Page 6 of Branded

She served me coffee once. I’d been in the lobby going over quarterly reports with my operations manager, and she brought over a fresh pot without being asked. Anticipated the need. Smiled politely when I thanked her. Moved on without lingering, flirting, trying to get my attention by talking my ear off, or doing any of the things women usually do when they recognize me.

Professional. Competent. Unmemorable in the best possible way.

Except I remembered her anyway.

Because there is something underneath that polished exterior. Something sharp and unbreakable that reminds me of the ranch girls I grew up around. The ones who could pull a calf and shoot a rattlesnake before breakfast. The ones who don’t cry if a horse throws them or when their hands bleed from barbed wire.

A real woman. Not the soft, influencer wannabes who clutter up my resort pools, taking selfies.

What the hell is she doing here?

“As you can see, gentlemen, Kathryn has excellent posture and presentation.” The auctioneer gestures at her with his gavel like she’s livestock. The men are murmuring now, interested. I can practically hear them calculating, weighing her against their expectations.

“Now let’s see what we’re working with.” The auctioneer nods at her. “Darling, go ahead and transition to swimwear for us.”

Lennox’s jaw tightens, just for a second; it’s barely noticeable. Then her hands move to the buttons of her blouse.

She undresses without theatrics. No seductive movement or coy glances. She unbuttons the silk blouse, shrugs it off, unbuckles her belt, and steps out of the jeans like she’s alone in her bedroom. Clinical. Efficient. Refusing to give these men the performance they want.

Underneath, she wears a black bikini that shows exactly what they bought into. Long legs, a toned stomach and curves that aren’t exaggerated but are undeniably there. She’s standing there in the bikini and staring at the back wall like the forty men eye-fucking her don’t exist.

And I’m hard.

Not from the bikini or the body; I’ve seen countless women in less. But from the way she’s refusing to give them anything. The way she holds herself separate, untouchable, even while standing nearly naked under blinding lights.

She’s a challenge. A puzzle. A woman who could hold her own in any situation.

Everything I’ve never wanted suddenly feels like the only thing I need.

“Excellent presentation,” the auctioneer says. “Now for the evening wear.”

One of the handlers brings out the emerald gown. Lennox steps into it without assistance, zipping it herself, adjusting the slit with steady hands. When she turns back to face the audience, she’s elegant. Sophisticated. The kind of woman you could take to a business dinner or a charity gala without worrying she’d embarrass you.

Mom would approve. The thought comes unbidden and unwelcome.

Eleanor Drake has pushed me toward “appropriate” women for years. Society daughters, ranching heiresses, women who understand legacy and duty. Women who bore me to tears within five minutes of conversation. Their lives are wrapped up in gossip and luncheons at the most expensive restaurants in Dallas. I want someone who is going to challenge me. Call me out on my bullshit.

Lennox Briggs isn’t society. She’s something raw, something real. And I watch her stand on that stage, refusing to give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing her fear. I have no doubt she’d call me on the bullshit.

I want her.

Not for a night, a week, or however long it takes to get bored. I want to own her. To take her home and strip away every defense until I find out what it would take to make her mine. To see if she’s as strong as she looks or if it’s all performance.

I want to marry her.

The thought should send me running. Marriage is a cage. Marriage is the end of freedom. Marriage is my mother’s fondest wish and my worst nightmare.

Because these auctions aren’t some twisted affair. The contract these women are agreeing to is a legal marriage. Binding for a minimum two-year term. It’s the only way to make the whole enterprise somewhat legitimate. Consenting adults entering into marriage. The men who buy these women become their husbands, with all the legal protections that afford both parties.

Twisted, but effective.

If I buy Lennox Briggs tonight, she’ll be my wife before we leave this building.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels like destiny, like she’s been delivered to me on a silver platter by the gods.

“And now, gentlemen, the final presentation.” The auctioneer’s voice drops lower, more intimate. “Lot seven will model the lingerie, and then we’ll open bidding.”

Lennox struts off stage. This is the plan, the point where the men start to figure out what they want to bid, without the haze of the woman standing before them.