But Becker won’t shake with me. “I don’t accept your resignation. If this woman is what it takes to bring you back from the dead, then I’ll handle any fallout. Congratulations.”
32
BLAIR
On Brooke’s advice,I’ve been binging the latest hit reality show about trophy wives married to big money husbands and the daily struggle of their privileged, glamorous lives.
I’m sure she suggested it to help distract me from my own drama or maybe to cheer me up, but the more I’m sucked into the plights of these women with their cheating husbands, cosmetic surgeries, backstabbing besties, and public meltdowns, the more I feel like I’m getting a glimpse into my own future. The auction should have ended hours ago, but I have yet to hear from my parents regarding who I’ve been sold to. Not that I give a damn.
I’ve been packing up my apartment in fits and starts since yesterday, getting stacks of boxes staged for the moving crew who will deliver them to the storage unit I’ve rented. I’m not sure how soon I’ll be expected to move in with my new fiancé, but I don’t want any of my things left behind at the place my parents own. I don’t want to have any reason to ever come back here. The big furniture is all theirs, so it’s staying where it is. At least that’s one less thing to stress about.
I’m sweaty and irritable as I flop onto the couch to take a break and resume the episode I paused an hour ago, a bowl ofcereal in front of me. There’s not much else to eat since I’ve already cleaned out the kitchen as best I can. I donated all the boxed and canned goods that were unopened, and the dishes have been donated. I’ll probably donate half of what’s in my closet, too. Why worry about clothes when my new husband can just buy me a brand-new wardrobe?
The thought only darkens my bleak mood. All of this feels so surreal. I still can’t believe I actually agreed to be auctioned off. I’ve probably made the biggest mistake of my life.
Then again, I can still back out. Refuse to go through with the marriage. It’ll mean giving up the Rockets, but at least I have the choice. I just…don’t know what the right decision is. Maybe I’m still waiting for my heart to decide.
My plan to seduce my future husband into letting me help run the team felt so righteous in the moment, but now it just feels wrong and seedy. I was just so desperate to make sure I could still have the life that I always dreamed of. Once I left Brooke’s and came back to my apartment, the confidence that I was doing the right thing quickly dissipated.
Glancing at my old phone, I see that I still don’t have a call or text from my parents to tell me who the lucky groom is. I guess they’re in no hurry to let me know the high bidder’s identity, since all they cared about was washing their hands of me and dumping me off on some rich guy. It hurts that they can’t even grant me the courtesy of a text, though. This isthe rest of my lifewe’re talking about.
I shovel cereal into my mouth and then turn up the volume onTrophy Wives. I can barely focus on the show, though. My mind keeps straying to Sebastian. I imagine him watching the bids come in, his pulse racing as the dollars flow. Was he relieved to know I’d be married off to some stranger while he took his cut of the profits and got on with his life? Fuck him.
The callbox by the front door chimes, and I heave a sigh. The wait is over, apparently. My parents have finally arrived to inform me of my fate. I’m about to find out who is going to be taking over my spot as team owner, who I’m expected to legally bind myself to in holy freaking matrimony.
I reluctantly get up and go over to swipe at the touchscreen in the entryway, granting them access into the building. I don’t even bother to look at the camera feed, I just flip my middle finger at the screen and then unlock the door, leaving it cracked open so they can waltz right in when they get here.
Back on the couch, I top off my wine glass—because nothing goes better with cereal than red wine…but really. I’m going to need it to get through this conversation—and then take a big gulp, tucking the glass protectively against my body. Mentally, I brace myself for the impact of seeing my parents after they’ve betrayed me so unforgivably.
I don’t intend to speak to them again, at least not outside times of obligation like the holidays, when I’m sure my new husband will want to see them and make nice. Neither Mom nor Dad has tried to explain why they decided to put me into a marriage auction behind my back or why my father would choose to hand over the team to some random millionaire.
And yes, I understand that Sophie’s death has left both of them broken and traumatized, but they could have done literally anything else to cope rather than get rid of me like this. They lost one daughter and then turned around and tossed the other one away. It makes no sense.
I hear a slight rap on my doorframe that I don’t respond to, then the sound of footsteps, and the door closing. There is only one set of footsteps—heavier—which must be my father’s. Wow. My mom didn’t even bother to come see me. Maybe she actually feels guilty. It would serve her right.
Popping up on the couch, I pause the show, look over toward the door, and do a double take when I realize it’s not my dad standing there.
It’s fucking Sebastian.
Why is he here? How did he even get this address? Unless…oh. I get it. He’s here to deliver the news about who won. My parents were both too cowardly to do it, so they sent the guy who arranged the auction in the first place. I should have checked the damn camera before buzzing him in.
Turning back around to face the TV, I stare at the frame frozen in place where I paused the television. Sinley has her bright red lips wide open as she yells, pointing at the suspected baby mama who works at the country club where Sinley’s husband has been spending far too much of his free time.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is cold and hard.
Sebastian comes around the couch to stand in front of me. “I won.”
For a moment, I’m rendered speechless. He seriously came to gloat about how much money my auction made for him? How dare he.
“Really? The offer you accepted was that great? Was it—never mind. I don’t even want to know. You can go.”
“Blair—”
I hold up a hand to silence him. “Actually, you know what? Go ahead and tell me. What’s the price for getting the teamandthe daughter?”
“Just over ten million,” he says softly.
I scoff. That’s a joke. The team alone would have sold for at least a hundred times that amount.
