Chapter Two
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Raine
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Heat shoots through me like the points of a hundred daggers. Invisible strings pull at my lower stomach, and the space between my thighs aches with a strange, unfamiliar sensation. I'm too hot. Too cold. Too—
I stifle the panic attack simmering under my skin with all my might. If they cast even a minuscule glance in my direction, they'd see right through me. If I get caught and the reason I'm here is exposed, I won't be leaving this luxury cabin in the mountains alive.
They're known as the most powerful men in the world. They sit not only at boardroom tables, but also at the tables of the most dangerous mafia families ruling the underworld.
Their names alone garner the highest form of respect from both the echelons of society and the underworld.
Alec Mason. Conrad Reid. Theron Young. The owners of Minotaur Industries. And this cabin belongs to them.
They might be dressed in suits, but underneath, they embody the unforgiving, bull-headed giants depicted on their family crest. They are the billionaires from whom I'll be stealing a very valuable artifact. If I don't, my sister's life will never be the same again.
I keep my gaze lowered, violating the rules of proper stance. The men are directed to oversized armchairs, covered in gleaming, soft leather, with plush armrests, high backrests, their sides curved like wings.
Drinks are served immediately in crystal glasses, and the amber liquid shimmers under the diamond chandelier.
I hold my breath. It's about to begin. Mrs. Angela, the woman in charge of us, the one who approved our dresses and critiqued our overall looks—a different color of lipstick, too little blush, too much perfume, a strand out of place—slips onto the stage so discreetly she seems to materialize out of thin air.
Dressed in a demure black velvet gown, she stands confidently, hands clasped as she addresses the room.
"Gentlemen..."
That is all I hear. Her voice gets lost in my battle to stay composed as she introduces each woman. I barely hear my own name.
My vision blurs, and my anxiety skyrockets. I just have to keep it together for a little while longer. I envision my sister and me on a beach somewhere, the sun exquisitely hot as we sip colorful drinks, leaving all our troubles behind us forever.
The man with the sandy-brown hair gives me a discreet smile and a silent message.
It's going to be okay.
Yes, I believe him. We will walk out of here with the artifact, and my sister won't be placed in the hands of a mafia boss—a madman who detailed the punishments he would inflict if I failed to bring him the artifact.
Everything is going according to plan. The three billionaires of Minotaur Industries don't spare even a split-second glance at me.
I know because I would have felt their gazes on me with the weight of a mountain.
No, a volcano. I'm completely invisible to them, exactly the part I was chosen to play.
With my heart hammering, only the fear of being caught helps me keep my eyes off the three billionaires, although the task takes everything from me.
My traitorous gaze lingers for a second too long, as if compelled to look, before I rip my attention away and fix my eyes on the man with the sandy-brown hair and blue eyes: my friend, Christopher West. I can't do this without him.
Mrs. Angela calls the name of the first 'debutante'—her term for us, prim and proper, even though we're selling our virginity to the highest bidder.
A tall blonde woman, as beautiful as a supermodel—as they all are—steps forward, her smile as radiant as the diamond necklace around her neck.
In her smooth, clipped voice, Mrs. Angela starts the bid at an amount so staggering I can't wrap my head around it, and likely never will.
Abandoned by an alcoholic mother when I was ten and my sister not even a year old, we were raised in abject poverty by our grandmother, who did her best for us until her death when I was eighteen.
Still, I was determined we would succeed. I took a few night classes and got a job in the accounting department at a small furniture manufacturing company.
I earned enough for a small apartment for both of us, a reliable car, and to put my sister, Summer, through school.
I live paycheck to paycheck, probably will for the rest of my life, even with the part-time job I have as a waitress on the weekends, so I can give my sister some of the things all fifteen-year-old girls want.
Summer is destined for great things. She wants to be a marine biologist. All I ever want is for her to live her best life.
This lifestyle, with all this opulence, where men can throw around millions of dollars for a night with a virgin, is so far removed from my existence, I still can't come to terms with how I ended up here.
For a moment, I thought no one was bidding, but then I saw it, a gesture so subtle it could be easily missed, but clearly not by Mrs. Angela.
The men seated on those massive antique chairs, sipping their exclusive whiskies, merely nod or raise an index finger to claim a bid. There's only a minuscule pause before Mrs. Angela continues.
Everything is contained, so muted, that an outsider wouldn't guess what was happening.
The number increases in steady increments before the bidding draws to a close, and the virgin is bought.
Proudly, she walks off the stage and goes to the man who purchased her for the night. She lowers herself to her knees at his feet and settles there, her gown neatly arranged around her. Her smile reveals her self-satisfaction, her eyes genuinely bright and excited.
Why wouldn't she be when with just one act she becomes a multi-millionaire?
To finalize the transaction, the money must be immediately transferred to her bank account—it's the rule.
From a tablet, Mrs. Angela confirms the payment has been made and only then does the debutante make her way to the billionaire.
Another woman is called forward and the process starts again. Then another and another.
My nerves begin to fray with every virgin claimed, with my turn drawing nearer.
It doesn't escape me that Alec Mason, Conrad Reid, and Theron Young haven't bid on a single virgin.
If the most beautiful women in the world weren't enough to spark their interest, I could safely conclude I don't even exist to them.
And now I'm the only one left.