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“A five-year exclusive contract for all of Young & Martin, along with its subsidiary companies.”
“How much?”
“Five million per annum.”
“Christ.”
“You’re more than welcome to decline, Mr. Young. Maybe I’ll slip someone at the New York Times Priscilla Kelp’s guest list. Maybe your name will be highlighted. Who knows?”
“Fine,fine. Good God, have you no shame?”
I relax in my seat, spreading my arms and legs out comfortably. Clearly not. “I’ll have my secretary forward you the paperwork. I expect to see your signature by tomorrow evening.”
“Fuck you, Antonov,” Young hisses as he stands in a hurry, scurrying away to make a hasty exit.
I take a deep breath. My work here is done. Now it’s time to get the hell out of here. As much as I appreciate all the beautiful women in attendance, I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to. Important emails to reply to, meetings to schedule, a team of five hundred employees to manage. A normal man would celebrate landing a big contract like this one, but the competition never sleeps, and therefore, neither do I.
Just as I’m about to stand and leave, the lights of the penthouse suite dim. Someone clinks their champagne glass with the back of their knife, gathering everyone’s attention. Standing at the front of the main room is a tiny woman, no taller than four-seven. She has long raven hair that flows freely over her shoulders, so long the ends brush the backs of her heels. She is as naked as the rest of us, her wrinkles and folds proudly on display.
“Thank you all for coming,” Priscilla Kelp says. Her smile may be sweet, but her eyes are uncomfortably cold. Glazed over. Like the weight of the world rests on her tiny shoulders. There’s an air of aloofness to her—something simultaneously regal and snobbish. Priscilla embodies her eccentricity well.
“I hope you are all having an enlightening experience about the human form and the base equality we share,” she continues, looking about the room with ease. “There are so many non-verbal indicators used in today’s society to separate ourselves into rich and poor. We are accustomed to showing off our wealth with exorbitant accessories or brand labels. Some of us get about driving in private cars. But the only difference between upper and lower class is the numbers we hold in our bank account. Strip that all away, and what do you get? Your fellow man.”
I continue to make my way to the exit. This whole thing is so fucking stupid. Tacky, even. Priscilla Kelp could have easily made her point by asking us to all hold hands in a chain and sing Kumbaya instead of stripping us down. Her cringyone-world-one-lovebullshit isn’t going to work on me. Unfortunately, her little spiel seems to be working wonders on the rest of her guests. They stand with drinks in their hands, their expressions reverent.
Ridiculous.
“Now, for the main event,” Priscilla continues. “In order to raise funds for the creation of my performance art school for inner city kids, we will be holding an auction. I have a handful of volunteers here, all of them waitstaff. I encourage you to bid for an hour of their time so you might converse with them and learn about their lives as the working lower class.”
I almost scoff aloud. Does this woman even hear herself when she talks? She’s contradicting herself. One second, she wants us to understand we’re all equal, and in the next breath, she’s calling the serverslower class. Talk about demeaning. I’ve had enough of this shit.
I’m about to ask the doorman to retrieve my clothes when something peculiar catches my eye. Priscilla has arranged a few of her servers in a line at the front of the room. They’re all very pretty, modelesque… Except for the young woman at the very end.
This one is breathtaking.
Fiery red curls, so thick and luscious my fingers itch to touch it. She is by far the most concealed, dressed in white lace lingerie that covers the peaks of her breasts and the apex of her thighs. Her skin looks incredibly soft in the dim mood lighting, though her eyes sparkle a brilliant blue. My gaze rakes over the curve of her hips and thick thighs, hunger stirring in the pit of my stomach.
A part of me wants to go up there and bite her. Leave my mark. On the crook of her neck, on her ass. I’m not sure why she’s piqued my interest. My heart pounds and my cock begins to strain. Maybe because she’s the only one here not on full display. She’s like a gift on Christmas morning, wrapped up tight. It makes me want to march up there and rip the lace off with my teeth. I need to know what her voice sounds like. I want to study the shape of her lips. I crave the knowledge of her name.
The young woman doesn’t stand with the same confidence as the rest of her peers, her body language closed off and timid. Her eyes shift from left to right, the slight tremble of her shoulders catching my attention. A deer caught in the headlights; a kitten left out in the rain. It’s clear she wants to be anywhere but here.
“We’ll start the auction on this side,” Priscilla says, gesturing to a man on the other end of my poorkisa.
As much as I want her all to myself, I want to hide her away, too. One look around the room and it’s apparent she’s caught the attention of quite a few guests. I grind my teeth, ignoring the burn in the back of my throat. I’ve already made my decision. The only one who’s going to get an hour of her time is me.
It’s time to break out my checkbook.
Chapter 3
Aurora
Ihate it here and I want to go home.
Serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres the whole evening was fine. Weird, but fine. I’ve put extra effort into making eye contact with everyone I come across to keep from seeing anyone’s bits. And like Charlotte suggested, I picked a nice, quiet corner with little to no foot traffic to avoid the worst of it.
And then Priscilla Kelp, the performance artist herself, took me by the hand and dragged me to the front of the room.
I would have protested, but I was too confused to say anything. Now there’s no escape. Not with a hundred different pairs of eyes on me, appraising me like an item for auction. Iaman item for auction. While Priscilla says my time and conversation are up for grabs, I don’t trust anyone here to keep their hands to themselves.
