Chapter 12
Lila
This was a terrible idea. I knew it when Sophie grabbed my hand and practically shoved me onto the stage, beaming like this was the most brilliant thing ever.
Standing under the intense spotlight, an entire ballroom watching me, my stomach is absolutely in my throat.
The auctioneer smiles at me, oblivious to my discomfort. “For our next auction item, we have something truly special.”
From the side of the stage, Sophie is grinning like an idiot, giving me an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up. Like this is fun. Like I’m not seconds away from spontaneous combustion.
I glare at her. She winks. She’s not about to be bid on like some charity dating show gone wrong.
I plaster on a polite smile, hands clasped in front of me, ignoring the amused murmurs rippling through the crowd.
Sophie had pitched this as a fun experience, an evening of baking and floral arranging, but the moment I stepped onto the stage, it became abundantly clear that some of the attendees, particularly the older men at the front tables—thought they were bidding on me, not a workshop.
I swear one of them just adjusted his glasses for a better look.
God, kill me now.
I clear my throat as the auctioneer continues. “A private, hands-on baking and floral arrangement class with Lila Ng, owner of Bloom & Brew. A unique experience that combines art, food, and creativity!”
A smattering of applause. Some nods of interest. I force my shoulders to stay loose, even though my pulse is sprinting.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity to learn from a beloved member of our community,” the auctioneer adds. “Shall we start the bidding at fifty pounds?”
A polite bid comes from an older woman near the back. Thank God.
“Fifty pounds,” the auctioneer announces. “Do I hear seventy-five?”
Another hand goes up. Then another. A slow but steady pace.
Okay. Okay. This isn’t so bad.
Then a smooth, deep voice cuts through the chatter.
“Ten thousand pounds.”
I freeze.
The auctioneer blinks. The entire ballroom stills.
Sophie’s jaw drops. Olivia chokes on her champagne. Willow lets out a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeal.
I don’t even need to turn around to know exactly who it is.
Ben.
Of course.
He’s draped in his chair like he has nowhere better to be, the crisp black tux fitting him too damn well, the open collar just undone enough to hint at something reckless beneath the polish.
His dark blond hair is slicked back, like he ran his fingers through it just to mess it up.
One wrist rests lazily on the edge of his chair, fingers tapping idly against the table, like he has all the time in the world. Like he owns the damn place.
His gaze is locked on mine, unreadable, waiting.
The auctioneer visibly chokes. “Ah—well—that’s—” He coughs, straightening his bow tie, eyes darting toward the crowd like he needs confirmation that he didn’t just hallucinate that number. “We have a bid of ten thousand pounds.”
The auctioneer clears his throat again, visibly rattled. “Do I hear eleven thousand?”
Crickets.
Not a single hand raises. No one even breathes.
Of course not. Who the hell is going to bid against that?
I force my jaw to unclench, but my heart is still hammering so loud I swear the microphone might pick it up.
“Going once,” the auctioneer says, hesitating for half a second, like maybe someone will swoop in and save me from whatever the hell Ben thinks he’s doing.
No one does.
“Going twice.”
I swallow hard.
“Sold! To bidder number—” The auctioneer scans the crowd, brow furrowing. “Sir, if you could hold up your number, please?”
Slowly, deliberately, Ben raises his number card, the movement so effortlessly smug it makes my blood boil.
The auctioneer barely finishes confirming, “Bidder number seventy-two!” The room erupts with applause, a wave of claps and murmured excitement rippling through the ballroom, but I barely hear it over the blood roaring in my ears.
Ben doesn’t look at the auctioneer. His gaze stays locked on mine, dark blond hair slicked back, a hint of stubble sharpening his jawline. He looks infuriatingly good, like the kind of man who knows he just turned the entire night in his favour.
The worst part?
He has the audacity to smirk.
Ben just lifts his glass toward me in a silent toast.
Smug. Smug. Smug.
I am going to murder him.
***
I grip the edge of the podium so hard my knuckles ache, my stomach still flipping like I’m in free fall.
Ten thousand pounds.
For an evening with me.
Or at least, that’s what the entire room is whispering about. Never mind that it’s supposed to be a workshop, a business experience. No. Ben Ashcroft had to go and make it look like I was some sort of high-priced date.
The bastard.
The second the auctioneer moves on to the next item, Sophie tugs me off the stage, her grip like a vice. “What. The. Hell?” she whisper-yells, dragging me to the side of the ballroom.
“I don’t know!” I hiss back. “You think I planned for that?”
She whirls toward Willow and Olivia, who are already waiting, eyes wide, half in shock, half in pure, unfiltered amusement. Olivia shakes her head. “That was the single most unhinged power move I have ever seen.”
Willow exhales slowly, adjusting her dress. “It was kind of hot, though.”
I shoot her a glare.
Sophie folds her arms, glancing back toward Ben. “Well, if his goal was to make an entire room think you two have unresolved sexual tension, then congratulations, mission accomplished.”
My stomach twists.
Because we do have unresolved tension and now it’s a ten-thousand-pound disaster.
I open my mouth to respond when a deep, amused voice cuts in.
“So.”
We all turn.
Marcus. Looking every inch the intimidating businessman in his tux, sipping his whiskey with the cool, calculating gaze of a man who’s just been handed a puzzle he intends to solve.
That puzzle?
Ben Ashcroft.
“Where’s your admirer?” Marcus muses, cocking a brow.
“He’s not my admirer,” I grit out.
Marcus tilts his head. “No? He just dropped ten grand for a casual night of flower arranging?”
Willow hums. “Maybe he’s really passionate about floral design.”
I groan, pressing my fingers to my temple. “Will you all stop?”
Marcus doesn’t. He just studies me like I’m a contract he’s about to renegotiate. “So. You okay with this?”
The question is careful, but there’s a quiet steel beneath it. He’s watching for any hesitation, any sign that I’m not okay with it.
Honestly, I don’t know what I am, but Ben has offered to donate a considerable amount for their cause.
I cross my arms, forcing my voice steady. “I can handle Ben.”
Marcus looks unconvinced. “You sure?”
Sophie nudges him with her elbow. “Marcus, relax. If Ben tries anything, Lila will rip him apart before you even get the chance.”
His lips press into a thin line, then he looks back at me, unreadable. “Lila, you don’t have to go through with this,” he says, voice steady, measured. “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll cover the donation. Ten grand, twenty, it doesn’t matter. You’re not stuck.”
The words hit somewhere deep, unexpected. Not just because Marcus offering to casually drop a fortune on me is something I never saw coming, but because… he means it. There’s no expectation, no hidden agenda, just the quiet, solid reassurance that I have an out if I need it.
Marcus might be a billionaire, but he’s also fiercely loyal. Protective in a way that isn’t possessive, just steady, unwavering. The kind of person who would go to war for the people he cares about without hesitation.
Sophie caught a good one. A frigging unicorn that you only read about in books.
I swallow hard. “It’s fine,” I say, softer this time. “Really.”
His sharp gaze flickers over me, assessing, searching, but I hold steady.
Sophie steps closer, resting a hand on Marcus’s chest in that effortless way she always does, like she’s the only one who can tame the storm brewing beneath his sharp exterior. “Babe,” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm. “Let Lila handle it.”
Sophie turns to me, her expression gentler now. “Are you sure, Lila? You don’t have to do this. This was supposed to be fun, and if it’s not—” She squeezes my arm. “We can figure something out.”
There it is. The escape hatch. A way out, if I want it.
I swallow, something warm curling in my chest at her concern. “I’m sure.”
Sophie searches my face for another second before nodding. Then she smiles, something full of quiet gratitude. “Thank you,” she says sincerely. “This is an incredible thing you’re doing.”
Beside her, Marcus exhales sharply, reluctant but relenting. “Alright.” His voice is measured, controlled. But then his eyes harden slightly. “Just know if he so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll handle it.”
Sophie rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement in her exasperation. “You’re very intimidating, babe. We all appreciate it.”
Before Marcus can double down on his threat, a tiny voice pipes up from behind him.
“Who are you handling?”
Maeve tugs at the hem of her mum’s dress, her big eyes blinking up at all of us, clearly unimpressed that something interesting is happening without her.
Olivia smothers a laugh. “No one, sweetheart. Uncle Marcus is just being dramatic.”
Marcus makes a noise of protest, but before he can defend himself, Maeve turns her attention to me, then to Ben across the room. She squints at him, tilting her head like she’s studying a strange bug under a microscope. “Is he the coffee man?”
I sigh. “Yes, Maeve. He’s the coffee man.”
She purses her lips, nodding sagely, then leans in close and conspiratorial. “He’s too handsome, I don’t trust him.”
Willow chokes on a laugh, and Olivia looks like she’s never been prouder. Marcus grins, ruffling Maeve’s hair. “Smart kid.”
Maeve puffs up like she’s just been awarded a medal. Then she narrows her eyes across the ballroom. “Maybe I should put him in time-out.”
Sophie loses it, laughing into Marcus’s shoulder, and Olivia wipes at her eyes like she’s overwhelmed by her daughter’s brilliance.
I can’t help it, I laugh too. Because, honestly? She’s not wrong.
Maeve gives one last suspicious glance at Ben before trotting off in search of more desserts, satisfied that she’s delivered justice.
Marcus sighs, shaking his head. “I like her. She’s got good instincts.”
Sophie pats his chest. “Yes, babe. But you can’t put Ben Ashcroft in time-out.”
Marcus mutters something about that being debatable, but I’m still laughing, and for the first time all night, the tightness in my chest eases.
Too bad it won’t last.
Because when I glance back across the ballroom, Ben’s standing. Drink in hand, expression unreadable, as he starts making his way toward us.
Straight towards me.