I haven’t.
She knows that and so do they.
No one corrects her, though. We just exchange quick pleasantries before we watch her slip inside the backseat of the sleek SUV. The door shuts with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. Something’s wrong… She wasn't here for my father or me. She was here for something else, and I’m willing to bet money that it’s something my father doesn’t give her. My eyes move to the building she exited, and I smile, knowing it’s the tech building. Whatever she’s hiding, it starts there.
Zayden
It’s auction time….
And no amount of weed or nicotine can ease the nerves within me. I nibble on the inside of my cheek, feeling my heart pound inside my chest. My tongue moves around the hoop in my bottom lip. The gym looks nothing like a place of exercise. Gotta admit, the volunteers really did their thing with the decor. It looks like Mount Olympus dropped into Villalargos. Marble white pillars adorned with gold vines, gold and dark red drapery decorate the ceilings, fog machines surround the stage, spilling clouds across the floor.
Students wearing togas and laurel crowns drift around like they’re auditioning for a Hercules movie. The air smells like perfume, sweat, and vanilla. My extremities tingle. I plaster on a fake smile as I weave through the crowd, making my way outside to find Nico. From the corner of my eye, I catch the auction line. The offerings to the Gods. Half the soccer team, scholarship recipients, and, of course, the petals—who all look happy as fuck to be here. I ignore the pressure that settles within my chest, continuing my path towards the door—needing something to take the edge off.
The cold air bites at my skin. Shoving my hand into my shorts pocket, I pull out a small tube that has my rolled joint. I hate that I don’t have cigarettes to smoke, so this will have to do. Placing the joint between my lips, I spot Nico walking around the fountain, phone against his ear. He looks stressed and rightfully so.
“Trouble in paradise?” I ask, knowing damn well there is.
He glares at me before ending the call and shoving the phone somewhere inside his toga. I look down at mine and smile, that asshole thought of everything, even added built-in shorts with pockets. Fucking Safra makes it impossible to hate him sometimes. I light the joint, waiting for Nico to answer. He broods for a moment, eyes looking at the moon before exhaling.
“I’m trying to convince Shiloh not to bid on me,” he replies softly, and all I can hear is heartbreak in his tone. “I can’t keep risking it.”
I nod, passing the joint to him. Clearly, he needs the distraction more than I do. “It’s the right thing, man.”
“Is it?” he asks as he takes a drag from the marijuana smoke. I shrug, unsure of what to say to him. This is a fucked situation. You’re damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. Not the kind of situation anyone would like to find themselves in, but here heis… in it. Front and center, and all I can do is be here for my dear friend.
Nico takes another long drag, exhaling towards the cliffs. “I swear if she bids on me, I’m throwing myself into the ocean,” he teases.
I snort, not finding that funny at all. There’s a seriousness in his tone that unsettles me. “You know she will. Stop being so dramatic.” He chuckles, but it’s hollow; the only purpose it serves is hiding the panic that's drowning him.
“You don’t get it,” he mutters, passing the joint back to me. “She’ll do it,” he adds quietly. “She’ll bid. And Peter will see it. And then—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence; he doesn’t have to. We both understand the danger this entails. I swallow hard, smoke burning its way down my throat.
For a moment, we just stand there, staring out at the cliffs as if the ocean might have answers we don’t. We finish the rotation in silence, watching as the waves crash into the rocky edge. The sound is relentless. The wind cuts through my toga, cold enough to sting, but it's nothing compared to the dread crawling up my spine. My mouth goes dry. From outside, we hear the announcement, signaling it’s time to head back in.
I push through the gym door, holding it open until Nico steps inside. Heat and perfume spill from inside, Ms. Torres' voice calls out the first name for the auction, and the crowd cheers. The bidding war has officially begun.
Nico flinches, halting in his step. “I need a minute,” he mutters, rubbing his face. “Just… a minute.”
With that, he disappears within the crowd, leaving me alone like cattle waiting for slaughter. The tips of my fingers tingle with anticipation, my pulse thundering, and my throat feels even drier no matter how many times I swallow. I exhale, watching the smoke twist around the dance floor, around the Gods, whohold up numbers, placing their bids on the offerings. They’re laughing, entertained by the humiliation before them.
The music shifts—The Cure’s “Disintegration,” melody crawls through the speaker. I find myself glancing at the stage. Shiloh stands near the front, her white toga draped to the side of her arm, gold bands clasping the folds against the arms and sides. Her hair is braided into a crown that glows under the warm purple and blue strobe lights. She looks like she belongs here, carved by Aphrodite herself. Shiloh's eyes remain on the dance floor, searching desperately for Nico, I assume.
The crowd laughs, the bids growing higher until Ms. Torres announces the word. “SOLD !”
My fingers twitch, and just as I go back out for air, a woman appears before me, a gold mask covering her face entirely, her hair hidden beneath a purplepallathat drapes over her shoulders and pools at her feet. She doesn’t speak—only holds out a small yellow envelope.
With a shaky hand, I take it, feeling the weight of a small drive pressing against it. “Who are you?”
She tilts her head, studying me through the mask. There’s only one person I can think bold enough to do this, and nothing good comes from a woman like Fernanda. Could it be? No… She’s a tad bit shorter, but before I can press her forward. The woman turns and disappears into the crowd, just as my name is called to the stage.
“Number 22, Siren’s Left Wing. Zayden Orozco.”
My throat nearly closes, making me cough as my lungs fill with vanilla-scented smoke. The spotlight hits, the crowd cheers, and my stomach drops further into me with each small step I take. Once on the stage, the bright light makes it impossible to make out any faces.
The bid starts high, Ms. Torre’s voice rings out. “Ten thousand!”
Red cards rise to the air, voices overlapping. “Fifteen!” The numbers continue to climb even higher than the girl who was auctioned off before me. “Twenty!”
