"The women who attend these dinners are vetted extensively. Family backgrounds, medical histories, financial situations. The men who attend are paying for access. Some of them are paying for a wife and everything that entails. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
I nod once, slowly. "I understand that it's transactional."
"Everything is transactional, Claudia. I'm asking whether you understand the permanence of what you're proposing. These are not men you divorce. They are not men you negotiate with after the fact. You marry one of these men, you belong to that family. Your body, your name, your future children. All of it becomes theirs."
The wordchildrenmoves through me like something warm. I don't look away from Grace's face.
"I understand."
Her eyes narrow. "Who are you targeting?"
I could say I'm open to anyone, that I want to browse, that I'm simply exploring my options. But Grace has been kind enough to help me in my time of need when she really didn’t need to, the least I can do in return is be honest.
"Rovin Mostovoi."
She goes very still.
The pause lasts three full seconds, and I feel every one of them. I could fill it with an explanation of how this man has been central to my thoughts since I first laid eyes on him. How no other potential date has measured up. How I want permanence before intimacy, and I only want permanence with him.
"You know who he is," she says.
"I know exactly who he is."
"He has attended two of these auction dinners and chosen no one. He is considered the most selectivebuyerin the current market. Half the women who've been presented to him have left the room in tears, not because he was cruel, but because being dismissed by a man like that is its own kind of devastation."
"I'm not interested in being presented to him."
Grace frowns. "Then what?"
"I'm interested in presenting myself."
Another silence. Grace lifts her wine glass, takes a slow sip, sets it down precisely in the ring it left on the table.
"The dinner is in six days. The fee for a woman's entry is ten thousand dollars. This covers vetting, styling, preparation, and access. It doesn’t guarantee a match. It doesn’t even guarantee a conversation. It guarantees a seat."
"I have seven thousand,” I say, mentally doing the math to see what I have left to sell. I’ve already sold all my jewelry, my designer handbags and shoes…short of selling an organ on the black market, I’ve got nothing left.
"Then you don't have enough."
"I have seven thousand dollars and a name that, despite everything, still opens doors in this city. My fatherknowsthese men, Grace. ‘M well educated. I speak three languages. I know how political economies work, how alliances are built, how to sit at a table with powerful men and make them believe I belong there, because I do."
Grace watches me. I hold her gaze and let her see whatever she needs to see.
"Claudia," she says, and her voice is different now. Almost gentle. "Rovin Mostovoi is not one of your father's colleagues. He isn’t a man you manage. If he wants you, he will take you. If he doesn't, nothing you say or do will change his mind. Are you prepared for that?"
"I'm counting on it."
Grace sets down her glass and folds her hands. "Fine. Seven thousand. And you'll need a dress."
Claudia
The auction dinner is held in a private house just outside the city. A car collects me at seven. The driver doesn't speak.
My dress is black. Floor-length, high-necked, long-sleeved, and backless. Grace chose it. She said the arrangement dinner aesthetic is deliberate modesty with one calculated reveal. The back of the dress opens to just below my waist, a clean line of bare skin that says:I know what I'm offering, and I'm choosing to show you just enough.
My hair is down. Rovin's preference, according to the women who have observed him, is minimal artifice. He wants to see the woman, not the construction.
Inside, the house is exquisite. Low lighting, heavy drapes, furniture that looks older than my father’s father. The air smells like beeswax candles and freesias, with a sharper scent underneath. Cigar smoke, I realize. There are fewer people than I expected. The entrance hall is staffed by two men in dark suits who check my name against a list on a tablet, then escort me through double doors into a long reception room. Crystal glasses on a sideboard. White orchids in low vases. A fire burning in a marble fireplace despite the mild weather outside.
