Secrets & Sofas #2
For a moment, I’d thought I’d broken through.
That she’d actually wanted me there, in her space, in her life.
And I was ready—ready to dive headfirst, no hesitation.
Now all I can do is sit here, replaying the sound of scissors through her braids, and pray she doesn’t break into my penthouse in the middle of the night to pour acid in my shampoo.
The gala is already in full swing by the time I arrive.
A blur of sequins and champagne flutes, violins humming somewhere behind the chatter.
I’ve been to more events like this than I can count, and they’ve all blurred into one long evening of handshakes and polite laughter. The only difference tonight is her.
I spot her instantly. Doesn’t matter that the ballroom is overflowing with sequins, feathers, and gowns made to blind a man. My eyes don’t wander. They land on her, like they always do.
Eslin.
Silver mask catching the light, lips painted the color of forbidden fruit, hair styled so perfectly you’d never guess what happened last night. She looks like she belongs here—regal, untouchable. And yet, all I can see is the girl from her couch.
The one laughing at Olivia Pope’s drama with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. The one who trusted me enough to let me close, to let me see her unpolished, unguarded. The one who didn’t need a mask or a gown to be the most stunning woman in the room.
And no matter how flawless she looks tonight, I can’t unsee that girl—the one with hair scattered everywhere and light in her eyes. The one who makes even disaster look beautiful.
I should keep my distance. God knows I’ve told myself that enough. But every time I see her, that resolve lasts about as long as it takes for her to glance my way
And she does. Right now.
Even across the ballroom, I feel it when her eyes land on me. The pause. The inhale. Like something inside her skips and sputters before finding its rhythm again. And I know—because it happens to me too.
So I lift my glass, a silent toast across the crowd, like it means nothing. Like she’s just anyone.
But I know she isn’t.
And worse—so does she.
“Daddy! Perfect timing! You’re almost up!”
“Perfect timing for what, and what exactly will I be up for?”
Marlow beams at me. “Remember I told you about the auction? We’re auctioning off key players and members of the front office for dates to raise money for charity.”
I vaguely remember something about that. But if memory serves, that was the same night Eslin decided to test her skills as a back-alley chemist and slipped me a magnesium cocktail strong enough to take down a horse. So if I’ve blocked out parts of that conversation, it’s with good reason.
“The auction,” I repeat slowly, taking a sip of my drink like it might help me survive whatever fresh hell my daughter has signed me up for. “Yes.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” I add.
“Yes, I am.” She grins. Then she grabs my arm, tugging me toward the front of the ballroom where a curtain conceals the chaos backstage. “Now come on! Let’s go pimp my dad.”
I sigh, because only Marlow could make human trafficking sound like charity.
***
The ballroom hums with anticipation as the velvet curtain parts, and Luca Chidubem strides onto the stage. Even in a black suit and gold mask, this kid radiates swagger—the kind that makes the women in the audience sit a little taller, lean a little closer, fan themselves with their programs.
The announcer, a wiry man with a booming voice and the speed of a New York auctioneer, claps a hand on Luca’s shoulder.
“Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on tonight’s next prize!
Six-foot-five of prime athletic power, a smile that melts ice, and commanding field presence you’ve all seen on the highlight reels—give it up for Luca Chidubem! ”
The crowd roars. Luca throws a playful wink and waves like he’s already won MVP.
“All right, let’s start the bidding nice and easy. One thousand dollars for a private dinner with Mr. Chidubem. Do I hear one thousand?”
Hands shoot up instantly.
“One thousand—yes, thank you, front table. Do I hear fifteen hundred?”
Another hand. Then another.
“Fifteen hundred—yes, thank you, back row in the sequins. Two thousand now, who’ll give me two?”
A brunette in the second row raises her hand. The announcer points like a man possessed.
“Two thousand to the lady in sapphire! Do I hear twenty-five hundred?”
The bids come faster, the numbers climbing like they’re nothing but pocket change. Luca lifts his arms and flexes just enough to send another ripple of laughter and cheers through the room.
“Five thousand! Yes, thank you, ma’am in the gold shawl. Five thousand on the table, do I hear six?”
“Six thousand!” another woman calls.
“Six! Do I hear seven?”
The room is alive now, women shouting numbers, laughter bubbling, the announcer’s voice ricocheting through it all.
“Seven thousand! Yes! Eight, do I have eight?”
“Eight!”
“Nine?”
A pause. A hush, almost.
Then, from the back of the room, clear and calm, “Ten thousand.”
The crowd gasps. Heads turn, trying to see who dared throw down that kind of money.
The spotlight swivels, landing on her. A woman in a flowing crimson dress, mask of red and black lace that hides every inch of her expression except the tilt of her mouth. Cool. Confident. Unmoved by the attention.
The announcer milks it, slapping his hand against the podium. “Ten thousand! Ten thousand to the lady in red! Going once—going twice—”
He draws it out, but no one dares to top her.
“—and SOLD!” He slams the gavel down with theatrical flair. “To the woman in the red dress and the mysterious red-and-black mask!”
The crowd erupts in applause, Luca bowing deeply, grinning from ear to ear as though he’s just been drafted all over again. The woman in red doesn’t so much as flinch. She simply raises her champagne glass, as though she’s been planning to win him all along.
When Luca strides off stage, blowing kisses and bowing like he’s just scored the winning goal, the room is still buzzing from that ten-thousand-dollar finale. The announcer is practically giddy, the women in the audience starry-eyed, champagne flutes clinking in approval.
I should be relaxed. I should be used to this—eyes on me, the spectacle, the attention that’s followed me my whole adult life.
But I’m not.
Because I know who else is in this room.
“Up next, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer crows, “A true legend. Father to one of the fiercest women I’ve ever met, a man whose presence commands every room and instantly claims hearts—Mr. Grant Mills!”
Applause erupts, echoing off the ballroom’s high ceilings. I paste on a smile. The one I’ve worn for decades. The easy grin, the confident swagger. The old Grant.
I step into the lights, give a small wave, the grin never slipping.
I look like I’m enjoying this, but inside, I feel tight.
Restless. Because somewhere out there in the sea of glitter and velvet, Eslin Saunders is watching.
And the last thing I want is for her to think this is who I am.
That I’m still just a man parading himself for random women.
Then I catch Marlow at the edge of the stage. She’s clapping, radiant, her eyes shining with pride. My girl asked me to do this, and I’ll be damned if I won’t give her a show. So I push the nerves down, raise my arms a little higher, and wink at the crowd.
“All right, let’s start the bidding at one thousand for Mr. Mills,” the announcer calls, voice slick and quick.
Hands shoot up immediately.
“One thousand—yes, thank you. Fifteen hundred? Two? Twenty-five hundred?”
The numbers climb faster than I expect. Three thousand. Five. Seven. Ten.
I arch a brow, laugh lightly, leaning against the podium as though this is all a game. And then it changes.
The energy sharpens.
Two women are locked in a duel. Their hands shoot up before the announcer can finish, voices slicing through the air.
“Fifteen thousand!”
“Seventeen!”
“Nineteen!”
And then I see her.
Malina Matthews.
Even under the red and black mask, I know that profile, the stubborn set of her jaw. She doesn’t just bid—she attacks. Like winning me is the prize she came here for.
But why? After the disaster of that night—me bolting for the bathroom mid-date, leaving her to sip wine alone—I figured she’d never want to lay eyes on me again. Yet here she is, dropping money like it’s nothing. Malina knows what she wants. And clearly, she still wants me.
“Twenty-four thousand!”
“Twenty-five!” Malina snaps, her voice like a dagger.
The room gasps, then bursts into applause before the announcer can even bring down the gavel.
“Sold! Twenty-five thousand dollars to the blonde-haired lady in the red dress and mask!”
The crowd roars, clapping and cheering. I stand there, shocked, my smile feeling stiff at the edges.
Marlow beams, clapping furiously, her pride filling every inch of the space.
And then—movement. A flicker of silver.
Eslin.
Her mask gleaming, her lips painted that impossible wine-red, her whole presence like gravity itself. But then—she turns. She bolts. Disappearing into the crowd so fast it knocks the air from me.
The applause doesn’t matter. The money doesn’t matter. Even Marlow’s pride doesn’t soften the tight ache in my chest.
The very thing I didn’t want to happen, just did.
It’s all fun and games—charity, spectacle, the kind of event meant to dazzle. I get that, and I’m sure she gets it too. But I saw her face before she turned away. Saw the flash in her eyes when Malina threw down that final bid.
Eslin knows Malina does want me and she’ll stop at nothing to take me. She’s not being shy about that.
But the thought of Eslin believing—if only for a second—that she’d have to compete with that? With her? It twists something in me I can’t live with.
So I don’t think. I don’t weigh appearances or consequences or what this will look like on the gala floor. I just move. I follow her.