Chapter 3
Angelina
T he applause was still ringing in my ears as I stumbled backstage on shaking legs. He'd paid two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for one night with me.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
The coordinator appeared at my elbow, her professional smile bright enough to rival the stage lights I'd just escaped. "Congratulations! That was incredible. Seventy-five thousand for you, one seventy-five to the hospital. You just made history tonight, sweetheart."
She pressed a small envelope into my hands. "Your paperwork. His preferences, his limits, safe words, and the address where you'll meet him. A car will pick you up tomorrow at noon. That gives you plenty of time to go home, rest, and prepare."
Tomorrow. Noon. Twelve hours from now. The delay felt like both a relief and a torture.
"Wait," I said, catching her before she could disappear to handle the next participant. "The man who won me. Bidder number nineteen. Who is he?"
Her smile turned knowing. "That's Dez Moretti. Gianna's brother—she's the one who organized all this. He never comes to these events. Never participates. But apparently, something about you caught his attention."
Moretti. I'd suspected from the VIP section, from the way people had given him space, but hearing it confirmed made my stomach flip.
"What's he like?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
She considered the question, her expression turning thoughtful. "Ruthless," she said finally. "In business, in life, in everything he does. He's not cruel for cruelty's sake, but he doesn't hesitate when he knows what he wants. And he always gets what he wants."
A shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with fear.
Ruthless .
The word should have scared me. Should have made me reconsider this entire thing. Instead, it made heat pool low in my belly.
"How old is he?" I asked.
"Twenty-eight, I think? Twenty-nine?" She squeezed my arm. "Dez Moretti has been running parts of his family's business since he was twenty. He knows exactly what he's doing. And if you’re worried about the age difference, it’s only one night, right?"
Twenty-eight. Ten years younger than me.
The revelation threw me completely off balance. I'd assumed he was older—mid-thirties at least, based on the confidence, the command in his voice, the way he'd looked at me like he could see straight through to my bones.
But twenty-eight?
What could a twenty-eight-year-old possibly know about dominance? About control? He was barely old enough to know what he wanted, let alone how to read what someone else needed.
The coordinator must have seen something in my expression because she laughed. "Don't underestimate him because of his age. Trust me, that man knows exactly how to get what he wants. And right now, he wants you."
She disappeared into the chaos of backstage, leaving me standing there with the envelope clutched in my hands and doubt creeping in at the edges of my anticipation.
Twenty-eight.
Christ.
I made it to my private changing room before the full weight of it hit me.
Sinking onto the velvet bench, I stared at the envelope. My hands trembled as I broke the seal.
BIDDER #19 - PARTICIPANT CONTRACT
Legal Name: Desmond "Dez" Moretti
Age: 28
Occupation: Security & Acquisitions
Preferences: Dominance/submission dynamics, praise/degradation, discipline, control, bondage, impact play, pushing limits, mental bondage
Limits: Sharing, permanent injury, non-consent (all activities must be enthusiastically consensual)
Safe words: Standard red, yellow, green
Special notes: Participant has requested privacy. Location will be disclosed en route. Medical screening on file. Confirmed birth control status. Pickup scheduled for 12:00 PM.
I read it twice, trying to reconcile the man I'd met at the ballroom with this information. Twenty-eight years old and ruthless. That last detail made my breath catch. He requested information to see if I was on birth control. I wondered why? I shook my head, trying to clear it.
This was one night to forget about my uncle's threats, my mother's impossible will, the deadline counting down like a time bomb in the back of my mind. A chance to be someone other than Angelina Castellano, heiress struggling to save her mother's legacy.
Time with a man ten years my junior who probably thought he knew what dominance meant because he'd read some books and watched some porn.
The thought should have disappointed me.
Instead, it made me feel... challenging.
Like maybe I could shake that ruthless confidence.
Make him work for it. See if he really could back up all that commanding presence with actual skill. Doubtful though.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN
Tomorrow, noon. Bring nothing. Everything you need will be provided.
-DM
Short. Direct. Commanding. Even through text, he had that tone from before. Maybe this wouldn't be a complete disaster after all.
I didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep, not with my mind spinning through possibilities, anxieties, the lingering heat from the way he'd looked at me on that stage.
By the time dawn broke over Lake Union, I'd convinced myself this was either going to be the best decision I'd ever made or the most humiliating. Possibly both.
I showered at ten, taking my time to scrub every inch of my skin until it blushed and was sensitive. Applied body cream—the vanilla-scented kind I'd bought specifically for this—in slow, deliberate strokes.
The lingerie I'd chosen was simple. Black lace bra and panties, delicate and feminine without being too overtly sexual. A black silk slip dress that fell to mid-thigh, easy to remove. Black heels that accented my legs.
I stared at myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back. She looked nervous. Excited. Like she was about to do something either very brave or very stupid. My phone buzzed at exactly noon.
UNKNOWN
Downstairs.
I grabbed my keys and phone, wrapped a black coat around myself, and headed down.
The car was sleek and black with windows so dark I couldn't see inside.
The back door opened as I approached, revealing a freshly cleaned car and time alone.
His scent was still thick in the air, his cologne.
It turned my thoughts wicked as soon as I thought about how much better it smelled coming directly from him.
I slid inside, and the door closed behind me with a soft click. The driver was kind, even acknowledged my presence. He reached back and handed me a black silk blindfold, then pulled smoothly into traffic. However, he didn't speak as he drove. My heart hammered against my ribs.
This was it. The moment where I either trusted this completely or called it off.
But I'd come this far. And despite my doubts about his age, despite the voice in my head saying this was insane.
I wanted to see if the ruthlessness I was told about translated to the bedroom.
Wanted to know if a twenty-eight-year-old could actually make me forget my own name.
I tied the blindfold over my eyes. The world went dark. Without sight, every other sense sharpened. The smooth leather beneath my thighs. The low hum of the engine. The faint scent of his cologne growing stronger, as if he were sitting right here next to me.
We drove for what felt like forever. I tried to track the turns, to figure out where we were going, but lost count after the fourth direction change. Finally, the car slowed. Stopped. My door opened, and cool air rushed in. Then a hand—warm, large, and urging—took mine.
"Carefully," Dez's voice said, and the sound of it after the silence made my breath catch. "Three steps up."
I let him guide me out of the car. Lake air, sharp and clean. We were near the water. His hand stayed in mine as we walked. Fifteen steps across stone, then inside where the temperature warmed and the acoustics changed. A door closed behind us with a heavy, final sound.
We were alone…
"You can take off the blindfold," Dez said.
I reached up with trembling fingers and pulled the silk away.
And forgot how to breathe. The penthouse was stunning.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showed Seattle’s skyline and Lake Union and beyond.
Modern furniture, clean lines, the kind of space that screamed money and taste.
But it was the bedroom visible through an open doorway that made my stomach flip.
A massive four-poster bed. Dark wood. Burgundy silk sheets.
As I rotated in his direction, he walked away, giving me a delicious view of his backside.
"Drink?" Dez moved to a bar cart, and when he turned to look at me, I finally got a good look at him without the mask.
Jesus.
Twenty-eight years old, and he looked like he'd been carved from marble.
Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, a mouth that was currently curved in the faintest hint of a smile.
Brunet hair slightly disheveled, like he'd run his hands through it recently.
But it was his eyes that held me. Gray and intense, watching me with an expression that made me feel stripped bare despite still wearing my coat. Devastatingly handsome.
"Yes," I managed. "Please."
He poured a glass of whiskey—neat, a glass of white wine, and crossed back to me. Our fingers brushed as he handed me the wine glass, and I felt that touch everywhere.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"A little," I admitted.
"Good." He took a sip, never breaking eye contact. "You should be."
The words sent a shiver down my spine.
"Is that a threat?" Cause it sure felt like one.
"It's a promise." He set his glass down and moved closer, crowding into my space. "I'm going to take you apart tonight, Angelina. Piece by piece. And then I'm going to put you back together exactly how I want you."
My breath caught.
"Prove it," I heard myself say.
His smile turned predatory.
"With pleasure."