Evelyn’s eyes glint over the rim of her flute. “You’re so bad,” she murmurs, half-scolding, half-delighted to her friend.
Miranda smiles serenely. “Darling, I once outbid a senator for a date with the mayor. A little healthy competition never hurt anyone.”
Evelyn laughs. “You might just be my favorite guest.”
The banter eases some of the tension coiled in my spine, but not all of it. I can’t shake the sense that the careful, professional distance I’ve kept from Oliver is about to crack.
The chandeliers throw shards of gold across the tables, catching on sequins and silver tableware polished to a high shine. Every laugh sounds just a touch too loud. It’s the nervous kind that comes before people start spending obscene amounts of money for a good cause.
Jax is the first to saunter out to the stage, all swagger and showmanship, playing to the crowd. His grin is lopsided and dangerously charming. It’s the kind of smile that earns him dozens of bids within the first thirty seconds. Zane follows in a designer suit and ridiculously oversized shades, strutting around as if he expects applause. When the MC tries to hype him up, a few women hesitantly lift their paddles until Gigi jumps in, shutting them down with a bold bid that earns a round of gasps.
Laiken trudges out next, looking like someone shoved him onto the stage against his will. His scowl could scare off storm clouds, yet somehow the room buzzes even louder. Three women in the second row start a small bidding war over him, and the numbers fly until the gavel falls at a figure that wipes the smug look off Zane’s face. I give Laiken a discreet thumbs-up as he stalks off, muttering something too low to catch.
And then it’s Oliver’s turn.
Even though I was trapped in a car with him earlier and checked on him backstage, watching him step into the spotlight feels more like being hit by a truck.
He’s all chiseled lines and dangerous confidence. His hair gleams gold under the stage lights, and his jawline looks like it was carved from granite. When he turns that grin on the audience, the whole room seems to tilt as conversations fade. It’s the kind of hush that only charisma can demand.
“The next bachelor is Oliver ‘Big O’ Van Doren!” the MC booms, and the room erupts. Dozens of paddles immediately lift as energy surges, turning electric. Behind me, a few women sigh. Miranda lets out a throaty “oh my” that makes me nearly choke on my water.
The MC leans into the reaction. “Don’t be shy! This is your chance at one unforgettable night with Chicago’s very own Big O!”
“It’ll be worth every penny if he lives up to the nickname,” a woman behind us quips, and the table ripples with laughter.
Oliver stands in front of the crowd as if he was born for the spotlight, every gesture practiced and exaggerated for maximum effect. When his gaze locks on mine, the room blurs at the edges. His warning look burns into me, and heat crawls under my skin until I find myself shifting.
The bids start rolling in. Each one lands like a shot, booming through the mic and vibrating in my chest. I tell myself it’s just about control and helping out a friend.
But the truth is far messier.
The idea of another woman laughing at his jokes, leaning close enough to touch him, makes something cold twist inside me.
Before I can second-guess myself, I lift my paddle.
Across the stage, his shoulders ease just a bit as a ghost of a smile flits at the corner of his mouth. The auctioneer’s cadence quickens, and tension crackles as the bids climb higher. I match it beat for beat, paddle steady, even as heat builds in my chest.
Evelyn watches me over the rim of her glass, amusement shining in her eyes. Even though she remains quiet, I get the feeling she understands more than she’s letting on. I keep my gaze fixed forward and pretend not to notice.
“Going once, going twice?—”
A female voice cuts through the noise. “Thirty thousand!”
My stomach drops as the entire ballroom gasps and heads swivel in the direction of the new voice.
At the far end of the room stands a woman who looks like she stepped straight off a runway in Milan. She’s tall and blonde, her slender body wrapped in a black gown that glitters beneath the lights. Her red lips curve in satisfaction as she holds her paddle high, already claiming victory.
The MC practically quivers. “That’s an incredibly generous bid!” Applause swells around us as my fingers fumble with the paddle.
“Sold to the lady in black!” The gavel slams down in a final stroke. “Oliver Van Doren, you’ve just been won for thirty thousand dollars!”
Heat crawls up my neck as the blonde beams at him with open hunger. Oliver’s jaw tightens and his eyes snap to mine across the throng. Frustration and disbelief darken his expression. It punches straight through me, nearly stealing the oxygen from my lungs.
I force a polite smile, the kind meant for cameras and colleagues, even though it feels like I’m seconds away from collapsing. The applause continues to grow until it’s deafening.
For the first time in more than two months, Oliver Van Doren is going home with another woman. I might have told myself this was the outcome I wanted, but it still hits like a gut punch I never saw coming. I do the only thing I can, and applaud along with everyone else, pretending the entire time it doesn’t hurt.
12
