Chapter 1 #2
We stood in line according to our numbers and waited outside another door that led, I presumed from the glimpses I caught, to a stage.
Olga was right. The auction did not take long.
The first woman up was one of the French girl’s friends.
She went in nervous and came out less than ten minutes later, smiling.
She looked like she had gotten her desired husband, and the other women were congratulating her. “How much did you get?” Frenchie asked.
“Five million,” the friend responded. Everyone else in the room gasped. Damn. I had underestimated these men. They had a lot of money.
Make sure she gets no less than two million. That’s what my father had said to Olga. I hadn’t ingratiated myself with the men, but hopefully Dennis or Larry had that much to throw at me. Or should I say, my father? I doubted I would see any of that money.
I guess it will not be so bad, I thought, but didn’t Olga say they wanted to be here? They wanted this arrangement? The next woman went on, and the next. The queue slowly dwindled until it was my turn.
“Next up, number seventeen,” I heard Olga call out.
At the time, the door opened, and the woman who gave me the sash guided me onto the stage.
It was a theater with bright lights, curtains, and a stage large enough for any Broadway production.
The light was so bright, I had to blink to adjust to it.
It was not unlike walking a runway, I realized, although the light in the seats was so dim compared to the light on stage that I could barely make out the bidders.
“Number seventeen is a sought-after supermodel. She has walked the runways of Milan and Paris and graced the covers of magazines. You might have seen her on a billboard or two.” I almost sniggered at Olga’s hammed-up description of me.
Yes, I had modeled in Milan and Paris, but it wasn’t for top fashion houses, but for independent designers.
And yes, I had been in magazines, but not on the cover or on any feature spread.
As for billboards, I’ve been on two. Or at least my bottom half has been.
It was a shaving cream commercial that only showed my legs.
But the description seemed to satisfy the bidders.
A rumble rolled through the room, and I heard a few people shift in their seats.
“But not only do you get a supermodel in your bed when you marry seventeen,” Olga said, continuing her glaze fest. “You also get a polished young lady who is not only sophisticated but attended finishing school. You’re guaranteed she will be a perfect hostess for any party you throw.”
She went quiet as though letting her last words sink in.
The room was silent. Then she said, “Bidding starts at one million dollars.” I turned to her, shocked.
Most women said bidding had started at two hundred and fifty thousand and most had landed at one million.
Unless she wanted to embarrass me for not following her instructions and mingling, Olga better knew what she was doing.
For a moment, no one raised their cards, and my heart sank.
As much as I hated this entire process, getting rejected by a bunch of crusty old men stung.
But then several cards went up. More than ten.
The smile in Olga’s voice was undeniable.
“Good. Do we have one point five million?” Again, the men raised their bid cards.
Then two million. Two point five million.
Three million. Three point five million.
Four million. At five million, Olga raised the numbers in one million increments.
And still, the cards went up. At ten million, a few dropped off.
I glanced at Olga. She could not be happier at seeing these numbers.
At twenty million, only three men remained.
Racing against each other. Bid number one I was sure was Larry.
I had spotted his silver beard in the corner of the room when I walked onto the stage.
I was hoping the other was Dennis. I could hear his unmistakable cough in the general area where bid number five was being raised.
The third man was a mystery. He was at the far end of the room, even more shrouded in darkness than the other two, but I could see his bid number clearly as day. Bid number nine.
“Twenty-one million,” Olga said. Bid number one put his bid card down. There goes Larry. But nine and five kept theirs up. “Just the two gentlemen left,” Olga said. “She must have made a lasting impression on you, gentlemen. Twenty-two?”
Both their cards went up. The price went up again and again until it reached twenty-six million.
At this point, Olga was practically dancing, her hips swaying as she called out, “Twenty-seven?” Five raised his bid card.
Nine didn’t. Then I heard, “Fifty million!” from where nine was sitting.
Gasps went through the theater. My stomach dropped.
I knew that voice. It was none other than Tyler Hawthorne.
Olga went quiet. She must have lost her voice for a minute, but she quickly regained it. “Did you say fifty million dollars?”
“Yes,” Tyler said.
Olga cleared her throat. “F-fifty million dollars? Anyone else for fifty?” she said, looking in the general direction of number five. I could barely make it out, but I think I saw number five shake his head. “Going once, going twice. Sold to number five for fifty million dollars!”