I stand still, blinking rapidly, trying to drown out the cat calling and the price placed on me. My breathing steadies, but my pulse refuses to slow. Then a familiar voice cuts through the chaos. “Forty!”
Fucking Safra.
He steps forward, calm as ever, a gold necklace clasping the shirt's top that cuts off halfway, exposing his slim waist and abs. Two golden arm cuffs hold the translucent sleeves that run down his defined arms, where more bands glint against his skin. Unlike my short toga, his is paired with long satin pants split at the sides—every inch of him designed to draw attention, much like the gold tears painted delicately under his eyes. The crowd reacts instantly, whistling and gasping. Safra doesn't move, he looks at me with a lopsided grin that tells me—he’s already won. Cocky motherfucker.
“Forty thousand from Mr. Safra. Do we have fifty?” There’s a pause, then another voice, smooth and feminine.
“Fifty.” Fabiola raises her card. She looks like Meg fromHercules. Hair pulled into a high ponytail, a lavenderstolapooling at her feet, slit high on the sides, neckline plunging deep, and the crowd turns towards her, murmuring and gasping.
Safra grins falteringly. “You’re bidding now?” he calls out, half laughing.
She meets with a smile of her own. “Someone has to keep you humble.”
And I agree. But tonight, won’t be it.
The crowd laughs again, and then Thiago does the unexpected. In a low tone, he utters, “Sixty.”
Ms. Torres clears her throat, unsure if to keep calling for more or say the dreaded word, sold. The gold light catches the edge ofhis jaw when he steps forward and pulls out an empty check and waves it lazily in the air.
“Sold,” Ms. Torres mutters into the microphone, slamming down the gavel, and I step off the stage to where Thiago waits with a smirk. Such a punchable face.
“Spoiled brat,” I mutter, trying to brush past him, but his hand moves to my waist and holds me in place.
“Maybe.” He smiles. “Maybe that’s why I’m fascinated by you. You’re the one thing money can’t buy.”
My pulse stutters. The fog thickens, and the music swells. Fabiola walks around Thiago, her finger tracing the outline of his muscles. She leans, whispering something in his ear that makes his jaw clench, and his eyes darken. Then her attention is on me, as she speaks loudly now.
“Show me the monster I’ll be marrying.”She urges, her eyes focus on me. I swallow hard at her words, but it's what comes next that has my blood turn to ice. “You do that, and I won’t fight it. I’ll be your ally. But give me something real.”
Thiago exhales sharply through his nose; his eyes flicker back to me.
“Deal.”
With that, he motions for me to follow them. From the corner of my eye, I watch Peter rise from his seat as Nico is called to the stage, starting his bidding war against Shiloh. I freeze, Fabiola notices, and gives me a small smile and grabs my hand. “It’s done, just gotta keep moving now.”
Reluctantly, I move through the fog, past the pillars, and into the halls that lead to the donor rooms hidden all over campus. The knot in my stomach turns, making it painful to breathe. Fabiola's eyes meet mine. “We can be friends.”
Friends.
I snort at that. Thiago opens one of the red doors, and given all the windows in the room, I know already that we are puttingon a show, and they will be watching from the other side of the two-way glass. I need to get wasted. It’s better that way. Easier for my mind to detach from my body. I don't mind sleeping with women, but if I’m being honest… I prefer to get fucked… Not the other way around.
Thiago closes the door behind us, and the music fades…
Chapter Eighteen
Thiago
Zayden heads straight to the bar at the far end of the room, already reaching for the bottle like it’s his armor—ready to dive, headfirst, into a drunken oblivion. Fabiola watches us from the center of the room, inspecting us like merchandise she already owns. Her words echo inside my head. “I’ll marry you, but I want the truth. Always the truth.”
It wasn’t like she asked me for something unreasonable—just something impossible to give. Truth doesn’t survive in places like this. It gets rewritten, traded, and sold. So there’s no point to it, unless you’re willing to lose.
And I simply am not.
I’ve always known Fabiola has been more into women, even when she was promised to Peter. She never hid it. That’s why I figured this arrangement would be perfect for both of us—easy and transactional. Simply for appearances.
Sure, there would be instances, like tonight, where I’ll be forced to touch her, and she’ll pretend to welcome it. We’d sell the illusion to the donors, give them leverage they can holdover our heads. That’s why we are here, in a red room, and not somewhere more private. This is a game, and while I was busy playing for keeps, she was busy setting up the stage. She’s playing a role I didn’t expect her to play so easily, but here we are. My future bride doesn’t just want a seat at the table. She wants the table itself.
Which makes me wonder what she’s really after.Power? Freedom?