Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
An auctioneer in an Armani tux adjusts the microphone. “Hello.” His even-tempered voice booms. “And we’re back. I hope you all enjoyed that intermission and the excellent performance from Harmonious Strings.” Soft clapping. “Next up for Win a Night with a Celebrity…”
All humor dies in my chest as I hear the name of this event again.
It’s not sexual, the board has told me. As though my brain is hooked on sex—because my mom is a sex addict, maybe. I don’t know. I’m not fucking sure. But I can’t be the only one who thinks a night with someone means a hookup.
I have a boyfriend.
I’m the only one up for bid that’s committed to another person. Guilt already gnaws at my insides. But with Ernest as CEO, my family’s wealth inside the philanthropy is at risk.
I’m caught in a moral web between family and love, and I’m wondering how those two missed an intersection and when they started running in opposite directions.
“What are you thinking?” Farrow whispers while the auctioneer repeats a few technical details about bidding. s
I stare faraway in thought. “I think this is the part where I’m supposed to choose between my company and the guy I love.” I look right at him. “Real or rumor?” SFO say that a lot, especially when we were on tour.
Real or rumor.
His eyes caress mine. “Rumor. This auction is a pseudo-fake thing, wolf scout, and what you and I have is real. Whoever bids on you isn’t a threat to me.” His brows arch. “Bluntly, you’re not cheating on me by going up there, and you can’t walk away from this. It’ll kill you not to try.”
Yeah.
But what if trying kills me too?
“Maximoff Hale,” the auctioneer with slicked hair and spectacles calls me up to the podium, and two-thousand eyes fix on me.
3
FARROW KEENE
As I retrace my path up the aisle, headed towards Omega, Maximoff climbs the few stairs to the stage.
Stoic, unbending, and undeniably striking, he stands beside the podium like a 15th century sculpture, body and jaw carved from marble. And the affluent crowd is about to bid on the modern, real-life version of Michelangelo’s David.
He’s mine.
I don’t love him because he’s a coveted piece of art to the thousands here and the millions outside. I love him because he’s so pure it hurts, so moral it aches, and so strong-willed it kills me not to speak to him, not to be near him, not to look at him or to protect him.
Velveteen seats squeak, bodies shifting to open purses and reach in pockets for a remote device called a clicker. The auction is electronic, no hand raising or numbers hoisted.
My boots feel heavier.
Each step is cumbersome and barbed as I put more distance between me and the stage. Instinct says turn around, don’t leave him.
Don’t leave him.
I fight the urge to rotate, race towards the stage, climb up and kiss the fuck out of Maximoff. My jaw tics, and I stuff my hands in the pockets of my slacks.
I’m not losing him.
I’m not really leaving him. What I said was true: this isn’t real, but shit, the desertion is a kind of torment I’ve never experienced. It bites at my heels as I walk away and let him do this alone.
Since I’m not his personal bodyguard at this event, I can’t be a part of the “night” portion of a night with a celebrity. The “night” is planned one week from now. At a location Ernest hasn’t disclosed yet. And I have to trust Bruno to protect Maximoff there.
Unless I can win him myself.
I pull a clicker out of my pocket. I already registered my information and bank account, and this is my attempt to prevent bad shit from happening.
I reach SFO, and no one seems surprised that I went “rogue” and chose my boyfriend over door-duty. It’s not just me being a maverick. If that’d been their own client, they’d be hard-pressed to say they wouldn’t do the same.
Akara spins his phone in his hand; he’d be tenser if Sulli, his client, were participating in the auction. “I can’t vouch for you anymore with Alpha,” he tells me. “It’s not sticking, and we’re in a spot where Omega has less leeway.”
I nod. “Okay.” I can’t say I’ll change my actions, but I’d rather Akara not put his neck on the line for me. I can take all the heat.
Oscar motions me forward, about the same time I slip between Donnelly and him. I face the stage, and my stomach overturns.
Maximoff is staring off in the distance. Lost in his head. Almost like he’s not here.
I’m not close enough to wake him up.
“…the grandson of two Fortune 500 moguls with the billion-dollar companies Fizzle and Hale Co…” The auctioneer pushes up his silver-rimmed glasses and reads a bio to the audience.