Chapter 3 Milo
milo
The ballroom looks like Cupid threw up everywhere, and I mean that in the best possible way.
Pink and red decorations cover every available surface.
Fairy lights hang from the ceiling in sweeping arcs, casting a warm glow over the hundreds of students packed into Thornwood Hall.
Heart-shaped balloons cluster in corners, and someone has scattered rose petals across the registration tables near the entrance.
A giant screen behind the stage displays the running tally of money raised, the numbers ticking upward every few minutes.
This is nothing like January’s auction but fuck, I love it. Every tacky, over-the-top inch of it.
Quentin, though, looks like he's in physical pain.
His eye is doing that twitchy thing it does when he's overstimulated, and his scent has gone sharp with discomfort.
Too many people, too much noise, too much pink.
I bump my shoulder against his as we push through the crowd toward the front of the room.
"Breathe, Q. It's a party, not a torture chamber."
"Debatable."
We find seats in the third row, close enough to see Iris's face when we win.
When, not if. I settle into my chair and scan the room, taking in the chaos.
The stage is set up with a podium and a spotlight, and a woman I recognize from the events committee is shuffling index cards near the microphone.
A professional auctioneer stands off to the side, borrowed from the business school apparently, looking bored in a way that suggests he's done this before.
Movement catches my eye across the room, and I spot Avery and Declan near the back.
Avery waves enthusiastically when he sees me looking, then mouths "good luck" followed immediately by "you're insane.
" He finishes with a double thumbs up, which pretty much sums up our entire friendship.
Supportive and judgmental simultaneously.
Declan nods at us, one of those Alpha acknowledgment things that I've never fully understood. His arm is possessively wrapped around Avery's waist. Those two are goals. Gross, adorable goals.
I wave back, trying to project confidence I don't entirely feel.
"Front row," Quentin says quietly, and I follow his gaze to where Chad and Kevin have planted themselves directly in front of the stage.
Of course, they're in the front row. Of course, Chad is wearing a suit that's two sizes too small, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest like he's auditioning for a cologne commercial.
His hair is gelled into a shine that probably required an entire bottle of product.
Kevin sits beside him in designer streetwear and a backwards cap, because apparently that's appropriate formal event attire now.
They've got their bidding paddles ready, gripped in their hands like weapons.
"I'm going all the way tonight, bro," Chad says, loud enough that I can hear him from two rows back. He's not even trying to be subtle. "Whatever it takes."
"Same, bro." Kevin nods vigorously. "She's gonna realize what she's been missing."
"This is my year. I can feel it."
"What's your max bid?"
Chad scoffs. "No max. I'll go as high as I need to."
"Bro, your dad will kill you."
"Worth it. She's prime." Chad grins, showing all of his teeth. Gross. "You know how good she'd look on my arm? And Coach would have to respect me then. His daughter's boyfriend? That's like, automatic starter position."
I exchange a look with Quentin. His expression hasn't changed, but his scent has sharpened further.
"Did he just call her 'prime'?" I whisper. "Like she's a steak?"
"I'm going to enjoy this," Quentin mutters.
Chad must sense us staring because he turns around, scanning the rows behind him until his eyes land on us. The corner of Chad's mouth hooks upward. He turns fully in his seat to face us, one arm draped over the back of his chair. "Oh look, the Varks. Came to watch?"
"Came to participate, actually,” I push out, trying to keep up the bravado. Sometimes I despise being an Omega because my first reaction is to cower or give in when there’s an Alpha. And when it’s someone like Chad? Fuck that guy.
His smirk falters for just a second before snapping back into place. "You're bidding? On who?"
"Guess."
Something flickers in his eyes. Uncertainty, maybe. Or the first stirrings of genuine competition. "Good luck with that. But this one's mine. I've been waiting a long time."
Quentin's voice cuts through the noise. "So has she. For you to leave her alone."
Chad's face goes red. Kevin grabs his arm, muttering something about not letting us get to him, and then Chad turns back around with his shoulders tense and the back of his neck turning a deep red. I have to physically stop myself from grinning.
"That was hot," I tell Quentin.
"Shut up."
"The way you just went for the throat like that—"
"Shut up."
The lights dim before I can needle him further, the events committee woman taking the stage, her excess energy making me wonder how long she’s prepared for this.
"Welcome to Fab Feb, everyone! You know the rules—bid high, bid often, and remember, all proceeds go to Knotlocke's athletic programs!" She pauses for cheers, which the crowd obligingly provides. "Now, let's meet our Alphas!"
This is wildly different than last month when Avery bid on his own stepbrother, Declan and now they’re mates. The energy tonight is higher and there’s a sensual aspect to everything because it’s so close to Valentine’s.
The first few auctions pass in a blur. A basketball player goes for two thousand, which seems like a reasonable baseline.
A swimmer with abs for days but the personality of wet cardboard goes for eighteen hundred.
Then they bring out the hockey twins—two players sold as a package deal—and the crowd goes absolutely feral.
Four thousand dollars. For two hockey players.
I look at Quentin. He looks at me.
"We have more money than that," he says calmly.
"We do?"
"I've been saving."
"Since when?"
"Since I started thinking about this."
I don't know what to say to that. Quentin, who treats emotions like an inconvenient medical condition, has been saving money in case we got the chance to bid on Iris? It takes me a few seconds to realize my brother isn’t as tough as he portrays. "Q, you softie."
"Shut up and watch."
I roll my eyes but do as he says, settling back into my chair.
The auction continues on stage, Alpha after Alpha cycling through, but my attention keeps drifting to the front row.
Chad can't sit still. Every thirty seconds he turns around to check the backstage area, craning his neck to see who's coming out next.
His knee bounces so hard his chair creaks against the floor, and Kevin keeps shooting him looks that he completely ignores.
"When's Iris coming out?" Chad asks, loud enough that people in our row glance over. "She's near the end, right?"
"Bro, stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting, I'm prepared."
He's definitely fidgeting. I'd enjoy it more if my own nerves weren't eating me alive. My palms are sweating against the paddle in my lap, and I have to keep wiping them on my jeans.
The announcer steps back up to the microphone, consulting her index cards, and the room quiets down.
"And now, a special participant... our very own Iris Delacroix! Bookkeeper extraordinaire, math whiz, art prodigy, and yes, ladies and gentlemen, Coach Delacroix's daughter!"
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Someone behind me whispers something about Coach not being here tonight, away game scouting, and I file that information away as potentially useful. But then Iris steps into the spotlight and I forget about Coach entirely. I forget about everything.
The oversized sweater from practice is gone. She's wearing a deep teal blouse paired with fitted black pants, gold jewelry layering at her throat and wrists. Her braids are pulled half-up with gold pins, the teal beads at the end clicking softly against each other as she walks to center stage.
And... she's still wearing sandals. The strappy ones with gold accents. In February. At a formal event.
Of course she is.
Quentin's elbow connects with my ribs, sharp enough to hurt. "Control yourself," he mutters. "Your scent."
I take a breath and try to pull it back, but it's hard to focus on anything except the way she's standing up there, completely unbothered by the hundreds of eyes on her.
She doesn't preen for the spotlight. She doesn't pose or play to the crowd.
She just exists, comfortable in her own skin, like all this attention is something she tolerates rather than craves.
That might be the most attractive thing about her.
"Iris, what's your ideal date?" the announcer asks.
Iris considers the question for a moment, her head tilting slightly to one side. "Somewhere I can be myself. With someone who doesn't expect me to be anything else."
The crowd makes a collective "aww" sound, and I feel something twist in my chest. That's us. That could be us. We wouldn't expect her to be anything. We'd just want her to be—
"That's my future wife, bro," Chad announces, loud enough for half the room to hear.
Kevin frowns at him. "Bro, you've never even had a conversation with her that lasted more than thirty seconds."
"Quality over quantity, Kevin."
The announcer launches into the bidding, starting at five hundred, and paddles shoot up all over the room. My stomach drops as I try to count them. At least fifteen people. The numbers climb fast, voices calling out from every direction. Six hundred. Seven fifty. Eight hundred. Eight fifty.
Chad stays seated through all of it, arms crossed, watching the competition thin itself out. It's the smartest thing I've ever seen him do. He waits until the bidding stalls at nine hundred, then stands up slowly, making sure everyone is looking at him before he raises his paddle. "One thousand."