SYDNEY
Ishould leave. The thought has been running through my head on a loop for the last twenty minutes. Leave. Walk out. Get in my car.
Pretend this whole night never happened, but it won’t solve anything. I’ll be in the same shitty situation I was in before. The eighty-seven-thousand-dollars situation.
Leaving won’t pay Ben's medical bills. Leaving won’t magically wake my brother from his coma. So, I stay.
Even though every instinct I possess is screaming at me to run. When I first stepped into the event, the glitzy environment allowed me to convince myself this was some strange networking event with a ridiculous name. Now I know better.
Now I've seen the way the men look at the women. The way they asses us as though they're making a business purchase. The way they sneak in overt touches, as if it is their right to touch our bodies, because it’s just another way to evaluate the merchandise.
My stomach twists, and I wrap both hands around my champagne flute as I scan the crowd. As if pulled by a magnetic force. My gaze immediately finds him. The man who stepped between me and creepy Victor Lang.
The man who somehow made a billionaire back down with nothing more than a few quiet words. Victor called him Max.
Max.
Even thinking his name sends a strange flutter through my chest. It's ridiculous. I don't know him, and I shouldn't be thinking about him at all. Yet my eyes keep finding him.
He stands near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. Tall, broad-shouldered, and so very dangerous.
Everything about him radiates control. His charcoal suit looks expensive enough to cover three months of Ben's hospital bills. Maybe six.
Dark ink disappears beneath the collar of his dress shirt before vanishing beneath tailored fabric. And it’s on his arms as well. I noticed the tattoos when he took my hand earlier. A glimpse of black ink winding across powerful wrists. The sight did something unfortunate to my nervous system. Or maybe it was the aura of strength and power that surrounds him. Whatever it was…is…it’s still doing unfortunate things to my nervous system.
As if sensing my attention, he looks up, and our eyes meet across the room. Heat floods my face, and I immediately look away.
Fantastic.Now I look like an idiotic girl with a blushing crush.
A moment later, a woman's voice cuts through the ballroom. "Ladies and gentlemen. The auction is about to begin."
Conversations fade out as people drift toward the raised platform at the far end of the room.
My pulse jumps. This is it.
The auction. The reason I'm here.
The reason I spent two hours staring at myself in the mirror tonight wondering whether I'd completely lost my mind.
A hostess in a black dress steps up on the stage, smiles brightly, and speaks into the mic. "The bidding will begin shortly."
My stomach drops as the other women gather near the stage. Some of them appear excited. Most of them look nervous.
One redhead looks completely unfazed, as though she's done this before. I envy her composure. I hope I only appear nervous, and not as scared out of my mind as I actually feel.
I move toward the designated area. Every step feels heavier than the last.
The hostess gives me an encouraging smile as she checks my number against a list on her tablet. "Welcome, number twenty-three."
The smile I return feels brittle. We don’t even have names here.
She gestures toward a row of chairs, and I sit. My hands are shaking, hopefully not visibly, but to make sure, I clasp them tightly in my lap.
The surrounding women make nervous small talk. One of my neighbors tries to draw me into a conversation, but I can’t focus on her words. All I can think about is Ben. How hard he’s worked since Dad died to take care of me. The way he grinswhenever something makes him happy. How alone he looks in that hospital bed.
A lump forms in my throat.
If Ben were awake, he'd drag me out of here. No question. He'd probably throw me over his shoulder and carry me out if necessary. The thought almost makes me laugh. Almost.
