24. Riley
Riley
“F ill it out to the best of your ability.”
Raja’s beautiful in a way that sets my teeth on edge—glossy jet-black hair, cherry red lips, amber eyes coolly dissecting me beneath thick lashes. Stunning enough it’s annoying. Exactly Dante’s type.
Has Dante fucked her?
Ugh . Why do I even care?
She taps a manicured nail against the mahogany desk— click, click, click —as I freeze over the stack of paperwork.
“Is all this really necessary?”
Her lips twitch into a flawless Stepford smile. “Absolutely. Protection goes both ways. But if you’re having second thoughts?—”
“Protection from… dental records? Birthmarks? Whether or not I dye my hair? My ticklish spots?”
And for fuck’s sake—why exactly do they need to know if my hymen’s intact?
Her nod is perfectly composed. “It’s for everyone’s safety. Complete confidentiality is assured.”
“What’s next?” I shoot back, sarcasm cutting deep. “Blood type? Netflix guilty pleasures? Who’s on my Hall Pass list?”
“Actually,” Raja says smoothly, “those are on page four.” Her voice softens insincerely, “Of course, if you’d rather leave, we completely understand.”
Does she seem way too satisfied offering me an out, or am I paranoid?
Like she’s silently counting down the seconds until I crack under the pressure.
Tempting, but not happening. Not after dancing practically naked for Dante. I’m ass-deep in the D’Angelo empire, and bailing now would be pointless.
And wait a minute. Did she say we .
I look back at the ridiculous contract and narrow my eyes. “Everyone here signs this?”
For the briefest second, her practiced composure cracks.
Bingo.
Heat burns through my veins. My jaw tightens, irritation bubbling up like acid in my throat. Dante’s fingerprints are all over this twisted contract. Right down to the any other men in my life is grounds for immediate termination clause.
Raja quickly smooths her expression, offering a tight, controlled smile. “Some clients have very specific…requirements. Yours happens to be especially, eh , particular.”
I narrow my eyes, suspicion crackling like electricity beneath my skin.
What if Dante is my client?
The thought hooks itself on a million dirty thoughts flying recklessly through my mind, each vividly stamped with a chiseled frame, wavy hair, and rough stubble I can still feel against my lips.
Half of me is terrified it is him. And the other half? Terrified it’s not.
I hover in this twisted limbo between cowardice and hope, too chicken shit to ask directly, too scared of the truth.
Instead, I opt for safer ground. “Who’s my client?”
Her gaze flicks down to the papers, then back up, icy composure sliding seamlessly into place, completely sidestepping my question. “It’s a standard contract.”
Standard, my ass.
I read further. My thoughts snag on one word. “What’s this about an auction?”
She blinks, genuinely surprised for the first time. “None of this was explained?”
“Nope.”
A hard crease forms between her brows, her eyes flicking briefly toward the closed door as though reconsidering her next words carefully. “Some clients prefer… exclusivity. They like to secure a contract privately. Others prefer a more competitive process.”
My stomach drops, nerves scattering like broken glass inside me. “Competitive,” I echo flatly, like I’m some goddamn collectible at a twisted auction house?
“And by competitive, you mean?—”
Her gaze sharpens, suddenly wary, her voice quiet and uncomfortably precise. “They bid, Riley. On you. Highest bidder wins.”
Fuck.
I grip the pen tighter, knuckles white, adrenaline storming hot through my veins.
If the client doesn’t want me, they fucking sell me?
Auction me off like some luxury car?
Or worse, a goddamn Pokémon card?
Anger scorches up my spine, igniting every nerve ending. But beneath it simmers something sharper.
Deeper.
Love.
Love for my sister.
Love strong enough to burn this world to the ground—starting with the D’Angelos.
Fine.
If the devil wants me on a silver platter, I’ll give him an eight-course meal. And I hope the fucker chokes.
In a bold, defiant, and thoroughly pissed-off flourish, I find the Preferences section and unleash a tidal wave of romance-book filth onto the page. Every dark fantasy, forbidden trope, and morally questionable kink I’ve ever pretended I didn’t highlight.
Shit on my e-reader I’d deny under oath.
This isn’t Fifty Shades—it’s Fifty Shades times ten thousand.
If Dante thinks he’s ready for this, he better buckle the hell up.
My pen scratches furiously across the pages, Raja’s eyes widening incrementally with each explicit detail. Her carefully polished facade fractures again, cheeks tinting the faintest shade of pink.
If Dante thinks he knows what he’s signed up for, game fucking on.
Raja collects every last page, her composure struggling to snap back into place. She gestures stiffly toward the sleek black satin garment bag hanging ominously in the corner, zipped tight.
An early Christmas gift I can’t wait to desecrate.
“I’ll just get dressed.” My voice drips with sugary venom.
Her mouth parts slightly, faltered smile wobbling at the edges. “I’ll…let the client know.”
You do that.