Chapter One
“Are you ready?” Madame Alexa asked.
Amaya Lopez tilted her head in a nod, even though every part of her warned her against that decision. Was she ready to put a price tag on her body and soul?
“Yes,” she lied. Her stomach sank to the floor, the black-and-white checkered hardwood from the controversial House of Alexa, the most coveted mansion in Nevada if a woman wanted to sell her virginity.
Amaya smoothed the snug V-neck white dress they’d handed her two hours prior to the event. Once a week, Madame Alexa held a posh auction where the world’s wealthiest men attended—by invitation or recommendation only—to bid on a virgin woman to have as he pleased for a maximum of thirty days.
Turned out, men wanted to break in inexperienced women, and the month clause added value to the hefty price tag. To keep her girls safe, Madame Alexa had strict rules. All sex had to be consensual. No violence. No hassling of any kind after the month ended.
“You’ll do great,” Jackie, Madame Alexa’s assistant, said behind her, flashing her a smile, which reflected in the mirror. With a pixie blonde haircut and huge green eyes, Jackie could have had any man at her feet—perhaps she did. During the lengthy month-long selection process, Amaya hadn’t exchanged much personal information. She’d done drug tests, medical exams, and an intimidating interview with Madame to make sure she was legit.
Within a few moments, she’d be called to walk up to the stage they’d customized for her in the ballroom. Madame had explained they decorated the stage to suit the girl’s personality. The week before, the auctioned virgin had been an honor student. So her setting was a classroom, and she’d worn a private schoolgirl outfit to the auction.
What if no one bids on me? Fear punched her stomach, contracting it for a moment. She needed the money to pay for her older brother, Diego’s, care. She’d promised her parents on their grave she’d take care of him when they had died a year ago. With severe autistic needs, Diego had in her his only ally. What kind of care could she provide with a waitress’s salary?
“Amaya,” Madame Alexa called her, with her raspy, sultry trademark voice that would give Scarlett Johansson a run for her Hollywood money. Her rich, deep blue eyes darkened, and she angled her head. “Are you sure about this?”
Amaya swallowed. Crap. Could she read minds, too?
“Y-yes, of course,” she rushed to say, squaring her shoulders to at least feign confidence.
“I started this business to give women a choice over how they lose their virginity.” Madame Alexa ran her finger down her graceful neck, and Amaya slid her gaze down her skin. A small, almost unnoticeable scar marred her collarbone. “Many don’t have that luxury.” A distant look entered Madame’s eyes, and an emotion Amaya couldn’t pinpoint flickered in her azure gaze. Then, she blinked, shook her head, and stretched to her full height. “If you have any doubts, the time to let me know is now. Once you go on stage, it’ll be harder.”
“I want to do this. Sorry, I’m just nervous.”
The ghost of a smile formed on Madame’s red lips. “Don’t be. You’ll do fine.”
“What if no one wants me?” she blurted out. Or what if she didn’t make enough money to pay for her brother’s care, for well, the rest of his life? Just because former virgins had become millionaires didn’t mean she’d have the same fate. Maybe the bidders wouldn’t appreciate her light-brown skin, her average height or curvier hips. God, that’d be so embarrassing. Almost worse than wearing the same ratty, tattered T-shirts and old shoes for work at Joe’s Cafe. Almost worse than eating ramen noodles for a month to pay for the minimum amount of her brother’s therapies.
Madame tossed her lustrous black hair to the side. “Nonsense. You’re about to change your life, Amaya. You deserve this.”
Amaya chewed on her bottom lip, then stopped immediately. They’d applied some gloss to her mouth, and she had to make the most of her makeup. It’s not like she could go home and try this again. No one ever tried again. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call your name as planned. Good luck.”
Amaya rubbed her palms together. Apprehension clogged her throat. Please, God, don’t let him be gross. Yeah, like God had time to worry about the sleazeball who bought her most precious gift with all the bad stuff happening in the world. Nice try.
I’m all alone. Even more alone than those times after school, when her parents had apologetically asked her to fend for herself because they had their hands full with Diego. Even more alone than she’d felt after her high school prom date stood her up.
Jackie nudged her elbow. “You’re up,” she whispered, clenching her clipboard.
Amaya walked between the heavy velvet curtains and sucked in a breath. Her heart hammered in her ears, surpassing the cheesy Katy Perry song currently playing. Maybe she should’ve picked opera or something more dignifying to a situation like this, to balance things out.
A light shone over her, just like they’d rehearsed earlier, following her footsteps. Madame stood on the side, under her own spotlight, wearing a black designer gown and holding a sleek microphone.
Unicorns had taken over the stage, both stuffed and plastic, colorful ones that people floated on at the pool. A huge oval bed had been brought to the center. Why, Amaya had no clue. No one would have sex in it, or even sit. Maybe Madame wanted to lure potential buyers to the promise of sex. Before the auction, they always enjoyed drinks and fancy appetizers in a different room.
Gathering courage, Amaya looked at the hundred men sitting on the chairs, all wearing gray masks that hid the upper portion of their faces. The lighting was also dimmed down, to create intimacy and to protect their identities. A blend of tall and short men, old and younger from what she gathered, filled the room.
Staring at them was as dangerous as staring directly into the sun. She quickly averted her gaze to the stage and regretted telling Madame she enjoyed reading. The poster of Nabokov’s Lolita hung over the bed, and everything clicked. They’d pulled together a luxury version of a teenager’s room, even though she was twenty-three years old. She’d seen glimpses of the stage earlier, but had been too overwhelmed to notice small details. Well, it was too late for moral high ground now.
Maybe it’d be easier if her buyer believed she was some brainless sex toy. This would make the deal smoother without any attachment from either side.
“Lolita is this week’s featured virgin. She is twenty-three, loves reading, working out, and going to the mall.”
When Amaya had filled out the paperwork, she mentioned going to the mall as a hobby because, well, she didn’t have money or time for much else, and the cafe where she worked was located at a mall.
