Twelve months to find a woman, convince her to marry me, and get her pregnant.
No pressure.
I found Gianna in the ballroom she'd commandeered for whatever charity event she was planning. My sister was twenty-eight, beautiful, and terrifyingly competent. She stood in the center of the space, gesturing animatedly at someone on the phone while simultaneously directing the decorating crew with her free hand. She would make a better second choice than Nikolai. That’s how I knew my father wasn’t going to give the entire farm to him. But he meant business about me securing my place.
"No, I saidburgundyroses, not red. Red is pedestrian. This is—yes, I know it's for Valentine's Day. That's precisely why we need to be—" She spotted me and held up a finger. "Reed, I have to go. Fix it or I'll find someone who can."
She ended the call and turned to me, her expression shifting from irritation to concern in half a second.
"That bad?"
"He gave me an ultimatum."
"Shit." She crossed to me, heels clicking on the parquet floor. "Let me guess. Get married or lose your inheritance?"
"How did you?—"
"Please. Papa's been muttering about grandchildren for months. I'm honestly surprised he waited this long." She studied my face. "How long did he give you? Six months? A year? Two?"
"One year."
"Well." Gianna straightened her shoulders, and I recognized the look in her eyes. Battle mode. "Good thing I'm throwing the perfect party."
I glanced around the ballroom. Heart-shaped decorations hung from the ceiling. The crew was draping red silk across the walls. It looked like Cupid had vomited everywhere.
"If you're about to introduce me to one of your trampy groupies?—"
"God, no." She laughed, the sound sharp and delighted. "You'd eat them alive. No, this is different."
"Different how?"
"It's a Valentine's Ball, yes. But not the kind you're thinking of." She pulled out her phone, swiping through something. "I've been working with an event coordinator who specializes in... alternative fundraisers. The guest list is very carefully curated. People with particular tastes."
I raised an eyebrow. "Gianna."
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not running a brothel." She rolled her eyes. "It's an auction. But the prizes aren't dinner dates and chaste kisses. Each participant submits a detailed list of preferences, boundaries, kinks. The winners get one night—fully consensual, fully negotiated, fully protected."
Interest flickered despite myself. "And the money?"
"Goes to the children's hospital. Well, seventy percent does. The participants get thirty percent." She smiled. "Everyone wins."
"You're auctioning off people for sex."
"I'm facilitating connections between consenting adults while raising money for sick kids." She gave me a look that was pure Moretti steel wrapped in Chanel. "Don't be such a prude."
I wasn't. Far from it, actually. But I'd kept that side of myself locked down for years. Too risky. Too vulnerable. Too many people would love to use it against me.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you need a wife, and the kind of woman who shows up to this party? She's not going to be scared of you." Gianna moved closer, her voice dropping. "She's not going to faint at the sight of blood or cry when you have to disappear for three days to handle business. She's going to be strong. Interesting. Real."
"Or she's going to be a liability."
"Maybe." She shrugged. "But you don't have a lot of time to be picky. And besides..." Her smile turned wicked. "When's the last time you actually enjoyed yourself? Had a night where you weren't the heir, the soldier, the weapon? Just a man with a woman who wants exactly what you're offering? When's the last time that you were fucked, dear brother?"
Far too fucking long.
"I'm not getting on an auction block," I said flatly.
