Rotors spinning. That low, thudding sound that vibrates through your chest. Red and white lights blinking against the night sky.
The driver opens my door.
Cold air rushes in. Snow. Wind. The deafening roar of instant karma.
I don't move.
Get out of the car, Scarletta.
I can't.
You've come this far. Get. Out.
My legs work without permission. I climb out. Stand on the tarmac. The wind tears at my clothes, whipping hair across my face.
A man appears beside me. Dark coat. Headset. He's yelling something but I can't hear him over the rotors. His mouth moves. Words I can't process.
He gestures toward the helicopter.
I shake my head.
He grabs my elbow—not rough, just firm—and tugs me forward.
My feet move. One step. Two. The noise gets louder. The wind stronger. I'm walking toward a helicopter. I'm getting on a helicopter.
You're going to die. This is it. They're going to throw you out over the mountains and no one will ever find your body.
The rational part of my brain is screaming that this is insane. That normal sex auctions don't involve helicopters. That I should run. That I should?—
The man opens the door and practically lifts me inside.
The interior is?—
I don't know what I expected. Cramped seats and exposed machinery, maybe. Military transport. Utilitarian.
This is not that.
The space is tall enough to stand in. Cream leather seats arranged in pairs facing each other. A single chair positioned near the front. Large rectangular windows lining both sides. A closed door at the back that has to be a bathroom.
Everything is cream, and tan, and polished wood. Clean lines. Expensive materials. More space than seems necessary for one person.
Of course it is. Because billionaires don't fly coach.
The pilot turns in his seat. Looks at me. Points at one of the cream leather seats and then at the seatbelt.
"Buckle in," he yells over the noise.
I nod. Autopilot. I walk to the nearest seat—my legs shaking, my hands numb—and collapse into leather so soft it feels obscene.
The door closes.
The noise drops to a manageable roar.
I fumble with the seatbelt. Four-point harness. My fingers are clumsy. Frozen. Useless.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
The lights dim, the roar deepens, then a piercing whine as the helicopter lifts.
