17. Paying For （Or Just Affording） My Sins
PAYING FOR (OR JUST AFFORDING) MY SINS
Kayleigh
Trevor disappears as the auctioneer beams. “Come with me, little lady,” the pudgy man chortles.
His suit is glossier up close, and the knuckle of his thumb digs into my bicep as he guides me across the carpet and out of the ballroom.
We stroll down a hallway, and then past a velvet rope marked with a sign that says PRIVATE.
Stella tries to follow, but the auctioneer stops her—“Sorry, miss, only winning bidders are permitted in the closing room”—but Stella ignores this and slithers after me anyway, pretending not to hear as she fake-chatters on her phone. Gotta love this girl.
The world narrows: the private hallway is paneled in dark, aged wood, the lighting sudden and direct, like in a movie where the hero is about to be interrogated.
The carpet underfoot is thick as oatmeal, the air inside carrying a cool, medicinal tang that makes me want to shrink into my dress and vanish.
The auctioneer’s grip is a leash. I follow him because I don’t know how to do anything else.
The side room itself is colder and grander than I expected.
There are no windows, just a sweep of polished mahogany interrupted by a chandelier made of crystal daggers, each one catching the overhead spotlights and spraying them onto the floor in shards.
The room smells faintly of mothballs and old money.
There is a large, gleaming desk set dead center, and behind it sits a woman who has the energy of a person who could wait out a nuclear winter if it meant getting what she wanted.
She’s older—maybe seventy—but not weak. Her hair is a steel wire chignon, not a single strand out of line, and her suit is blood-wine burgundy with a sheen that’s both luxurious and vaguely predatory.
The pearls at her neck gleam cold and sharp, and her eyes—gray, exact, the color of winter storm clouds—move over me like she’s making a list of everything I might have concealed on my body.
“Kayleigh McEnroe,” she says, as if correcting my name at roll call. “And guest.” She doesn’t smile.
The auctioneer introduces her as Regina, Chair of the Minneapolis Children’s Fund Board and tonight’s chief closing officer.
He bows out, shutting the door behind him with a muffled click, and suddenly it’s just me, Stella, and this woman who looks like she could strip the flesh from my bones using only words.
“Come closer,” Regina commands, and both Stella and I do, tiptoeing up to the desk.
Stella is next to me, not beside me but half-hidden, her hands tight on my wrist. Her voice is a rapid, frantic whisper I can feel on my skin: “How are you going to pay? Oh my god, Kayleigh, what’s the plan?
Do you have a plan? Was this a plan or did you just—” Her nails press into the soft tissue between my thumb and index finger, grounding me in the pain.
Regina watches this for a full ten seconds, unblinking, then arranges a tablet and a fountain pen on the desk.
“Miss McEnroe, congratulations on your record-breaking win,” she says, but there is zero warmth in the phrase.
“To facilitate payment, our preferred methods are wire transfer, certified funds, or crypto. If you have a VIP token, our Treasurer can facilitate escrow within the hour.” She slides the tablet toward me, a spreadsheet already open, a QR code pulsing at the bottom like a blinking eye.
My mouth opens and no sound comes out. For a moment, I’m aware of the warmth pooling under my arms, the wet silk pasted to my sides, the trickle of cold sweat down my lower back.
My brain repeats the phrase one million dollars, over and over, as if repetition will shrink the number to something I can manage.
“I—” I try. It comes out wet. I swallow and start again. “Is there an installment plan, or—?”
Regina doesn’t sigh, but the set of her lips suggests she might like to.
“I’m afraid not. For sums above a hundred thousand, it’s club policy to accept only immediately cleared funds.
” Her eyes cut to Stella, then back. “Unless you have an institutional backer. But then, most buyers at this level are quite liquid.”
My vision blurs. The pearls at Regina’s throat start to float and jitter. I grip the edge of the desk with my left hand and feel the laminate squeeze into my skin, the only real thing in the room.
Stella’s still whispering, but now it’s more desperate, panicky: “Kayleigh, we can fix this, just tell them it was a mistake, they have to have rules for this, you can say you blacked out, or it was a dare, or—”
Regina interrupts, her voice edged with the kind of politeness reserved for predators: “If you wish to rescind your bid, Miss McEnroe, the penalty is ten percent of the winning amount, payable before midnight tonight. Of course, everyone will know what happened, and I have to say that Minnesota society and the children’s charity fund, specifically, will be very disappointed.
Your parents, too. I know how Victoria and Henry like to keep up appearances. ”
My breath comes short and sharp. Ten percent is still more than I make in three years at The Fig Leaf, even with overtime during prom season.
“I—maybe we could—” My mind is empty. No rescue presents itself, no deus ex machina, not even the option to fake my own death and run for the state line.
Regina waits.
My hand slides into my purse, finds nothing but a stick of gum and the edges of my phone. I could text my mom, but Victoria is probably chatting with guests, and besides, she doesn’t have a spare hundred thousand dollars lying around. Even if she did, she would never forgive me for the humiliation.
The room is very still. My pulse is so loud I can hear it in my ears.
I look at Stella. She looks back, and for a second I see real concern in her eyes—not the usual drama, but the hard white of actual fear.
And then, the air in the room shifts.
It’s immediate, like the atoms of the room are rearranging themselves. There’s the faintest scent of cedar, whiskey, and a familiar male cologne that I know well already. I turn quickly as the air whooshes from my lungs.
Trevor is standing behind me, right at my shoulder.
No one heard him enter, but he’s here, tall and handsome and commanding.
His tuxedo is perfect, but the first button of his shirt is undone, and the bow tie hangs unspooled around his neck, like the aftermath of a story he won’t ever tell.
His face is absolutely still, his eyes so blue that for a second I don’t recognize him.
He puts his hand on my lower back, comforting and warm.
My shoulders relax and my lungs expand. Had I not been breathing?
But his warm touch relieves me, and I glance with him with grateful eyes.
A corner of his mouth quirks up, and he leans forward so his mouth is almost at my ear.
“Sweetheart,” he says, pitched low enough that only I hear, “take a breath.”
I do. The room comes back into focus. I can see the veins in Regina’s hands, the way her nails are trimmed to perfect half-moons. I can see the digital glare of the tablet, the way Stella’s toe taps up and down at the speed of a sewing machine.
“Mr. Cahill,” Regina says, all smiles suddenly. “What an unexpected surprise!”
“Ms. Board Chair,” Trevor replies, his voice cool and amused, “forgive the confusion. I wanted to make sure the charity cleaned house tonight, so Kayleigh and I agreed she would bid aggressively to keep things competitive. We’ll handle the transfer using my funds, of course, just like last year.
No need to ding my stepsister for any reason, she’s just working for me.
A million will look good in the press release, don’t you agree?
Who’s writing it this year? Arcade PR or the team at Surefire? ”
Regina’s expression doesn’t change, but I see something flicker behind her eyes—calculating, then resigned.
She gives a little nod. “Of course, Mr. Cahill. As long as the funds clear tonight, the rest is administrative. And we hired a new PR firm for the event- Marcy Witherington and her team. They’ll draft something up within the hour, I’m sure. ”
He smiles. “Of course.”
I am aware of the warmth of Trevor’s hand through the back of my dress, the way it anchors me even though my entire skeleton has liquefied. I try to look nonchalant, as if I’m in on the game, as if this is all a lark and not the most humiliating moment of my adult life.
Trevor steps forward, produces a black credit card with a matte finish, and lays it on the desk with a single flick of his thumb. The motion is final, a guillotine stroke. Regina picks it up, runs it through the reader, and the terminal beeps once, loud and cold as a gunshot.
I force a smile.
Regina taps the tablet, rotates it so it can be signed, and Trevor scrawls his name in a brief flourish.
“There,” Trevor says. “All settled. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to take my little sister home. It’s past her bedtime.”
The room, which has been so tense it could shatter, relaxes marginally. Regina smiles, thin and still a bit cold. But she’s polite. “Thank you for your generosity, both of you. The board will be thrilled.”
Stella’s hand finally lets go of my wrist. She sags a bit, then retreats with an apologetic “I need the ladies’ room,” and disappears.
Trevor’s hand closes around my elbow, not hard but not gentle, and he walks me out of the side room, through the hush of the private hallway, and back into the ballroom, which is loud and brash and already moving on to the next phase of the night.
No one looks at us. No one seems to remember the bidding, or maybe they’re all pretending not to. In the distance, I see my mother standing at the bar, her face a brittle mask of excitement. Henry is with her, but he’s talking to the club manager and doesn’t notice us.
I keep my head up as we walk the length of the ballroom.
I pretend to have dignity. I don’t look at Trevor, but I’m aware of every inch of him: the pressure of his hand, the heat radiating off his skin, the way his scent—cedar, whiskey, and something else—clings to me.
He saved me after all, and I’m grateful.
When we’re finally outside, under the portico with the cold night air biting through the thin silk of my dress, Trevor lets go of my arm. I expect him to say something cutting, something jarring and even potentially humiliating.
But he just looks at me, his jaw set, his eyes half-shadowed by the overhead lights.
“You’re reckless,” he says, and for the first time tonight, there’s an edge of real admiration in his voice.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, but he shakes his head, already moving toward the valet line.
He turns back. His gaze pins me. “I know.”
And then, before I can process it, he’s at my side again, his hand on my lower back, steering me toward the waiting car, the two of us disappearing into the dark like nothing happened at all.
But I can still feel it: relief that he’s here; the panic that’s dissipating because Trevor materialized out of nowhere to help me; the shock of his touch; the electric thrill that’s half panic, half joy; and the certainty that he’s going to ask for something from me in return.
And for once, I’m not afraid.
In fact, I’m looking forward to it.