Three months. That’s how long I’ve been planning this. Three months of research, background checks, and reading contracts until my eyes crossed. Three months of keeping this secret because the moment my brothers found out, they’d have opinions. Concerns. Better ideas.
Marlie’s Angels isn’t some sketchy backroom deal. It’s vetted. Legitimate. A matchmaking service for women who want a fresh start on their own terms.
The auction concept may sound medieval, but it’s not about being bought; it’s about being chosen by someone who has considered all the options and selected you.
But whyamI doing this?
It’s not because I want to belong to someone.
It’s because I want to discover if I could.
Is there a man out there who would look at me, with my boots, sharp tongue, messy brain, curves, and rough edges, andchoose meintentionally?
Not out of pity or the belief that I need fixing.
But because he wantsme—thisversion of me, with all my complexities, even the parts that don't make sense and those that are overwhelming.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. After three months of planning, it all comes down to this moment, this choice. I type back:Still in.
The reply takes a moment longer this time.
Marlie:Then you’re in the right place.
I exhale a breath and pull back onto the road.
By the time I arrive at the venue—a sprawling estate filled with warm light and old money—my hands are shaking. I wipe them on my skirt, pretending it counts as confidence.
The house is enormous, where old money meets western charm, with glittering windows and warm light spilling onto the snowy lawn. A line of trucks and sedans is parked out front, where boots, blazers, and cowboy hats mingle with cologne and cufflinks.
I don’t belong here. But I also don’t belong at the Cutter family dinner table anymore, so perhaps belonging is overrated.
Inside, everything hums. Soft music plays, polished marble gleams, and low lighting creates a quiet reverence in the air, like a church, but with better outfits and whiskey.
The lighting is warm and golden, nothing harsh. My shoulders relax slightly; at least I won’t spend the night squinting against the fluorescent glare.
I sign in, and a staff member leads me to a room lined with velvet and mirrors, where I change into a denim skirt and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up. My boots are scuffed, and my hat remains firmly on my head.
I didn’t come here to be transformed; I came to see if someone would choose me just as I am.
A woman in a charcoal blazer approaches, clipboard in hand and lanyard swinging. A smallMarlie’s Angelsbadge is pinned just beneath her name tag—Gwen.
Her smile is calm and steady. “Jane Cutter?”
I nod.
“Let me walk you through the process.”
Her voice is low and kind, yet authoritative enough to make me stand a little taller.
“You’ll walk out. There’s no pitch, no small talk. You don’t have to charm anyone. You just have to stand there and breathe.”
“That I can do,” I reply. Probably. Hopefully. If I don’t pass out first.
She smiles. “If a match is made, both parties will sign the cohabitation agreement. You’ll have access to safety protocols, emergency contacts, and opt-out options. If, at any point, either of you wants to end the arrangement, you can—no questions asked.”
I blink in disbelief. “Really?”
“There’s a probationary clause. You’re not trapped. This isn’t forever unlessyoudecide it is.”
