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“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer booms, “our first lot is a true treasure tonight. A luxury weekend… and the delightful company of Hazel!” My stomach plummets. Lot? Company? Weekend? The audience titters, claps, some lean forward with too-interested eyes. I stand frozen, brain catching up one horrifying piece at a time. No. No, no, no. The auctioneer keeps going, but I hardly hear a thing. I finally manage to unstick my tongue. “Wait, I think there’s been a—” But the auctioneer is already rolling: “Shall we start the bidding at five thousand?” Hands shoot up. Paddles flash. I glance helplessly into the crowd, searching for Ethan. Nothing. Just a sea of unfamiliar faces. My pulse hammers as the numbers climb. Seven thousand. Ten. Twelve. And then I see him. Zane Wilder. Leaning against a column, black shirt open at the throat, tattoos curling over his collarbone. Watching me with that unreadable expression. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet. Electricity skitters across my skin, familiar and unwelcome. The auctioneer’s voice cuts through my panic. “Do I hear fifteen?” A man near the front—a hedge-fund caricature in a tailored navy suit, hair slicked within an inch of its life, a gleaming watch the size of a small planet flashing under the lights—lifts his paddle. “Fifteen,” he calls lazily, like he’s ordering another round of martinis. His eyes land on me, sliding down and back up with unhurried arrogance. The look isn’t appreciative; it’s proprietary. Like he’s already picturing what I’d look like perched beside him in some leather-lined backseat, smiling like an accessory he bought to match the watch. My stomach twists. From somewhere behind him, another voice snickers, low and crude. “That’s a steal,” a man says, elbowing his friend. “Weekend like that? Worth every penny.” My skin crawls. I force myself to stand straighter, to keep my expression neutral. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me shrink. But inside, my heart is pounding, panic and humiliation tangling until I can barely breathe. The auctioneer chuckles politely, smoothing the moment over with practiced ease. “Fifteen, thank you, sir. Do I hear seventeen?” I want to disappear. I want to bolt offstage. But it’s for the charity. For the kids. Backing out now would ruin the moment, ruin the cause. So I stand there, cheeks burning, palms sweating against my dress, praying this ends quickly. I flick my gaze across the room, desperate for Ethan. For anyone. Instead, I catch Zane Wilder watching me from the shadows near a column. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t smirking. His jaw is sharp, his expression unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes pin me in place. “Fifteen, going once,” the auctioneer calls. And then Zane’s voice cuts through, low and unhurried. “Fifty.” Read what happens next for FREE on Kindle Unlimited https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FZV26DBJ