Chapter 1 #2
The lighting is warm and golden, nothing harsh. My shoulders relax slightly; at least I won’t spend the night squinting against the fluorescent glare.
I sign in, and a staff member leads me to a room lined with velvet and mirrors, where I change into a denim skirt and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up. My boots are scuffed, and my hat remains firmly on my head.
I didn’t come here to be transformed; I came to see if someone would choose me just as I am.
A woman in a charcoal blazer approaches, clipboard in hand and lanyard swinging. A small Marlie’s Angels badge is pinned just beneath her name tag—Gwen.
Her smile is calm and steady. “Jane Cutter?”
I nod.
“Let me walk you through the process.”
Her voice is low and kind, yet authoritative enough to make me stand a little taller.
“You’ll walk out. There’s no pitch, no small talk. You don’t have to charm anyone. You just have to stand there and breathe.”
“That I can do,” I reply. Probably. Hopefully. If I don’t pass out first.
She smiles. “If a match is made, both parties will sign the cohabitation agreement. You’ll have access to safety protocols, emergency contacts, and opt-out options. If, at any point, either of you wants to end the arrangement, you can—no questions asked.”
I blink in disbelief. “Really?”
“There’s a probationary clause. You’re not trapped. This isn’t forever unless you decide it is.”
It sounds... fair. Practical. Smart. The kind of structure my mind actually responds to.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Thanks.”
She lightly touches my arm. “You’re in control, Jane. This is a choice, not a demand.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down. When was the last time someone told me I was in control of anything? “Okay.”
“I’ll find you after,” Gwen says with a reassuring smile before heading off to speak to another woman.
My heart races, but not from fear. It’s from something wilder, like standing on a cliff and wanting to jump.
Backstage is filled with women waiting for their turn, all dressed in outfits of their choice—one in a sleek black dress, another in something soft and peachy.
A tall redhead catches my eye—Jessie, according to her name tag.
Her hair is twisted back, with a few strands escaping, and her blue dress makes her look like she belongs on a runway.
She meets my gaze, and something flickers there—recognition, perhaps.
The kind you feel when you spot someone else pretending not to be terrified.
On the other side of the room stands a woman in a soft teal dress—Sadie—set apart from the others, her dark hair falling forward as if she’s trying to disappear. I don’t know her story, and I don’t need to. We’re all here for our own reasons.
They don’t speak. Neither do I. But when our eyes meet, something passes between us.
The redhead lifts her hand in a small wave. I tip my hat in return. She offers a smile, and just like that, I feel less alone.
The coordinator approaches Jessie. “Ready?”
Jessie takes a deep breath and nods, then disappears behind the curtain and onto the stage.
It feels like only seconds before Gwen is back.
“Ready, Jane?”
No.
Yes.
I don't know.
I nod. “Ready.”
The music shifts, and a subtle hush rolls over the crowd.
Then I hear the announcer call my name:
“Next up... Jane!”
The spotlight hits me like a wall. My brain screams run. Everything is too bright, too many eyes, too much. But my legs carry me forward anyway. The smile I paste on is the one I’ve practiced in a thousand mirrors: bright, confident, untouchable. It’s a lie, but a convincing one.
I scan the crowd. Cowboys, businessmen, and ranchers all look at me as if I’m something to be evaluated. My skin crawls. I want to run. I want to hide. I want—
My gaze lands on him.
And everything else falls away.
He’s sitting at the back of the room with two other men, all big, still, and commanding without even trying.
He’s not dressed like the rest—no flashy tie, no sleek designer jacket.
Just a dark button-down, rolled sleeves, and shoulders that look like they were built to carry the weight of the world.
His unblinking green eyes captivate me, fixed on me as if I’m a fuse burning down.
My breath catches sharply, completely beyond my control.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, my loud, chaotic brain goes quiet. The static stops. It’s just him.
I don’t usually react to strangers, but something in my body recognizes him. An instinct ignites like a flare gun in my chest.
Heat surges low in my belly. My hands grow clammy. My heart forgets its rhythm.
And those eyes?
They remain locked on me.
He sees me. Not the denim skirt, chambray shirt, and lipstick. Just me.
And he doesn’t look away. He watches me as if he’s made a decision he hadn’t intended to make tonight.
I try to play it cool. I toss my hair and flash a smile that likely comes off as more desperate than confident. But my eyes keep returning to his.
The bidding begins, and his paddle rises.
Not flashy or aggressive—inevitable.
Another number, another bid. His paddle goes up again, sharp and decisive.
My throat goes dry. It’s not the bidding that does this; it’s the way he never stops looking at me, as if he already knows how this will end and that I already belong to him.
The final gavel drops.
Sold.
A buzz ripples through the room, along with soft applause and a few whistles. But all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
I step off the stage on legs that shouldn’t be able to function.
Except now?
I might belong to the one man in the room whose presence calms my racing thoughts.
And I wanted it to be him before I even knew his name.