A number cuts through the air.
Another.
Higher. Faster.
My name becomes a prize.
My virginity becomes currency.
The fragile hope inside me twists sharp, because he’s here too. In this room. In this place. One more man with enough money and power to sit in shadow and watch.
Then, when the presenter calls for the next bid, the man in the booth lifts his hand.
My breath catches.
Of course he does.
Of course the man who looks like a fantasy is still a man in a room like this.
The presenter’s smile widens. “Yes,” he says, pleased. “Sir?”
The man says one number.
Quietly.
No show. No effort.
The words drop cold and certain, slicing clean through the room.
Silence crashes down.
For a second, nobody moves.
Nobody laughs.
Nobody breathes.
My skin tightens, my vision tunneling, because the number he just named changes everything. It kills the other bids where they stand.
And I’m left staring at him, heart hammering, caught between terror and that impossible pull.
Because he isn’t looking at me like something he just bought.
He’s looking at me like something he came for.
The presenter blinks, then grins. “Well,” he says, delighted. “We have a winner.”
A few men curse under their breath.
Beside me, Luke goes rigid. His grip loosens for half a second, shock flashing across his face.
“What the hell? Why would anyone pay that much?” he mutters.
The man stands.
He’s even bigger on his feet. Built like someone who doesn’t just know violence, but trusts it.
He walks toward the stage without hurry.
