The Auction (Silver Fox Daddies #33)

Chapter 1

THEA

“Take off the dress,” the voice orders.

For one stupid second, I forget he isn’t real.

Forget the man whispering filth in my ear belongs to an audiobook, not the shadowed hotel suite where I’m on my knees with a mop, a bucket, and a stain that looks suspiciously like evidence.

He has a private elevator, a filthy mouth, and a woman begging against a penthouse window.

I have two aching feet, a gray maid uniform, and the very strong feeling room 1806 has seen things I’m not paid enough to know about.

In this building, I am Thea Andrin.

I’m twenty-five.

Night-shift maid.

Blonde hair twisted into a bun.

Name tag always crooked. Body that does not know the meaning of “blend in.”

Which would be less of a problem if rich men didn’t look at maids like we were part of the room service menu.

I know that look by now.

The lingering glance when I bend to tuck a sheet.

The slow smile from a man old enough to have a cardiologist on speed dial.

The wedding ring twisted absentmindedly while his eyes drag over my hips like he’s pricing a mistake he can afford.

The “accidental” hand at my lower back when I’m squeezing past a room-service cart.

I know how to spot the bastards from a mile away.

I also know how to angle a housekeeping cart directly over a man’s Italian loafers when his hand wanders too far south.

Oops.

They always think they’re subtle.

They are never subtle.

And they always think women like me are too polite, too broke, or too scared to do anything about it.

They’re usually right about the broke part.

The rest depends on how badly they want to test me.

I scrub harder at the stain.

It continues looking guilty.

My radio crackles at my hip.

“Thea, you still on eighteen?” Marco’s voice, dry and precise.

I tap the button. “Still here. Currently scrubbing a stain that might be a crime scene. If anyone asks, I saw nothing.”

“Please don’t say that on the staff radio.”

“Relax. If this place had a conscience, it would’ve called the cops before I got here.”

“Thea.”

“Fine. Alleged crime scene. Better?”

He sighs, but I hear the smile. “Three rooms left.”

I stop. “Three? I had two rooms left ten minutes ago.”

“Room 1812 requested full turndown. Champagne incident.”

“On the bed?” I ask.

“And the curtains.”

I close my eyes. “How do you get champagne on curtains? Actually, don’t answer that. I want to sleep tonight.”

“I don’t ask questions.”

“Coward.”

“Thea.”

“Finnnnne. I’m going.”

“And be nice to the guests.”

“I’m always nice to the guests.”

“You told Mr. Hargrove his emotional support ferret looked judgmental.”

“It did.”

Marco Vitale runs the Belvedere night staff like a very elegant dictator. He cares about folded corners, polished silver, and whether the lobby flowers look emotionally balanced.

He also sneaks me leftover tiramisu, so I forgive him most things.

There is very little I won’t excuse in the name of free dessert.

By the time I finish eighteen, my back hurts, my bun is listing to the left, and my audiobook billionaire has moved on to things that would make me blush if I weren’t currently elbow-deep in someone’s trash.

He is having a transformative evening. I am holding a used floss pick.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I almost ignore it.

Then I see the name.

SYLVIE.

My chest tightens.

We haven’t really talked in months. We were once “share everything, even fries” close. Before she kept orbiting bars and bright people and I sank into rent–work–sleep–repeat.

Her text glows up at me.

SYLVIE: Hey stranger. You working tonight?

I thumb back.

ME: Unfortunately, capitalism insists.

Her reply is instant.

SYLVIE: Come have a drink with me after. I’m at the Belvedere bar.

I look down at my uniform.

At my cart.

At the streak of detergent on my sleeve.

A drink. With Sylvie.

Like normal women. Women who have group chats and inside jokes, not industrial-strength cleaners and audiobook smut.

Women who own more than one going-out outfit and don’t consider dry shampoo a personality trait.

ME: I’m working.

SYLVIE: Meet me at midnight. One drink. Please? I miss you.

That word hooks me.

Please.

Sylvie doesn’t say please unless she means it.

I should say no. I’m tired. I’m broke. The only makeup in my bag is a half-dead lip gloss and a mascara that smells like mold and bad decisions.

Instead, I type:

ME: One drink.

ME: But if this turns into one of your “fun spontaneous adventures,” I’m haunting you first.

SYLVIE: Worth it.

ME: Not comforting.

ME: Also, I’m wearing my emergency black dress.

SYLVIE: A hot one?

ME: Hot and wrinkled. Your lucky night.

By midnight, my shift is done, my cart is parked, and I’m under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the employee bathroom, trying to look less like a cautionary workplace poster and more like a woman who leaves her apartment sometimes.

I take the fastest shower of my life and change into the black dress I keep folded in my locker for emergencies.

I leave my hair down.

That alone feels reckless.

Blonde waves fall past my shoulders, creased from the bun. I swipe on the lip gloss. It does almost nothing, but at least my mouth looks less like it's been making out with bleach fumes.

I point at my reflection. "We're aiming for 'alive' and 'not covered in chemicals.' Anything above that is bonus content."

My reflection does not look convinced.

The door swings open.

Sylvie bursts in like she just got announced by a trumpet.

Little black dress. Heels. Lipstick. A grin that could probably start a small cult.

"Thea!"

She barrels into me. I grunt, then hug her back.

She smells like vanilla, wine, and trouble. So, Sylvie.

"You came," she says.

"I said one drink. I'm not a liar. I'm just chronically exhausted."

"You look pretty!"

I snort. "I look like a maid who lost a fight with a linen closet."

"No." She pulls back and actually looks at me. "You look like you forgot you're hot."

"I've never known that."

"Liar." She grabs my hand. "Come on. The bar is insane tonight."

"Insane with what?"

"People with money."

"That is everyone in this hotel."

"Exactly."

She drags me out before I can change my mind.

I follow because I miss her. Because I'm lonely. Because sometimes, when your world gets too small, even a bad idea looks like a door you're willing to kick open.

The Belvedere bar glows gold and warm, all velvet chairs, low lighting, and crystal glasses. Men in suits sprawl like they own the skyline.

"This is very not my scene," I murmur.

"That's because your scene is sad soup and romance audiobooks," Sylvie says.

"Romance is not sad."

"Your soup is."

"Wow," I say. "Roasting me in public. Bold choice for someone who still owes me fifty bucks."

She snorts and steers me toward a table in the back. Two concierge girls, Mia and Janie, are already there. Polished, glossy, the kind of women who can wear white pants and trust the universe.

A man stands beside them.

Tall. Dark hair slicked back. Expensive watch. Easy smile.

Mick.

I've seen him at private events. Always near VIPs. Always chatting with security. Always smiling like he knows where the bodies are buried and exactly how much the shovels cost.

"Thea, right?" he says smoothly.

I blink. "That's either impressive memory or a red flag."

"Everyone knows the prettiest maid at the Belvedere."

Sylvie nudges me. "See? Told you."

My skin prickles.

Compliments from men like Mick aren't compliments. They're the opening line on a contract you shouldn't sign.

"I'm not on shift," I say.

His smile sharpens. "No. Tonight you're off the clock."

He says it like that should make me relax.

It doesn't.

I give him my sweetest customer-service smile. The one I save for guests who leave wet towels on antique chairs.

“Then I’m also off the clock for being polite.”

For one second, his smile glitches.

Good.

We sit. Mick signals the waiter like he owns the place.

"I can order my own drink," I say.

His brows lift. "Of course."

Sylvie orders something fruity and lethal. Mia gets champagne. Janie picks something pink and sparkly. I go for white wine because it sounds basic and hard to mess up.

The drinks arrive. The wine tastes fine. Unremarkable. I take one sip and set it down.

Sylvie leans in.

"I'm glad you came," she says.

"Me too."

"You disappeared. I missed you."

It lands right behind my ribs.

I want to say I missed her too.

Instead I say, "You could've visited my glamorous apartment."

"The one with the screaming radiator?"

"She's passionate."

Sylvie laughs. The tight knot in my chest loosens a little.

Then the air shifts.

Nothing obvious. The music keeps playing. Glasses still clink.

But conversations drop, just a notch. Shoulders straighten. The two men by the hallway to the private suites touch their earpieces at the same time.

My spine goes stiff.

"Don't stare," Sylvie whispers.

"At what?" I ask.

Then I see him.

The man who just stepped into the bar does not look like he belongs in the Belvedere.

He looks like the Belvedere belongs to him.

Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black suit tailored with surgical precision.

Dark hair threaded with silver at the temples.

Salt-and-pepper stubble on a hard-cut jaw.

Dark eyes that scan the room like he's cataloging exits and weaknesses.

Older. Mid-forties, maybe.

Too old.

Too powerful.

Too calm.

Every instinct I have should scream run.

Instead, my body leans forward like it's bored of survival instincts.

"Who is that?" I whisper.

Sylvie follows my gaze and goes very still. "Gabriel Moretti."

The name settles over the table like a bad forecast.

"What does he do?" I ask.

Mia lets out a tiny, nervous laugh. "Whatever he wants."

Not an answer. Somehow, completely an answer.

Gabriel Moretti says something low to one of the men by the hall. The man nods like his life depends on it.

Then Gabriel's gaze lifts.

And finds me.

Not Sylvie in her perfect little black dress.

Me.

His eyes lock on mine and stay there.

Heat skates down my spine, sharp and unwelcome. My brain raises a red flag. My body uses it as confetti.

My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass.

Hotel guests usually look through me, around me. Past me.

He looks at me like he recognizes something. Like I'm a file he's been waiting to pull.

My pulse stutters.

"Thea," Sylvie murmurs. "Breathe."

"I am breathing."

"Like you're about to pass out or propose."

"Relax," I say. "If I pass out, at least I'll finally get some horizontal time."

“With him?” she whispers.

“With a mattress, Sylvie. I still have standards.”

My eyes betray me by flicking back to Gabriel Moretti.

“Questionable standards,” she amends.

Mick slides back to our table like he heard his cue.

"Ladies," he says. "Enjoying yourselves?"

"Depends," I say. "Is mop water an accepted chaser in this crowd?"

Sylvie elbows me, laughing. "Yeah, we're good. Thanks for the drinks."

His gaze drops to my half-finished wine. "You don't like it?"

"I'm pacing myself."

"Smart girl."

I hate the way he says it.

Like he knows exactly how far behind I am in this game.

Across the room, Gabriel Moretti is still watching.

Mick shifts just enough to block my view.

"To old friends," Sylvie says, clinking her glass against mine.

I take a small sip and set the glass back down, reaching for the water instead. Something about tonight feels off. Not the wine, not the bar.

Mick.

The way his eyes keep drifting to me and then away, too quickly, like he's counting something.

I know that look. Rich men use it before they ask housekeeping to ignore a broken lamp, a bloody towel, a woman crying in the bathroom.

"Bathroom," I say, pushing back my chair before anyone can protest. "Try not to sell my organs while I'm gone."

Sylvie laughs, bright and easy, the way Sylvie always laughs. "If they offer enough, I'm taking a cut."

"Rude."

Mick smiles like he thinks we're both adorable. Or stupid. Hard to tell which.

I weave through the crowd, heart still thudding from that stare across the room.

The hallway to the restrooms is dimmer, quieter.

The music fades to a muffled thump behind me.

I reach the sign for the bathrooms and turn toward the familiar door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

A hand closes around my elbow.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Possessive enough to make my skin crawl.

I turn and find Mick at my shoulder, that easy smile still pasted on his face.

"Wrong way," he says. "They've closed those tonight for a VIP event. Use the ones in back."

I narrow my eyes. "I work here. I just cleaned those two hours ago."

"Management changed the policy," he says smoothly. "High-profile guests mean high-strung security. They don't want staff and guests mixing in the back corridors right now."

He tilts his head toward the bar, where men in suits and heavy watches still sit like the world belongs to them.

"You don't want to cause trouble for your boss, do you?"

My jaw tightens.

Something prickles at the back of my neck. He's not wrong about the rules. The Belvedere has a hundred of them. But something about the way he's standing, angled just enough to block my retreat, makes every quiet alarm I own start to hum.

"I can find my own way," I start.

"Come on. It's just through here. I'll show you. You'll be back before your friend finishes that drink."

His hand stays on my elbow.

I look down at it.

Then back up at him.

"That hand important to you?"

His brows twitch. "Excuse me?"

"Because if it is, I’d move it."

For a second, I think he might laugh.

He does not.

His fingers loosen, but only a little.

My heart hammers. My mouth is dry. My legs want to do something dramatic, like shake or sprint or resign from my body entirely.

I take one step back.

Mick’s eyes go flat.

Then I hear Sylvie behind me.

"Thea?"

I turn just as two men step out of the private hallway. One catches Sylvie around the waist. The other grabs me before I can kick him in the balls.

Mick releases my elbow. "Thirty seconds," he tells them. "Then bring them out."

"Where are you going?" I snap.

His smile comes back, slick and satisfied.

"To introduce you."