Anger buzzes against my skin like a hive of wasps. What is she plotting?
“Before we begin tonight’s silent auction,” the MC says. “I’d like to kick off the evening with our dance auction.”
Dance auction?That’s never part of these events.
“Gentleman, please pull out your wallets. The ladies who have volunteered tonight will be auctioning their first dance of theevening.”
Wait… shut the fuck up.
My stomach lurches. Mom’s shit-eating grin is so wide she looks like a great white shark ready to chomp a bite out of me.
“You didn’t.” I can’t keep the dread and accusation out of my voice.
“It’s for a good cause, Daphne.”
“You call Dad’s campaign a good cause?” I snap in a whisper so no one can overhear our disagreement.
Mom smirks as she directs her attention to the stage. “There could be people watching, young lady. Watch your face.”
Watch your face.Mom’s way of saying to keep a neutral expression. Never show your cards. Don’t let the world see your resting bitch face.
“We’ll start tonight’s auction with the lovely Miss Blaire Weaver.”
A woman about my age walks onto the stage, waving her hand like she’s Miss America, and comes to a halt beside the MC. Her strawberry blond hair is curled like a crown on top of her head, and her smile is so white, she could blind someone if they pointed a laser at her teeth.
And she’s smiling like this is fun.
“Let’s start the bidding at one thousand dollars.” Dozens of hands shoot up in the air. Many of them wrinkled and covered in brown spots with gnarled knuckles and paper-thin skin.
I’m not ageist, but I don’t want some seventy-year-old man buying me tonight. Not even for one dance. The thought has my stomach rolling.
A few minutes later, Blaire is sold off for twenty-three thousand dollars like a prized pig. She trots her hooves off the stage, only to be replaced by Mrs. Ainsley Slocum, whogets bought by her husband for a mere eight thousand dollars.
Why are they subjecting us to this ridiculous level of embarrassment?
“Next, we have Miss Daphne Fox, America’s First Daughter.”
“If you don’t go up there, we’re cutting you off, even if you talk to Brent.” Mom hisses as she pushes me closer to the stage.
My feet move of their own accord because the rest of me is too numb and terrified to flee. Soon, spotlights hit me, heating the air as hands fly up and numbers are called out.
“That’s twenty thousand, do I hear twenty-one?”
“Twenty-five,” someone shouts toward the front of the stage. A voice that sends icy chills straight through my bones.
Even from the blinding stage light, I make out Brent smiling up at me—a smile that I once thought was so damn charming. But I know what kind of person is hiding behind that smile, and it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to dart off stage. Brent’s not the type of person to publicly support my dad, but he’d happily make a spectacle out of buying back his ex-girlfriend for the evening.
And I have a feeling he wouldn’t let me get away with only dancing.
God, I’m going to be sick on stage.
“That’s twenty-five, do I hear thirty?”
“Thirty thousand.” An older gentleman on the other side of the crowd raises his hand. I’ll take liver spots over the alternative.
“Thirty-five,” Brent calls out.
Jesus H. Christ, this isn’t happening.
