Chapter 3
SYDNEY
I should leave. The thought has been running through my head on a loop for the last twenty minutes. Leave. Walk out. Get in my car.
Pretend this whole night never happened, but it won’t solve anything. I’ll be in the same shitty situation I was in before. The eighty-seven-thousand-dollars situation.
Leaving won’t pay Ben's medical bills. Leaving won’t magically wake my brother from his coma. So, I stay.
Even though every instinct I possess is screaming at me to run. When I first stepped into the event, the glitzy environment allowed me to convince myself this was some strange networking event with a ridiculous name. Now I know better.
Now I've seen the way the men look at the women. The way they asses us as though they're making a business purchase. The way they sneak in overt touches, as if it is their right to touch our bodies, because it’s just another way to evaluate the merchandise.
My stomach twists, and I wrap both hands around my champagne flute as I scan the crowd. As if pulled by a magnetic force. My gaze immediately finds him. The man who stepped between me and creepy Victor Lang.
The man who somehow made a billionaire back down with nothing more than a few quiet words. Victor called him Max.
Max.
Even thinking his name sends a strange flutter through my chest. It's ridiculous. I don't know him, and I shouldn't be thinking about him at all. Yet my eyes keep finding him.
He stands near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. Tall, broad-shouldered, and so very dangerous.
Everything about him radiates control. His charcoal suit looks expensive enough to cover three months of Ben's hospital bills. Maybe six.
Dark ink disappears beneath the collar of his dress shirt before vanishing beneath tailored fabric.
And it’s on his arms as well. I noticed the tattoos when he took my hand earlier.
A glimpse of black ink winding across powerful wrists.
The sight did something unfortunate to my nervous system.
Or maybe it was the aura of strength and power that surrounds him.
Whatever it was…is…it’s still doing unfortunate things to my nervous system.
As if sensing my attention, he looks up, and our eyes meet across the room. Heat floods my face, and I immediately look away.
Fantastic. Now I look like an idiotic girl with a blushing crush.
A moment later, a woman's voice cuts through the ballroom. "Ladies and gentlemen. The auction is about to begin."
Conversations fade out as people drift toward the raised platform at the far end of the room.
My pulse jumps. This is it.
The auction. The reason I'm here.
The reason I spent two hours staring at myself in the mirror tonight wondering whether I'd completely lost my mind.
A hostess in a black dress steps up on the stage, smiles brightly, and speaks into the mic. "The bidding will begin shortly."
My stomach drops as the other women gather near the stage. Some of them appear excited. Most of them look nervous.
One redhead looks completely unfazed, as though she's done this before. I envy her composure. I hope I only appear nervous, and not as scared out of my mind as I actually feel.
I move toward the designated area. Every step feels heavier than the last.
The hostess gives me an encouraging smile as she checks my number against a list on her tablet. "Welcome, number twenty-three."
The smile I return feels brittle. We don’t even have names here.
She gestures toward a row of chairs, and I sit. My hands are shaking, hopefully not visibly, but to make sure, I clasp them tightly in my lap.
The surrounding women make nervous small talk.
One of my neighbors tries to draw me into a conversation, but I can’t focus on her words.
All I can think about is Ben. How hard he’s worked since Dad died to take care of me.
The way he grins whenever something makes him happy.
How alone he looks in that hospital bed.
A lump forms in my throat.
If Ben were awake, he'd drag me out of here. No question. He'd probably throw me over his shoulder and carry me out if necessary. The thought almost makes me laugh. Almost.
I blink hard and stare at the stage. The Sugar Baby contract is only for a year. I can survive for one year. Even if it ends up with Victor, or someone equally creepy.
The money will save Ben. That's what matters. Nothing else. It’s my turn to sacrifice for our family of two.
And I’ll do anything for my brother. Even become the mistress of Victor Lang or a man like him.
I look out across the stage, searching for Max, but the lights are so bright I only see shapes of people in the audience, no details.
Applause erupts, startling me out of my thoughts. I’ve missed the beginning of the auction.
One by one, women are asked to walk to the front of the stage and stand there as their bios are read.
They’re Ivy-League college students, aspiring artists, ballet dancers, nail technicians.
I can’t remember what personal details I put down on my form.
Hopefully, it wasn’t receptionist and custodial.
The bids climb to extraordinary numbers: ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand.
These are the monthly “allowances,” not including rent and bills, which will also be covered by the “mentors.” My pulse pounds harder with every number.
The amounts feel unreal, life-changing, and terrifying.
Wealthy men raise discreet paddles as though purchasing complete access to a person's life is perfectly normal. Maybe in their world it is.
My heart beats harder for every woman’s number that’s called. And then it’s my turn.
"Number twenty-three." The hostess beams at me.
My entire body locks, and I don’t know how to stand.
"Miss Sydney." There’s an undertone of sharpness in her voice and a frown on her face.
I force myself to stand, and my legs somehow carry me to the front of the stage. The lights seem brighter up here, and the room larger. I feel exposed. Like every person in the ballroom can somehow see through my skin.
The hostess reads from my profile. It’s a carefully edited version of what I must have put down on the form. No mention of cleaning offices, or hospital bills, or desperation. The receptionist job is in there, though.
I try to scan the crowd through the bright lights.
A tall shape of a man stands in the back.
Maybe it’s Max. My mind decides to make the shape be him and for the first time since climbing up on this stage, I feel like I can take a complete breath.
Which is ridiculous. I don’t know him, yet somehow his presence steadies me.
The opening bid is announced at ten thousand dollars. A paddle rises immediately.
I quickly calculate that in a year I could pay the current medical debt. But Ben will need more care, which will cost more money.
Another paddle rises, and another, and another. The numbers climb faster than I can run the calculations for current and future debt payments in my head. Shock washes through me. I hadn't expected this much interest.
My basic internet search about sugar relationships gave me some numbers, but those were not for sugar daddies in this tax bracket.
The bids continue increasing and my pulse races faster.
Someone laughs. Someone raises another paddle. Another number. A higher number. And then higher again.
Then I see Victor Lang on the front row and my stomach drops. He's bidding, of course, he is.
Despite the pep talk to myself about how I can stand anything for a year, panic claw its way into my chest. I can still feel his hand on my back. Still remember the look in his eyes.
Then a deep voice from the back cuts through the room. It’s calm and certain. I can’t see the bidder, but recognize the speaker. It’s Max.
His paddle is raised, and he repeats his bid. A high number that skips over several steps in the bid sequence.
Victor shifts in his chair as a murmur ripples through the crowd. He raises his paddle.
Max follows immediately. No hesitation.
The auctioneer's smile widens as a hushed silence descends on the audience. Except for Victor and Max, everyone lowers their paddles.
And suddenly I realize something surreal and horrifying. They're competing over me. I grip the edge of the podium.
Victor bids again.
Max answers.
Victor counters.
Max raises.
The amounts climb higher and higher, but I barely hear the numbers anymore. My attention remains fixed on the tall man in the back. His head remains turned toward me, steady, certain, possessive. It never waivers. Never turns toward Victor or anyone else in the audience.
And then Victor swears out loud as he lowers his paddle.
The auctioneer repeats the bid Max just offered, an amount so high my mind can’t process the number, but Victor shakes his head.
A heartbeat later, the gavel falls. It’s over.
I should be scared, or at least disturbed, but instead heat floods my body as something deep inside me responds to being bought by Max. A dangerous reaction, and one I don't fully understand.
Silence fills the room for a fraction of a moment, and then applause erupts.
I barely hear it, because Max’s head is still turned my way. The reality of what I've done crashes over me. The auction is over. Someone chose me.
Someone bought me. The thought should terrify me.
Instead, as Max walks toward the stage and I finally see him more clearly, what I feel is something infinitely more dangerous.
Relief.