Chapter 3
Sadie
If nerves were visible, mine would be a frantic flock beating against my ribs.
The velvet curtain at my back is cool and heavy, brushing my knees like it’s trying to nudge me forward—or swallow me whole.
Either seems possible.
I shouldn’t be here.
If I made a list of Places Cassadie Hart Should Never Show Her Face, an auction for companionship in a remote Montana town would be item number three—right after anywhere without a back exit and any place crowded enough that I can’t watch every angle.
But this place, this auction, is my way out. Because I’m out of money. Out of options. Out of places to hide.
A girl with a criminal empire on her heels can’t be picky.
I smooth my hands down the thrift-store dress I bought with the last of the cash in the trunk of the car I escaped in—a soft teal thing that fits almost right if I hold my breath. It’s simple and modest and trying its best.
The cardigan around my shoulders is the same one I wore to late-night cramming sessions at vet school. The cuffs are pilled. One elbow thinning. But it feels like a piece of the life I almost had once.
I tug it tighter even though the stage lights are warm.
My hair is brushed but not styled. My makeup is Dollar Store mascara and shaky-handed concealer. I don’t look glamorous. I look like I’m pretending not to be terrified.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what I’m doing.
This auction isn’t about romance. It’s about survival. It’s my last chance to find somewhere—someone—safe enough to breathe.
The stagehand lifts a finger. My cue.
My stomach drops. My pulse tries to make a break for it.
How did Shay do this?
Shay O’Riordan—now Sutton—the girl I once studied with, who somehow ended up selling herself at this auction a year ago.
Last month, when I arrived in Montana out of breath and out of options, I messaged her.
I need help. Please.
Four words. No context.
She replied almost instantly, like someone who knows the shape of fear.
Sadie? Hey. I’m here. I’ve got you. Are you somewhere safe to talk?
She didn’t ask for details. Didn’t pry. Maybe she didn’t need to. Girls who grow up with ghosts recognize each other on sight.
I refused to bring danger to her family’s door. So she gave me one name:
Marlie.
The woman who changed her life. The conduit to Havenridge. The reason Shay got her fresh start.
“Call her,” Shay said. “Tell her everything or nothing. She’ll help you.”
So I did.
And now I’m standing backstage at an auction because a girl I once traded homework answers with threw me a lifeline ten years later. Sometimes, the people who save you are the ones who knew you before your world turned into a battlefield.
I take a deep breath, remembering Marlie’s words from the phone call.
You set the rules. No touching. No pressure. You walk off that stage if anyone breathes wrong. Understood?
“Understood,” I whisper now, as if she’s beside me.
You’re not the first woman who came here to disappear, Sadie. But disappearing doesn’t mean losing yourself.
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one with a metaphorical price tag painted on her skull.
I don’t want a husband. I don’t want romance. I want air. A choice. And a life that isn’t shaped by fear.
The announcer’s voice rises beside me. “Time for our final lady tonight…”
Too late to run.
I step out.
The light hits me like a slap. My pupils tighten. My skin prickles.
Rows of chairs stretch out beneath the stage. Soft jazz hums. Warm lighting. Plush seating. It’s curated kindness, just like Marlie promised.
But shadows can hide monsters.
My name is Sadie Brennan tonight. The alias feels flimsy, like it might dissolve if someone asks too many questions.
I keep my chin up and scan the room. Not faces yet.
Exits. Cover. Weak points.
Left side: two double doors.
Right: curtain leading backstage.
Ceiling rigging: not climbable.
Only after the map is in place do I let myself look at them.
Kind eyes. Curious eyes. A few slick smiles. A woman in the back taking notes.
Then—
Left side. Back row.
Everything in me goes still.
He’s sitting with two other men. All three are built like mountains. But it’s him my body recognizes before my brain does. He’s not trying to blend in. He just exists like gravity.
Broad shoulders in a sheepskin coat. Stillness carved from weather. Storm-gray eyes that meet mine without flinching. Not greedy. Not assessing like prey.
Seeing.
The ground shifts beneath me. Heat flares along my skin—not fear, but something I don’t have a name for.
His gaze steadies me. Unravels me.
The announcer reads the ground rules I set: no touching, companionship only, consent required at every step.
Bidding starts at a number that makes my throat tighten.
Paddles lift, and my vision blurs for a heartbeat.
I am not a body for barter. This is safety. This is choosing something—anything—before danger chooses me.
He lifts his paddle once. No hesitation. No scanning the room. No calculation. Just commitment.
The price climbs.
He lifts the paddle again. And again. His expression never changes.
And when the announcer says, “Sold,” I don’t feel purchased.
I feel… chosen in a way that feels like protection, not possession.
Backstage is dimmer and quieter. Plush carpet hushes the sound of my sensible heels, each step sinking into softness like a secret.
Fairy lights glitter above cushioned chairs and warm wooden beams—this could be a yoga retreat if I hadn’t just auctioned off my life to the man with the storm-gray stare.
I slip into the changing room and peel off the dress, leaving me in nothing but my underwear and the weight of what I just did.
The air is cooler back here, but my skin still tingles. I pull on my clothes—jeans, worn hoodie, thin coat, scuffed boots—their familiar smell grounding me, a reminder of the last safe place I slept.
But a part of me still feels the imprint of his gaze.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and take a steadying breath.
When I step out again, a poised woman in a charcoal blazer with a Marlie’s Angels badge on her lanyard greets me with a warm, calm smile.
“Hi, Sadie. You doing okay?”
I nod, throat tight.
“Before you meet your match, I want to remind you—if anything doesn’t feel right, or you want to leave for any reason, just say the safety phrase: ‘I think I left the kettle on.’ We’ll step in. No questions asked.”
I nod again, this time firmer. “I remember.”
“Good,” she says, voice gentle. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Wyatt’s ready for you. Just a quick formality—we’ll get you both signed off before you go.”
She leads me a few steps into a private alcove, where he’s waiting.
Wyatt.