I don't believe in fate.
I believe in patterns.
In probability.
In the cold mathematics of supply and demand, risk and reward, cause and inevitable effect.
I believe in things I can measure, control, possess.
But when she walks onto that stage in her white dress, something in my chest shifts.
Something I don't have a name for.
Something that feels dangerously close to destiny.
Which is ridiculous.
I came to this auction out of obligation.
The Consortium expects attendance from all mid-level members and above.
It's networking, they say.
Community building.
A chance to demonstrate your commitment to the organization's... interests.
What they mean is: show up, bid on something, prove you're one of us.
I've never bid before.
Never saw the point.
I can buy anything I want through legal channels.
Don't need the complications that come with purchasing human beings, the NDAs, handlers, and inevitable messiness when they try to leave.
And they always try to leave.
But the Consortium doesn't care about my preferences.
Victor Hargrove made that clear three weeks ago when he called me personally.
You've been a member for five years, Vaughn. Never participated in an acquisition. People are starting to talk.
People.
Meaning the inner circle.
The men who actually run things, who make decisions that shape markets and governments and lives.
The men I need to impress if I want Sutherland Global Holdings to reach the next level.
So here I am, sitting in a renovated mansion on a private island off the coast of Massachusetts, surrounded by men in tuxedos who think buying women is a recreational activity.
The champagne is excellent.
Krug, if I'm not mistaken.
