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I say nothing, mortified beyond belief. I want to ask him if he’ll be watching—I want to ask him to not watch. But of course he’s going to watch. I almost drop dead when another thought occurs to me. If Marchant knows, does that mean—
"Bidding might get intense, but you'll only see the numbers. These things usually don’t last but ten minutes or so.”
I nod, still feeling totally panicked that Marchant Radcliffe—Marchant Radcliffe, Hunter's best friend, who knows my family—is here, and he knows what I'm doing. I tell myself it was probably inevitable, but I still feel ill.
He must misinterpret my anxious look, because he steps a little closer, sticking one hand in the pocket of his pinstriped coat. "You'll be okay. Everyone I know who's bidding is good people. I wouldn't put you in bad hands."
I don’t know what to say, so I nod. “You look great, you’ll do great,” he says as he pats the bed. “No more than ten minutes, Scarlett.” He winks, and then he's gone.
My muscles tremble as I try to keep my pose. I'm lying on my side, with my legs slightly scissored and my hand propping my head up. My fingers are threaded through my hair so it falls around my right shoulder.
I'm staring at the digital ticker near the ceiling, feeling like I might have a panic attack or pee myself, when the door bursts open and I shriek.
It's everyone. Not just a few but all the escorts. Loveless is out in front, and she presents me with a little velvet box. She pops it open, and two beautiful, glittery diamond earrings wink at me.
“Surprise!” everyone shouts.
Loveless leans down. “I'll put them in your ears. Just hold your pose, girl.”
As she puts the earrings on me, I feel a sense of total peace. And okay, it evaporated as soon as they left the room and a little speaker on the bed told me I'd be live in two minutes. But before then, I felt valued and loved. Here in a brothel.
The ticker clock has big, red numbers, and as they inch closer to zero, I can feel my throat constricting like I might be sick. I focus on deep breaths and think about Dr. Bernard and how many good things have happened to me here. I feel older. Wiser. More capable. I can handle this.
Then the ticker reaches zero and the windows surrounding my bed change subtly in hue—getting a little paler. I forget to breathe for a second, but then I smooth my mouth into a generic smile.
When the first bid flashes across the ticker, I nearly die.
$50,000, just like Marchant said. That's a lot of money.
The numbers quickly jump.
$80,000.
$100,000. Oh my God.
$140,000.
$150,000.
$200,000.
$300,000. I feel dizzy, and it's hard to keep my smile. You can do it, Lizzy. Just a little longer. There is absolutely no way the bidding will go higher than 300 grand.
$400,000.
I want to barf, but I try to stay in pose as the light covers my face but shines on my body. I tell myself again it's almost over. Then the ticker moves again.
$3,000,000. I'm shaking.
$3,200,000.
$3,400,000.
Holy Moses.
$5,200,000.
$5,500,000.
