This is active fear.
Angry fear.
The fear of someone who's still fighting even though they know they've lost.
The auctioneer introduces her.
I don't hear the words.
Just watch as Eden—that's her name, Eden—stands there under the lights, hands clenched at her sides.
"Turn, please," the auctioneer says.
Eden doesn't move for a moment.
Then she does.
Slowly. Mechanically.
And she looks up.
Our eyes meet.
Everything in the room fades.
The other men. The auctioneer. The stage lights.
Everything except her.
She's looking at me like she can see straight through the expensive suit and the careful mask and the cultivated indifference.
Like she sees the hunger I didn't know I had until this exact moment.
Her eyes widen, just slightly.
She sees it too.
Sees something pass between us.
Some recognition that has nothing to do with having met before and everything to do with inevitability.
She's terrified.
Not of the auction. Not of being sold.
Of me.
Good.
She should be.
Because I've made a decision.
I'm not bidding on the brunette in lot twelve.
I'm not setting anyone up in a property with a generous allowance and minimal expectations.
I'm buying Eden Finch.
