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I just wish I wasn’t in this situation to begin with.
When the curtains fly open, the lights are so bright that I can’t see out into the club. Nonetheless, I hear men shouting out numbers that don’t make sense, laughing and ribbing each other as they bid on me.
It’s just one night, I remind myself as I smile mindlessly at the crowd. One night to save my father’s life. It’s worth it. Virginity’s just a concept, anyway. Losing it or not doesn’t mean anything about me or my moral standing. That’s what Olivia always tells me when I get self-conscious about my inexperience. I find myself clinging to her words for strength as I listen to Stella run the bidding.
Relationships and intimacy are just things I never really had the chance to explore, even in high school. I was always working hard to keep my scholarship to private school, or working to make sure that my father and I kept our apartment for another month. Even when I went to the very occasional party with Olivia, I never got past trying to awkwardly flirt with anyone. It’s not like I was ever interested in the guys we’d meet. Mr. Harlow—Brock—is still the only man I’ve ever been attracted to.
I guess my inexperience is working in my favor now, though. Who knew that men would go wild for the chance to deflower a virgin? All this time I’ve been a hot commodity, and I didn’t even know it, but the irony isn’t lost on me.
My mind floats to Brock again, and I can’t ignore the way my heart sinks. I’ll never be able to face him after this. What would he think if he saw me on this stage, selling what I’m selling?
Suddenly, the crowd falls silent. All I can hear is the blood rushing through my ears. It almost drowns out Stella’s voice as it rings out across the room. “Going once, going twice … Sold, to the gentleman in the blue Tom Ford!”
My heart leaps up into my throat. It’s over already? How long have I been up here? What do I do now?
Breathe, Felicia. Just keep breathing.
Time seems to slow down as the curtain suddenly pulls shut once more. I didn’t catch the final price, but I’m sure it’s enough. The goons that had come for my father had made this sound lucrative on the way here, like it was a forgone conclusion that I’d fetch a high price.
One can only hope, I guess.
I barely register being ushered off the stage, teetering in the insane heels I borrowed from the costume room at the behest of one of the girls who works here regularly. There are murmurs of congratulations from other women, smiles of reassurance from people whose names I don’t know, a gentle pat at my jacket is placed on my shoulders. It’s all a blur.
Someone guides me through a maze of hallways, and suddenly, I’m placed in a comfortably furnished room and told to wait for the winner. I stare numbly at my feet, wondering how much these shoes cost their owner.
Then I wonder how much I fetched.
Suddenly, the door slams open.
“Jesus Christ. Felicia—”
My head whips up at the familiar voice. Immediately, my face starts to burn. Even when he’s furious, Mr. Harlow is devastatingly handsome as always.
“Mr. Harlow?” I breathe. “What are you doing here?”
“What amIdoing here? What the hell areyoudoing here?” he says, his voice so strangely quiet that I can’t help shivering. I’m not sure if it’s with fear or desire.
“It’s not what you think,” I sputter. “I’m here of my own free will. I’m just waiting for—”
“For who? The winner?” he growls as he stalks over to me slowly, a dark look in his eyes as he visibly fights to keep his rage reined in.
“Y-yes,” I stammer as he draws close enough for me to feel his body heat radiating through his suit.
He takes a deep breath as he looks down at me, his broad shoulders rising and falling as he gathers his thoughts. I can smell his cologne, the spicy scent of it making my nose tingle.
What he says next has me fighting for my balance.
“You’re looking at him.”
Chapter 5
Brock
As I lead her out of the building and into the car I ordered, I’m silent. I can’t get myself to ask her why she did this, why she put herself in a situation like this. Her hand is small in mine but she doesn’t let go once, not even after I slam the car door closed behind us.
“Airport,” I say briskly to the driver. I don’t recognize him, but I’d prefer that. Had the concierge service I’m a member of sent a driver Idoknow, they might also know Felicia. This is complicated enough without curious eyes.
Once the driver nods at me, I thank him and press the button that raises the privacy divider. After checking my phone to make sure that my assistant got started on requisitioning my a private jet. The confirmation text makes me breathe a sigh of relief.
