage, and I had absolutely zero fucking interest in them. I was just about to leave, to wait out by the bar until the party ended, hoping to see Beatrix again, when they said her name, and everything in my body stilled. I slowly turned and stared at that stage, watched as she walked out. I could tell this was uncomfortable for her, and the protective side of me rose up. I wanted to go to her, to wrap my arms around her, shield her from any discomfort she felt. It felt like cement filled my veins, this heaviness wrapping around me as I stared at her.
I took a step closer, then another one, until I was close enough to the podium I swore I smelled that flower fragrance.
The auctioneer started giving her details, pieces of information I had been yearning to know, now all of it given to me on a silver platter. She was young, her twenty-five years over a decade younger than me. And she loved to read, something I wanted to experience with her. Hell, just let me sit in the same room with her and gaze at her as she devoured her favorite novel.
The first bid was cast, then another, several men interested in her, which pissed me the fuck off.
No one would have her but me. I’d make sure of that.
And then a thousand dollars was thrown down, and I looked at the man who rattled off the current highest bid.
Antonio Francouix.
My lip curled in distaste. He was a wine connoisseur, collected countless bottles of the shit and served it to the elite in his private restaurant in Milan. Fuck him if he thought to collect something else, and I knew that’s what he’d do with Beatrix. I had no doubt he sensed her innocence, the same way I did.