Chapter 9
Sadie
The Mountain Debutante Ball is a ridiculous tradition.
It’s Devil’s Peak’s excuse to dress grown women in satin sashes and auction off dinner dates for charity while the church ladies pretend it’s wholesome.
I volunteer backstage because that feels safe. Clipboards. Safety pins. Emergency hairspray. Not center stage under a chandelier while half the town evaluates my “bid value.”
“Sadie, darling, hold this,” Mrs. Dottie says, shoving a bouquet of fake peonies into my hands as I help zip up a nervous twenty-two-year-old named Marlene.
“I’m not participating,” I remind her.
“You’re assisting.”
Marlene sways on her heels.
“You okay?” I ask.
She looks green. “I don’t feel—”
She bolts for the bathroom.
Mrs. Dottie gasps. “Oh heavens.”
“I’ll go check on her,” I offer.
Before I can move, Mrs. Dottie grabs my elbow.
“You’re roughly the same size.”
My stomach drops. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Sadie Marshall,” she hisses, already tugging a sash over my shoulder. “This is for the children.”
“For the children?”
“For the firehouse roof repairs.”
“That feels like manipulation.”
“It is.”
She pushes me toward the curtain. The band strikes up something dramatic and vaguely romantic. The announcer booms, “Next up, Miss Marlene Whitaker—”
Mrs. Dottie shoves me through the velvet curtain.
“Surprise substitution!” she calls brightly.
The stage lights blind me for a second. When my eyes adjust, I see them. The entire town. Rows of folding chairs. The firefighters clustered together near the bar.
And Levi.
He’s in a dark suit that makes him look like sin disguised as respectability. His tie is loosened slightly at the collar, like he’s already irritated.
His gaze locks on me instantly.
His jaw tightens.
The announcer recovers quickly. “Ladies and gentlemen, looks like we’ve got ourselves a special entry! Chief Marshall’s daughter herself, Miss Sadie Marshall!”
The crowd murmurs. I grip the bouquet harder.
“This is a joke,” I mutter into the mic stand.
The audience laughs like I’ve said something charming. Mrs. Dottie beams from the wings.
The announcer grins. “Let’s open the bidding at five hundred dollars for dinner with this fine young lady!”
Someone whistles. My face burns.
“Five hundred!” an older rancher calls.
Polite applause.
“Seven hundred!” someone else counters.
This is supposed to stay playful.
A harmless fundraiser.
Then one of the younger firefighters—Tyler again—leans back in his chair and calls out, “One thousand!”
The crowd reacts. My eyes flick to Levi. He hasn’t moved. But his shoulders have gone rigid. Tyler smirks in Levi’s direction.
Another firefighter pipes up. “Fifteen hundred!”
Laughter. The energy shifts. This isn’t about charity anymore. It’s about provoking Levi.
“Two thousand!” Tyler shouts again.
Gasps ripple through the room. I swallow hard.
Levi stands slowly.
The room quiets. His voice is calm. Controlled. “Two thousand.”
The crowd goes still.
I blink.
He didn’t raise it.
He matched it.
Tyler grins and shoots back, “Twenty-five hundred!”
Someone near the back whistles.
My pulse spikes.
This is spiraling.
Levi’s eyes never leave mine.
“Three thousand,” he says.
The room erupts into chatter. Tyler hesitates, glancing around like he’s realizing this isn’t funny anymore. Another firefighter—Mark—jumps in just to stoke the fire. “Thirty-five hundred!”
Laughter.
Nervous this time.
Levi’s jaw tightens. “Four thousand.”
Silence.
The announcer clears his throat. “Do I hear forty-five?”
Tyler opens his mouth.
Levi doesn’t even look at him.
“Five thousand.”
The number lands like a thunderclap.
The entire ballroom freezes.
Even the band falters.
I stare at him.
Five thousand dollars?
For a charity date?
For me?
Tyler leans back slowly, hands raised in surrender.
Mark whistles low. “Damn.”
The announcer blinks rapidly. “Five thousand dollars. Going once…”
The room holds its breath.
“Going twice…”
My heart pounds so loud I can hear it.
“Sold!”
The gavel slams.
The room explodes.
Applause. Whistles. Gasps.
Mrs. Dottie clutches her pearls like she’s witnessing a proposal.
Levi doesn’t smile.
He steps forward.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Every movement says mine.
I try to hold my composure as he climbs the steps to the stage.
He stops in front of me.
Close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw.
“You’re enjoying this?” he asks quietly.
“I didn’t volunteer for this,” I whisper back.
“You didn’t say no.”
“I was shoved.”
His hand closes around mine.
Warm.
Firm.
Possessive.
“You could’ve walked off.”
“And let the roof cave in?” I challenge.
His eyes flash.
“You think I care about the roof?”
The crowd is still clapping, watching, waiting like Levi and I are their favorite reality show.
He turns to the audience and gives a tight nod.
“Happy to support the firehouse,” he says evenly. The applause doubles. Then he leans in so only I can hear. “Walk.”
I let him guide me off stage. The second my heels hit the floor, he doesn’t release my hand. He keeps moving. Through the crowd. Past the buffet. Toward the hallway leading to the church offices. The noise fades behind us.
When we reach the empty corridor, he stops abruptly.
I yank my hand free.
“What was that?” I demand.
“What was what?”
“You just spent five thousand dollars!”
“I can afford it.”
“That’s not the point.”
He steps closer. “It is the point.”
“No, it isn’t!”
His voice drops lower. “You let them bid on you.”
“I didn’t let them do anything.”
“You stood there.”
“I was blindsided!”
“You smiled.”
I throw my hands up. “What was I supposed to do? Cry?”
“You were being auctioned.”
“For charity!”
“For attention.”
My temper flares. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
He steps closer again. “You don’t get to let men treat you like a prize to be won.”
“I am a prize.”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like something they can take.”
“You took me.”
His nostrils flare. “I didn’t take you.”
“You outbid them.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question hangs heavy.
His eyes darken.
“Because I don’t share.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
“This wasn’t about sharing,” I say, but my voice loses some edge.
“It wasn’t?” he counters.
“You don’t get territorial just because someone else looks at me.”
“I’ve been territorial since we were sixteen.”
I blink.
“That’s not romantic.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic.”
“Then what are you trying to be?”
“Honest.”
His hand lifts, brushing a stray piece of hair from my shoulder.
“You think it was funny?” he asks.
“The bidding?”
“Yeah.”
I hesitate. “At first.”
“And after?”
“After you said five thousand?”
I swallow. “After that it didn’t feel like a joke.”
His gaze softens slightly. “Good.”
My heart pounds. “You don’t get to control who bids on me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“But you just did.”
“No,” he says quietly. “I decided.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No,” he repeats. “Control is fear. Decision is ownership.”
My pulse spikes.
“Ownership?” I echo.
He steps into my space again. “You wanted me to fight for you.”
The words steal my breath. “You said I never showed up.”
“That’s not—”
“You wanted proof.”
I stare at him. “That was proof?”
“You think I’d stand there and let someone else win you?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
The heat in his eyes makes it hard to think.
“This was fake,” I remind him weakly.
He leans closer. “Was it?”
The hallway suddenly feels too small. “You’re making this bigger than it is.”
“No,” he says softly. “You are.”
His hand slides to my waist again. The same possessive grip from the closet. My breath stutters. “Levi…”
“You let them look at you like you were available.”
“I am available.”
His thumb presses slightly harder against my hip.
“Not like that.”
“And how am I available?” I challenge.
He studies me for a long moment.
“Not to them.”
My stomach flips.
The noise from the ballroom swells faintly behind the door.
The world still exists. But in this hallway, it’s just us.
“You don’t get to claim me,” I say, though my voice isn’t as steady as I want it to be.
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I do.”
My breath catches.
“You’re not my boyfriend,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “I’m worse.”
The heat in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
“Levi,” I say, trying to steady myself, “you can’t just throw money around and act like that solves—”
“It wasn’t about the money.”
“Then what was it about?”
He leans in until our foreheads nearly touch. “It was about not losing you again.”
The confession cracks something open inside me.
“You already lost me once,” I whisper.
“I won’t again.”
The certainty in his voice is terrifying.
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can choose it.” His hand slides higher, fingers curling slightly at my side. “Say it,” he murmurs.
“Say what?”
“That you didn’t like watching them bid.”
I swallow. “I didn’t.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“That you were waiting.”
“For what?”
“For me.”
The truth hangs heavy between us.
I hesitate.
Then exhale. “I was.”
His eyes flare.
“Don’t,” I warn softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you won.”
He doesn’t smile.
“I didn’t win,” he says quietly. “I claimed.”
The word settles deep.
Behind us, the ballroom doors swing open and laughter spills into the hallway. Voices approach. He steps back just enough to look presentable. But his eyes never leave mine.
“Five thousand,” I say lightly, trying to regain control. “You realize Mrs. Dottie is going to expect a very enthusiastic date.”
His mouth curves faintly. “She’ll get one.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.”
The slow burn between us shifts again. Hotter.
He offers his arm.
“For the record,” he says quietly as we walk back toward the ballroom, “if they try that stunt again next year…”
“Yes?”
“I’m starting at ten.”
My heart does something reckless. The crowd notices us re-enter together.
Whispers ignite immediately. The church ladies beam like they just orchestrated world peace.
And as Levi’s hand settles possessively at the small of my back for the rest of the night, I realize something terrifying.
The fake dating isn’t spiraling out of control.
It already has.
And the way he looked at me when that gavel fell?
That wasn’t charity.
That wasn’t performance.
That was a man who refuses to lose the same woman twice.