SEBASTIAN
IWAKEup with the hangover from hell, and a glance at my clock confirms it’s just after three in the afternoon. Saturday, I think. I’ve been on at least a three-day bender since my father’s visit this week, but I’m officially out of whisky and fucks to give.
Scrubbing the sleep from my eyes, I strip off my clothes and head for the shower. The water is scalding hot when I step inside, but I don’t move. It singes my nerves and washes away any emotions I may have allowed to creep back in over the past few days. It’s time to pull my shit together and get back to the grind.
I don’t want to think about my father dying. I want to bleach our entire conversation from my mind. And even though it’s easier not to think about her, I wouldn’t dishonor my sister by pretending she never existed. So, when I exit the shower and wrap a towel around my waist, I reach for her necklace in the cabinet. Sitting down at the table with her memory is how I punish myself. Every time I stare at that faded gold pendant, I force myself to remember she isn’t here. If she was, she would have done a hell of a lot more with her life than I have. But she never got that chance.
Katie was one of those rare people who genuinely cared about others. She was good and kind and pure. She spent her time volunteering and brainstorming ways to solve problems and make the world a better place. It never occurred to her that the world was a better place simply for having her in it. I didn’t inherit the same benevolent genetic makeup. As much as I’ve tried to resist the notion, there is so much of my father in me. Self-loathing is a familiar friend of mine, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered ending it all as my contribution to world peace.
Except this year, I haven’t. Not since Stella came into my life like a bright, burning flame. She gave me purpose. A new project. She’s the one I keep telling myself I will save somehow. But how the fuck can I save her when I don’t even know how to save myself?
My attention drifts to the red envelope she hand delivered yesterday. The essay on choices and consequences that at the time of my ruling, I thought was rather clever. Now, I don’t know how I feel about it. But I pull it out of the envelope anyway and set the necklace and my warring thoughts aside as I begin to read.
Stella goes into great detail about the choices she has made to get to where she is. The choice to stuff down her emotions to appease her parents. The choice to fit in when she knows she was never meant to. The choice to follow her father’s path only to be led astray. Her words are full of passion and emotion and an insight atypical of other students her age. Stella is legally an adult now. Yesterday was her birthday, and I intentionally chose to disregard it like the bastard I am. I sent her away to prove how little she matters to me. My default setting is programmed to push everyone away, and that includes Stella, especially, because she’s the most hazardous of all.
I want her to hate me, but worse yet, I want her complete submission and devotion. She is so pliable. So soft. She craves my guidance and attention, and that’s a dangerously intoxicating feeling. I don’t have as much self-control as I should when it comes to her. So many times, already, I have toed the line and even stepped over it altogether. It’s only going to get harder with time. Every day, I find myself studying her, reading her expressions, and watching the way she moves. I’ve committed these things to memory, and I don’t want to let them go.
While I read through the rest of her essay, a fleeting urge prods me to abandon this project. She doesn’t have to be the one. I could pick someone easier. Someone who doesn’t challenge me and make me question my methods. There’s a boy in my first period class whose mother has convinced him he wants to be a doctor. Meanwhile, he spends all his free time dreaming up new video game ideas. It would be easy to set him on the right path. But would it fill the void in my soul?
The end of Stella’s essay draws nearer, and the escalating desperation of her words reaches a crescendo. She’s being vague, but something is off. I can feel it in the hopelessness of her tone. Stella looks at the world through rose-colored glasses, and these bleakly chosen words are more suited to my personality than hers. How can someone so bright possibly be so conflicted? She speaks of being disappointed, abandoned, and completely alone, but it still isn’t clear why she feels that way. At the end of the frantically written mystery, there is only one haunting final sentence.
I have to save myself now.
Below that is a link for an app and a passcode. It’s written in red lipstick, and I wonder if that choice was intentional, or if she’s been taking notes on her homework again. When I type it into my phone, my finger hovers over the download button as I consider what I’m doing. Moments ago, I told myself I needed to purge this infatuation with her. But the burning question in my mind won’t be ignored, and there is no justification for this insanity.
I download the app and enter the code. When the information loads, horror and rage creep into every muscle fiber of my body as I read through the description. In the back of my mind, I think this must be some sort of sick joke. Stella wouldn’t do this. But I recall the desperation on her face last night when she asked me to read her essay, and now I understand why. She was trying to tell me something. She was begging for my help, and I sent her away. This is the irrefutable proof that every choice has a consequence, even for me.
Stella is auctioning off her virtue, and the bids close in five minutes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
STELLA
AFTER GIVINGSybil a raincheck on the birthday celebrations, she decided to head home for the weekend. I felt awful for brushing her off and used the excuse that I needed to study, but she accepted it as Sybil always does. There was no way I’d be able to pull this off with her here, and I have a feeling once she comes back, everything will implode. Her father will most likely tell her what mine has done, and things will inevitably be different between us. I just hope that once it’s all said and done, she won’t cast me aside too.
My phone chimes with a message from Patrick, alerting me that the bidding for the auction has closed. He’s sent over some notes from the buyer, and I have never been more nervous in my life as I read over them.
We are meeting at the masquerade charity gala at the Grand Hotel, and I’m requested to wear a dress of my choice and the mask that will be held for me at the front desk along with a key card to the suite. In addition to that, the buyer requests that I enter the suite and wait for him on the bed, and that I do not turn on any of the lights. There is a small note that candles will be provided.
My stomach flips as I read the words repeatedly, wondering if it’s possible that this is actually Sebastian. Did he read my essay? Did he find the code, and does he even care?
The uncertainty is bearing down on me, and I feel like I might be sick as I begin my preparations for the evening. In my mind, I’ve already decided I won’t be able to accept any other option. If it turns out to be another buyer, I will have to turn him away, regardless of the consequences. It’s the only way I can feel at peace as I prepare to sacrifice my virginity at the altar of Sebastian Carter.
Please let it be him. Please let it be him. Please let it be him.
The mantra plays on repeat in my head as I sneak off the campus at nine o’ clock and meet the cab that I ordered. The ride to the Grand Hotel is short, only fifteen minutes, and not nearly enough time for me to catch my bearings. Once I’m on the curb, I hesitate again, glancing around, hoping to catch sight of the only man I’ve ever wanted. But he isn’t here, at least that I can see, and the only way to find out for sure is to go inside.
I make my way to the reception desk, and the woman behind it eyes me curiously as I pick up my mask and key. She asks me if I’m here for the charity gala, and I tell her I am before excusing myself to the elevator.
The suite the buyer rented is all the way on the top floor, and every step I take toward it feels doomed as I consider my fate. I want so badly for it to be him, but I have no idea what’s waiting for me on the other side of that door. I realize the potential dangers, but I didn’t come completely unarmed. Inside my clutch is a can of mace, and I won’t hesitate to use it if I need to.
With a deep breath, I tap my card against the sensor, and the door unlocks, allowing me inside. I swing it open slowly, greeted by the soft glow of flickering candles. From my vantage point, I can see the bed and lounge area, and they are both empty. It’s just me here, as the note informed me it would be. Following my instructions, I walk to the bed and sit down, staring off into the void as I set my clutch beside me and smooth out my dress. The crimson floor-length gown compliments the lace mask the buyer left for me at the desk, and despite my reservations, I slip it on as requested. My vision becomes limited to what is directly in front of me, and as I’m considering that, the door to the suite opens.
Before I can use the light pollution from the hall to my advantage, the tall figure shuts the door behind him, securing us into the suite together. He’s wearing a black three-piece suit and leather oxfords, but his face is obscured by a mask, and it’s too dark to make out any discernable features.
“Mr. Carter?” I force the name from my dry lips.
He doesn’t reply, at least not right away. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t know what he can see. Maybe his vantage point is better than mine, or maybe he’s reconsidering this whole situation too. The silence draws out for what feels like forever before he finally issues a husky command.