Page 6 of Auctioned To Be Mine

“We have interests in several industries,” I said vaguely.

“That’s so hot,” she said, leaning forward. “I love a man with power.”

Chantilly’s hand reached across the table and landed on mine. Her nails were long, sharp, and painted devil red. With those talons, she could easily puncture an artery.

“I think we could be really good together,” she said. “I need a partner who can support me and my vision for the future. Financially and, you know, aesthetically. You look great in photos.”

I pulled my hand back and reached for my wine glass. “You’re very direct,” I said.

“I don’t believe in wasting time. Life is too short to pretend we don’t know what we want.”

“I can’t argue with that logic.” I shrugged. “I have a feeling you and I want different things in life though.”

It was too honest but my politeness was cracking. Not that she noticed.

Chantilly was back on her phone, filming herself again. “So, I’m on a date right now,” she said to the camera. “And he’s very handsome, obviously.”

I stared at her. She was filming herself talking about me while I sat three feet away. Scrolling on your phone on a date was already rude. Streaming on a date was downright offensive.

This was a new level of insane.

With Chantilly ignoring me, I glanced at the nearby table again. I couldn’t help myself. The woman—the one I’d knocked over—was leaning forward, talking with animated gestures. Jack Montana was looking at his phone, much like Chantilly.

What the hell was she doing with him?

Montana was a notorious asshole. Everyone in the industry knew it. He showed up late to sets, treated crew like they were invisible, and had a reputation for being difficult with everyone except the directors who could make or break his career. I’d met him twice at industry events. Both times he’d been condescending and dismissive. The kind of guy who talked over people and never bothered to remember names.

She deserved better than that. Not that I knew her. Not that it was any of my business. But she had fire in her eyes when she’d glared at me outside, and now she was wasting it on Jack fucking Montana.

I took another sip of wine and tried to focus on Chantilly, who was still filming herself.

“And the ambiance here is very...” She paused, searching for the word. “Moody. I like it. Very romantic. I think I’d probably use lamps instead of the fake candles, but whatever. It’s a choice. Not mine.”

I wasn’t sure what was romantic about her talking to her phone instead of me, but I kept that observation to myself.

I needed to get out of here and I felt like I had waited long enough. Time to hit the eject button.

“Excuse me,” I said, standing up. “I need to use the restroom.”

Chantilly wrinkled her nose but didn’t look away from her camera. “Too much information.”

I walked through the dining room, past the woman at Montana’s table—she was still talking, and he was still ignoring her—and found the restroom in the back. I locked myself in a stall and pulled out my phone.

Me: Code red. Hit the fire alarm.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Drew: You sure?

Me: Positive.

Drew: On it. Give me five minutes.

I leaned against the stall door and closed my eyes. This was rock bottom. I was hiding in a bathroom, waiting for my brother to commit what was a felony so I could escape a dinner date.

But desperate times. This date needed to end and it had to look like it wasn’t my fault. So I had gotten creative.

I washed my hands, checked my reflection in the mirror, and gave myself a mental pep talk. Five more minutes. Maybe ten. Then I’d be free. I’d apologize to my father tomorrow, explain that Chantilly wasn’t a good match, and beg him to stop setting me up with women who treated other people like props in their personal reality show.