The world explodes into light.
The spotlight hits so hardI 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.
I move into the routine, the one Sophia and I practiced a few times. I pivot on the spot, arching my back, running my hands over my big breasts. The thin lace shows everything—the pink of my nipples, the swell of my chest, the soft, shivering curve of my stomach. I drag a finger down my belly, then hook it into the band of the panties, teasing the crowd. The men lean forward, wolfish, eyes glittering.
I let my hands wander, caressing my thighs, then sliding up to cup my Double D’s. I squeeze, rolling the nipples between my fingers, and the sensation is electric. I moan, just a little, and the sound echoes in the microphone hidden in my bra strap. The room collectively holds its breath.
The auctioneer barely pauses, “One million. Do I hear one and a half?”
It’s insane. The numbers aren’t real anymore. The money is just a way to measure how much the men want to own me.
I look at Hunter. He’s still, impassive, his eyes boring into mine.
Another paddle goes up—two million.