CHAPTER 8 – THE VIRGIN AUCTION
Daisy
The grand ballroom’s ceiling must be three stories high, which means the air up here is thinner, or at least my lungs think so.
It’s looks like something between a cathedral and a billionaire’s birthday party, with gold trim everywhere, every surface marble or mirror or crushed velvet.
But I’m not out there, among the rich men and their bone-deep confidence; I’m backstage, heart fluttering with my eyes wide.
Sophia is with me, which is the only reason I haven’t bolted yet.
The beautiful brunette’s in her element, doing her thing with a makeup brush and a practiced eye, painting a version of my face that looks like I just stepped off a runway.
My hands tremble in my lap, clamped together so tight my knuckles turn ghost white.
“Hold still, Daisy,” Sophia murmurs, lining my lips with a color she calls ‘virgin blush.’ “It’s almost go time.”
Every time I try to inhale, it smells like roses and something deeper—sandalwood, maybe, or the scent of expensive furniture.
The music from the main ballroom is just a shiver under the floor, but I can hear men laughing, their voices rumbling through the walls, punctuated by little bursts of applause or the sharp clack of glass against glass. It’s a hum, but with teeth.
Sophia leans in, inspecting my eyes. “Perfect, you’re gorgeous,” she pronounces with satisfaction. “The buyers are going to lose their minds.”
I try to smile, but it comes out wan. Instead, I glance at my reflection in the mirror—long blonde hair, soft and freshly curled, skin dewy and perfect.
The sheer white gown they put me in clings to every single curve, the fabric so thin that with the wrong backlighting, I might as well be nude.
I try not to move, afraid the whole thing will slip off and leave me even more exposed.
My heart pounds in my throat. I tell myself this is just another performance, like the walks with Sophia or the dancing by the pool. But tonight is real. Tonight, I am the show.
The door opens with a click, and Madame Veronique appears, gliding in like a model. Her dress is black, slinky, minimal. She’s put her hair up and lined her lips in a color just a shade too dark for comfort, like she wants to remind everyone she’s in charge.
She surveys me for a second—just a second—then nods to Sophia, businesslike.
“Thank you, Sophia,” she says. “Please make sure the lot numbers are ready.”
Sophia nods and disappears, leaving me alone with Veronique and her calculating eyes.
“Daisy,” Veronique says, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “do you understand how the evening will proceed?”
I nod. “Sophia explained it. I walk, then the bidding starts, then I—”
She holds up a hand, silencing me. “No. You do not merely walk. You display. You become desire. You control the room with your presence, and you show the buyers you are worth every penny.” Her eyes narrow. “If you let the nerves get you, they will sense it. And the price will drop.”
Her words are calm, almost gentle, but each one lands with a thud.
“Confidence, poise, compliance,” she continues, ticking each word off on slim fingers. “The men are paying for a fantasy, Daisy. Give them one.”
I stare at her, not trusting my voice.
She steps closer, arranges a strand of my hair, then tugs the neckline of my gown down a millimeter so the top curves just above my nipple. The gesture is oddly maternal and clinical at once.
“Do you remember your walk?” she asks.
I nod, then stand, knees weak, and show her. I move in a straight line across the little room, trying to channel Sophia’s lessons—hips loose, chin up, eyes locked on a point beyond the world. I pause at the end, then turn, arms at my side like I’m holding secrets.
Veronique watches, silent and predatory, then smiles.
“You will do perfectly,” she says. “Just one more thing.” She presses something cold and metal into my hand: a small, silver necklace with my auction number engraved in script on a pendant the shape of an auction paddle.
“If you feel overwhelmed,” she whispers, “breathe and think of the future you want. Picture it as you walk.”
I nod, clutching the necklace so hard my fingers cramp.
Sophia returns, glowing, her own dress skintight and midnight blue. “They’re almost ready for you,” she says, bouncing on her toes. She comes over, squeezes my hand, and takes the necklace from me, helping me put it on.
“You’ve got this, girlfriend,” she whispers encouragingly. “Just do it like we practiced. You’re going to knock them dead.”
I want to hug her, or laugh, or faint. Instead, I nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
The next moments pass in a blur. A staff girl with a headset ushers us to a backstage corridor, and I follow in a daze, my heels clicking on the marble, my gown floating behind me. The air is electric here, thick with anticipation and the scent of too many flowers.
We stop at the edge of a velvet curtain, where the music pulses louder, and I hear an MC warming up the crowd, his voice smooth as velvet.
Sophia gives my arm a quick squeeze and then lets go.
“You’re next,” she mouths.
I wait in the dark, my body a live wire, every muscle trembling.
I should run, I think. I should turn and run and never look back. But I don’t. I stay rooted, knowing I asked for this, and that if I hesitate, everything will fall apart.
Behind me, Veronique says, “Now.”
The spotlight snaps on. My name booms from the speakers.
“Gentlemen, please welcome the night’s final lot: Daisy.”
I step forward.
The world explodes into light.
The spotlight hits so hard I think my soul leaves my body for a second, floats up into the chandelier haze, and watches the scene from above. I blink, but the stage is too bright, and the only way forward is forward, so I put one foot out and step into the blaze.
The runway is a strip of white marble that stretches out into the room like a knife.
All around, the ballroom is transformed—a sunken amphitheater ringed in velvet, the seats plush and occupied by some of the wealthiest men on earth.
Black suits, white shirts, gold watches and faces rugged yet handsome, all of them waiting for the main event: me.
There’s a low thump of music, slow and hypnotic, just enough to set the pace.
A pair of women in tiny cocktail dresses, both with slicked-back hair and silver trays, circulate the outer rim, refilling crystal glasses.
They pause occasionally, smiling at the handsome billionaires, but my eyes skim over them quickly because they’re merely decoration.
At the far end of the runway, above the crowd, a raised dais holds the auctioneer’s podium. Madame Veronique stands beside it, her black dress swallowing the stage lights. She nods at me, then looks down at her phone, as if checking something important.
A man’s voice—the auctioneer’s—booms from hidden speakers, oily smooth and perfectly unctuous. “Gentlemen, tonight we present a singular rarity. A verified diamond. Daisy, uncut and untouched.”
A ripple of low, masculine laughter, then a hush.
I start to walk.
Every lesson Sophia drilled into me takes over: hips loose, chin up, eyes forward.
I move slow, letting the fabric of the gown glide against my thighs, the hem fluttering just above my ankles.
My feet are in four-inch crystal heels, but I don’t stumble.
Each step lands with a click, a punctuation mark that keeps the crowd’s attention glued to me.
The closer I get to the center of the room, the more real the faces become. The men are insanely handsome, with black, brown, and green eyes, their features strong yet patrician. They’re locked on, following the sway of my body with assessing eyes.
In the middle of the front row sits Hunter.
My savior’s suit is black, shirt open at the throat. He’s not smiling, not moving, but his blue eyes burn through me, more than the spotlights, more than anything else in the room. I feel it—his need, his claim, the dark, fierce promise from the garden. My legs almost give out, but I keep walking.
At the end of the runway, there’s a little circle marked out in silver tape. I step onto it, then pause, as rehearsed.
The music shifts, slower, the beat thickening.
I remember: confidence, poise, compliance.
I put my hand to my neck and slowly, so slowly, draw my fingers down the line of my breast, grazing the top of the gown. The room is so quiet I can hear the silk whisper against my skin. I glance up, locking eyes with Hunter, and the world contracts to just us.
I slip one shoulder of the gown off, then the other. It slides down to my waist, pooling there, held up only by my crossed arms. I arch my back, let the motion expose a flash of lace bra underneath, the cups white and sheer, my nipples just visible.
A low murmur goes through the crowd.
I turn, presenting my back, and let the gown slip to my hips.
My bottom is covered only by the thinnest strip of mesh and lace, showcasing the ripe peach.
I bend forward at the waist, just enough to show the shape of me, then stand, toss my hair over one shoulder, and let the gown fall to the floor.
Now I’m standing in nothing but tiny scraps of lingerie and high, high heels, the cold air a brush against my skin.
The auctioneer’s voice again, lazy, amused: “Shall we open the bidding, gentlemen?”
He starts at a hundred thousand.
A paddle goes up instantly, and another, and another. The numbers tick upward so fast it feels like a game show, but my attention is on the men’s eyes, how they fixate on my body, how some of them lick their lips or adjust themselves in their seats.
Hunter’s face is pure fire, but he doesn’t raise his paddle yet.