I blink hard and stare at the stage. The Sugar Baby contract is only for a year. I can survive for one year. Even if it ends up with Victor, or someone equally creepy.
The money will save Ben. That's what matters. Nothing else. It’s my turn to sacrifice for our family of two. And I’ll do anything for my brother. Even become the mistress of Victor Lang or a man like him. I look out across the stage, searching for Max, but the lights are so bright I only see shapes of people in the audience, no details.
Applause erupts, startling me out of my thoughts. I’ve missed the beginning of the auction.
One by one, women are asked to walk to the front of the stage and stand there as their bios are read. They’re Ivy-League college students, aspiring artists, ballet dancers, nail technicians. I can’t remember what personal details I put down on my form. Hopefully, it wasn’t receptionist and custodial.
The bids climb to extraordinary numbers: ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand. These are the monthly “allowances,” not including rent and bills, which will also be covered by the “mentors.” My pulse pounds harder with every number. The amounts feel unreal, life-changing, and terrifying. Wealthy men raise discreet paddles as though purchasing complete access to a person's life is perfectly normal. Maybe in their world it is.
My heart beats harder for every woman’s number that’s called. And then it’s my turn.
"Number twenty-three." The hostess beams at me.
My entire body locks, and I don’t know how to stand.
"Miss Sydney." There’s an undertone of sharpness in her voice and a frown on her face.
I force myself to stand, and my legs somehow carry me to the front of the stage. The lights seem brighter up here, and the room larger. I feel exposed. Like every person in the ballroom can somehow see through my skin.
The hostess reads from my profile. It’s a carefully edited version of what I must have put down on the form. No mention of cleaning offices, or hospital bills, or desperation. The receptionist job is in there, though.
I try to scan the crowd through the bright lights. A tall shape of a man stands in the back. Maybe it’s Max. My mind decides to make the shape be him and for the first time since climbing up on this stage, I feel like I can take a complete breath. Which is ridiculous. I don’t know him, yet somehow his presence steadies me.
The opening bid is announced at ten thousand dollars. A paddle rises immediately.
I quickly calculate that in a year I could pay the current medical debt. But Ben will need more care, which will cost more money.
Another paddle rises, and another, and another. The numbers climb faster than I can run the calculations for current and future debt payments in my head. Shock washes through me. I hadn't expected this much interest.
My basic internet search about sugar relationships gave me some numbers, but those were not for sugar daddies in this tax bracket.
The bids continue increasing and my pulse races faster.
Someone laughs. Someone raises another paddle. Another number. A higher number. And then higher again.
Then I see Victor Lang on the front row and my stomach drops. He's bidding, of course, he is.
Despite the pep talk to myself about how I can stand anything for a year, panic claw its way into my chest. I can still feel his hand on my back. Still remember the look in his eyes.
Then a deep voice from the back cuts through the room. It’s calm and certain. I can’t see the bidder, but recognize the speaker. It’s Max.
His paddle is raised, and he repeats his bid. A high number that skips over several steps in the bid sequence.
Victor shifts in his chair as a murmur ripples through the crowd. He raises his paddle.
Max follows immediately. No hesitation.
The auctioneer's smile widens as a hushed silence descends on the audience. Except for Victor and Max, everyone lowers their paddles.
And suddenly I realize something surreal and horrifying. They're competing over me. I grip the edge of the podium.
Victor bids again.
Max answers.
Victor counters.
Max raises.
