The Auction (Forbidden Auction #1)

CHAPTER 1

HARLEY

I almost didn’t go.

The envelope sat on my kitchen counter for three days before I finally opened it. Thick black paper. No return address. My name written across the front in gold ink like someone had taken their time with every single letter.

Harley Rutherford.

Most mail I get these days is either a bill or a warning that a bill is coming.

This felt… different.

I noticed it the moment I picked it up from the mailbox. It had weight to it. Not just the paper, but the feeling of it.

My apartment is quiet tonight. The kind of quiet that creeps into your head if you sit with it long enough. The fridge hums. Pipes knock somewhere behind the walls. My laptop glows on the coffee table with an unpaid rent reminder blinking in my inbox.

Third one this week.

I lean against the counter and stare at the envelope again.

I should just throw it away.

That’s the smart thing to do. Mysterious invitations don’t show up in the mail for people like me. Not unless they’re scams. Or someone decided to play a stupid prank on me.

Stil…

Curiosity is a dangerous thing.

I slide a finger beneath the seal and tear it open.

Inside is a single matte black card.

There’s only a few words printed on it.

Private Event.

Exclusive Guest Access.

A night that will change your life forever.

I snort quietly.

“Yeah, right.”

Flipping it over, I find a time and an address.

No explanation. No company name. No contact number.

Just a place. And a time.

Tomorrow night.

I should toss it in the trash and forget about it. Except the address is in one of the richest parts of the city.

The kind of place where buildings don’t even bother putting signs outside because the people who belong there already know where they’re going.

I rub the back of my neck and glance around my apartment.

The couch I bought off Craigslist.

The chipped mug sitting beside the sink.

The stack of overdue envelopes near the door.

Life-changing sounds pretty good right about now.

I hate that I’m even considering it.

But the truth is I’ve been drowning for months.

Ever since my parents cut me off.

The Rutherford name sounds impressive until you’re the one family member they decided isn’t worth keeping around.

I shake the thought away.

I don’t want to think about them anyway. Especially not tonight.

Especially when he enters my mind.

A familiar ache stirs somewhere deep in my chest, sharp and sudden.

I push it down.

It’s been years.

He’s probably forgotten I exist.

And it’s good. Because that’s exactly how it should be.

I flip the card over again, staring at the address like it might suddenly explain itself.

It doesn’t.

Still…

What’s the worst that could happen?

I laugh under my breath.

That’s always a stupid question.

The universe loves answering it.

I drop the card on the counter and grab my phone, opening the maps app. My thumb hesitates above the search bar for a second before I type the address in.

The building pops up instantly.

It’s a luxury five star hotel. The kind of place in which you can smell the money, success and luxury the second you step inside.

It’s definitely not the type of place someone like me gets invited to. Well, not anymore.

My pulse kicks up a little.

Maybe it’s a networking thing. Some rich people event where investors get drunk and throw money at projects they’ll forget about in the morning.

I could pretend to be someone important for a night.

Wouldn’t be the first time someone believed the Rutherford last name meant something.

Besides, my family isn’t a stranger to these types of events. My entire family is one of the richest in the city, so events like these are something I’ve been a part of probably since I was like seventeen or eighteen.

I exhale slowly.

“Fuck it.”

The words come out before I can talk myself out of them.

I grab the card again, sliding it back into the envelope.

One night.

One weird mystery event.

Then I go back to my ordinary, boring, miserable life.

No harm done.

I push away from the counter and head toward my bedroom, already thinking about what I could possibly wear to a place like that.

Halfway down the hall, I pause.

The strange feeling creeps over me again.

Like I’m standing at the edge of something.

Like a door just opened somewhere in the dark.

And once I step through it…

There’s no going back.

****

I stand in front of my closet for a long time before I actually touch anything.

Calling it a closet is generous. It’s more like a narrow slice of drywall with a crooked rod and six hangers that slide together whenever I move them.

Half the clothes hanging there don’t even belong in the same category anymore—faded shirts, a jacket with a loose lining, jeans that have been washed so many times they’ve forgotten their original color.

It’s a far cry from what I used to have.

Back then, closets weren’t closets.

They were rooms.

Entire rooms dedicated to clothes I barely remembered buying. Tailored suits. Italian shoes that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Garment bags from Paris, Milan, London.

I used to complain about fittings taking too long.

Now I’m standing barefoot on a cold apartment floor debating whether a black shirt with a slightly frayed collar still counts as “nice.”

Life’s funny like that.

I slide the shirt off the hanger anyway.

It’s the best thing I own.

Dark charcoal button-up. Slim cut. The fabric still feels expensive when I run my fingers over it, even if it’s a few years old now.

One of the last things I bought before everything went to shit.

I pull it on slowly, working the buttons closed. The mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door wobbles slightly when I touch it.

The guy staring back at me looks… fine.

More than fine, probably.

I’m not blind. I know what I look like.

Dark hair that never quite behaves, falling across my forehead no matter how many times I push it back. Lean build. Sharp cheekbones that my mother used to say would photograph well someday.

My eyes linger on my reflection for a second longer than usual.

There’s something tired sitting behind them.

Something cracked.

I grab my only pair of decent black jeans and pull them on, followed by the leather boots I polished earlier with the edge of a paper towel and some old conditioner.

The outfit is simple.

But it works.

The kind of look that says effortless, even though I spent twenty minutes trying to make sure it didn’t scream I’m broke.

I roll my sleeves once.

Twice.

Step back.

Good enough.

Still…

My stomach twists.

I lean both hands on the dresser and stare down at the floor.

What the hell am I doing?

The question echoes around my head like a loose coin rattling in a jar.

A mysterious invitation. No name attached. No explanation. Just an address and a promise that the night could change my life.

Yeah.

Sounds totally safe.

I huff out a quiet laugh and drag a hand down my face.

“This is how people end up on those serial killer documentaries,” I mutter to myself.

But the thought doesn’t scare me enough to stop.

Because the truth is…

My life right now isn’t much of a life.

I wake up.

I check my bank account.

I try not to panic.

Then I spend the rest of the day pretending everything is fine while the walls of this apartment feel like they’re inching closer together.

I don’t have friends here.

Not real ones.

Not the kind who sticks around even when your last name stops meaning something.

And my family…

I push away from the dresser, jaw tightening.

Family.

That word feels like a joke now.

They said it wasn’t personal.

They said it was about the family business.

About protecting the family name.

About how my “lifestyle choices” could create problems for investors and public image.

I remember the exact phrase my father used.

Harley, this isn’t about who you are.

It’s about what’s best for the family.

Bullshit.

All of it.

They just didn’t want a gay son standing next to them in press photos.

Didn’t want whispers at their charity galas.

Didn’t want the stain.

So they cut me off.

Money. Connections. Status. Everything was gone. Just like that.

I look around the apartment again.

Bare walls. Secondhand furniture. Silence. Depression.

Yeah.

They definitely protected their fucking image.

My chest tightens unexpectedly.

God, I’m so tired.

Tired of feeling like I’m drifting through life with no direction.

No purpose.

No one.

Most days I feel like something inside me broke a long time ago and never fully put itself back together.

Like I’m walking around with pieces missing.

And the worst part?

The one person who might have actually understood…

Left.

My gaze drops to the floor again.

I was eleven the last time I saw him.

Almost a decade.

Sometimes it feels longer.

Sometimes it feels like yesterday.

He just… disappeared from my life.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Like I didn’t exist. Like those few years we spent together didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter to him.

And after everything blew up with my family, I caught myself wondering if he’d even care.

If he’d still recognize me.

If he’d still—

I shake the thought away before it can dig deeper.

Doesn’t matter.

He’s gone.

Everyone is.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand.

The black invitation envelope sits beside it.

For a moment, I just stare at it.

Maybe this is stupid.

Maybe tonight will turn out to be nothing.

Or worse.

But then another thought creeps in. A quieter one.

What if it isn’t?

What if this is my way back?

Not necessarily to my family.

God knows I don’t want them. And I’m more than sure that that feeling is more than mutual.

But back to the life I used to have.

The parties. The private jets. The feeling of never having to check a price tag. Expensive champagne. All kinds of drugs the world has to offer.

Maybe this event is full of rich people looking for… something. Investments. Connections. Pretty faces.

Hell, if some old billionaire wants to throw money at me in exchange for company, I’m not exactly in a position to be picky.

The realization should probably make me feel ashamed.

Instead, it just makes me feel practical.

At this point?

I’d take it. Sugar baby. Personal assistant. Personal whore. Doesn’t fucking matter, as long I stop living the way I do now, if you can call it a living.

Whatever.

As long as it gets me out of this cold, empty apartment.

As long as I don’t have to keep living like this.

I grab my phone before I can change my mind.

Open the Uber app.

My thumb hovers over the screen for half a second.

Then I press the button.

Ride confirmed.

Seven minutes away.

I exhale slowly, grabbing my jacket from the chair by the door.

“Well,” I murmured to the empty apartment.

“Guess we’re doing this.”

For better or worse… tonight might actually change everything.