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“Three hundred. Three-fifty. Do I have four?” Another beat, a scan of the room. “Four hundred and twenty-five, to Mr. and Mrs. Carraway. Lovely choice.”
The woman in white gloves glides offstage to present the winning couple with their sapphire, and another assistant takes her place, holding a sleek black case open on a velvet tray. The auctioneer’s voice swells with theatrical admiration.
“And now, a truly singular offering, donated by our friends at SOLAÉ.”
My stomach flips as he describes it: a bespoke collection of pleasure products, each piece engineered for exclusivity, paired with a private consultation with the men behind the empire.
Jace soaks it up, a faint smirk playing on his lips as the first bid rings out.
“Fifty thousand.”
“One hundred!”
The numbers climb in crisp increments, the auctioneer’s cadence measured, almost seductive.
“I have two hundred... two-fifty... three hundred.” A hush falls as he scans the room. Another paddle rises. “Three hundred and eighty-five thousand. Going once... going twice... Sold to the gentleman in the navy tuxedo.”
Jace just winks at me. “Told you, Sugar. They eat out of our hands.”
Before I can roll my eyes, the spotlight sweeps across the room, catching dust motes and the glitter on half-empty champagne flutes. The auctioneer adjusts his bowtie, taps the mic with a practiced finger.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen. The moment many of you have been waiting for: a chance to share an evening with some of San Francisco’s most sought-after bachelorettes.”
The first three move with brisk, rehearsed efficiency.
Charlotte Whitmore glides on in white satin; sold for four hundred thousand.
Isabelle Hawthorne follows in severe black, her lips a slash of crimson; one seventy-five.
Genevieve Clark floats through in blush-colored lace; two twenty-five. A polite, rhythmic applause follows each.
A fresh wave of murmured anticipation rolls through the crowd as the auctioneer grins, spreading his hands wide. “Our next offering: Miss Vivienne Devereaux.”
Vivienne ascends the stage as if born to it, scarlet silk whispering against her skin, the slit in her gown offering a glimpse of toned thigh. Her auburn hair catches the light like polished copper; her mouth is a slick red challenge. She puts on a show, I’ll give her that.
Then the red-lipped heifer has the audacity to lift her hand and blow a kiss directly toward Elias.
I suck my teeth and place my glass down, ready to drag little Miss America off the stage and show her exactly what she’s messing with, but an arm wraps around my waist before I can even make it a full step.
“Easy, Sugar.” Jace whispers. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
“She’s blowing kisses at my man.”
“I know.” His fingers curl just tight enough to hold me in place. “But if you walk on that stage and punch her in front of everyone, you’ll be the one they talk about tomorrow for all the wrong reasons. Let her have her moment. She doesn’t have him.”
I force my shoulders to drop, but my jaw stays locked tight. Across the room, Vivienne’s smile widens as the bidding begins, her eyes never leaving Elias.
“Two hundred,” an assistant calls from the left.
“Three,” another answers from near the stage.
“Three-fifty.”
“Four hundred.”
When the auctioneer’s gavel hovers at four twenty-five, she steps smoothly to the microphone. Her voice is low, intimate, amplified through the speakers.
“Gentlemen.” Her eyes remain fixed on our side of the room. “I do hope at least one man in this room knows when something worth having is standing in front of him.”
