One thousand dollars. Twenty percent of that is mine. Two hundred dollars that I desperately need.
Two hundred dollars, that now feels like blood money.
I walk backstage on numb legs. A few other participants who've already gone through it offer sympathetic looks. One girl, a sophomore I don't know whispers, "At least he's hot?"
I don't respond. Can't respond. If I open my mouth, I'll scream.
There's a table with water bottles and schedules. A coordinator, some perky senior from the planning committee, bounces over with a clipboard.
"Isla Monroe? Congratulations! Sebastian Thornhill, paddle forty-two. You'll need to exchange contact information and schedule your five dates. They must be completed by Valentine's Day, and you're required to post at least one photo from each date to social media with the hashtag #ThornhillGala. Here's your packet."
She hands me a folder. Inside, a contract, date guidelines, social media requirements, and a check request form for my portion of the proceeds.
Two hundred dollars. Minus taxes.
The price of my dignity.
"Any questions?" the coordinator chirps.
"Can I refuse?"
Her smile falters. "Well, no. You signed the participation agreement. And the bid is final. But this is for charity! And Sebastian is Legacy Council president, so you're very lucky?—"
"Right. Lucky. That's exactly what I am."
I take the folder and push past her, heading for the exit. I need air. I need to be anywhere but here. I stop when I hear my name.
"Monroe."
Of course. Of course he's waiting in the hallway.
Sebastian leans against the wall outside the backstage area, hands in his pockets, looking infuriatingly calm. Like he didn't just spend one thousand dollars to torture me for two weeks.
"Don't," I say, my voice shaking. "Don't say a word."
"We need to schedule the dates. According to the contract?—"
"I know what the contract says." I clutch the folder so hard it crumples. "What I don't know is what the hell you think you're doing."
He pushes off the wall, and suddenly he's too close. I can smell his cologne, something expensive and woodsy that probably costs more than my textbooks.
"I'm participating in a charity auction," he says mildly. "Same as you."
"You bid one thousand dollars."
"I'm very charitable."
"You're very sadistic." I step back, needing distance. "This is a game to you. Another way to humiliate me. Well, congratulations, Sebastian. You win. You always win."
"If you'd prefer Tyler Brennan had won, I can probably arrange a trade?—"
"I'd prefer not to be auctioned off like cattle." My voice cracks, and I hate it. Hate he's seeing me like this. "But I don't get what I want. I get two hundred dollars and two weeks of whatever fresh hell you have planned."
"Two hundred?" He frowns. "You get twenty percent?"
"That's how percentages work, yes."
His jaw tightens. "That's—" He stops himself. "Never mind. Look, we need to exchange numbers and schedule the first date. Ice skating, according to your package list. There's a rink on campus that?—"
