1
RONAN
“Ah, shit.”
I almost drop my champagne flute, catching it at the last second. The liquid sloshes against the crystal, threatening to spill over as my focus narrows to a single point across the crowded auction hall that’s been decorated for the holidays.
Her.
Who is she and why do I feel like the floor has just disappeared from underneath me? Like I’m standing on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, unmoored and alone?
A woman I’ve never seen before stands on the auction block, blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face. She’s not the polished trophy type these events typically parade. No, she’s soft curves and vulnerability, her blue eyes scanning the room like she's searching for an exit. Well, she probably is, and I can’t say I blame her one bit.
I’ve been to dozens of these “charity companion auctions.” Rich people buying a weekend with beautiful women and men, all under the thin veneer of philanthropy. Normal people buy gifts for themselves at Christmas. This is the billionaire version of that.
I came tonight only because Xavier, my VP of acquisitions and occasional friend, insisted our absence would be noticed. I had no intention of bidding.
That was the plan.
Until now.
The auctioneer drones on about her attributes—as if she’s a prize mare—while she stands there, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand clenching and unclenching, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here. She wears a simple black dress, modest compared to the other offerings tonight. Nothing about her screams for attention, yet I can’t look away … not even if my life depends on it.
I set my champagne down on a passing waiter’s tray, my decision already made.
No one will have her but me. I’ll break the fingers off anyone who even thinks of touching her, owning her.
No, this woman is mine and mine alone.
“Bidding starts at five thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announces.
Several hands go up immediately. Of fucking course. I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet, fury rises within me as I check out some of the men I know try to outbid each other. I’m this close towringing their necks for even thinking they’re allowed to breathe the same air as her.
Pathetic, delusional fuckers.
I watch her face as each bid registers—the flicker of dismay, quickly masked. She’s not here by choice. That much is clear.
A heavyset man in the front row raises his paddle. I recognize him—Gerhardt, old money, notorious for his “relationships” with auction companions that extend well beyond the contractual weekend. Something in me hardens when I see his eyes travel up her body. I could crush his windpipe without breaking a sweat. Or maybe I could just glare at him until he withers in my presence. That has always been effective in scaring even men twice my size.
“Fifty thousand,” I call out, not bothering with the paddle.
The room ripples with whispers. People turn to look at me, but I keep my eyes on her. For the first time, she meets my gaze directly. The relief that washes over her face is unmistakable and strangely satisfying.
Interesting.
“Fifty thousand from Mr. Ward,” the auctioneer confirms, barely concealing his excitement. “Do I hear fifty-five?”
Gerhardt turns, scowling when he spots me. He raises his paddle again. “Fifty-five.”
“A hundred fifty,” I counter immediately.
More whispers. The woman’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly.
“A hundred fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer repeats, voice climbing an octave. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is already double our highest bid of the evening.”
I don’t care. Money means nothing to me. I’ve made and lost fortunes in single days. But something about this woman makes me want to empty my accounts just to keep her away from the other men in this room. I’m more than willing to use my bare hands, but, unfortunately for me, auctions don’t work that way.
“Hundred fifty-five,” calls a voice from the back.
