Page 2 of The Politician Bidder

Poppy Prine—Executive Director of Youth Focused Tennessee, a nonprofit serving kids in the juvenile justice system. Trauma-informed advocacy. Legal representation. Education reform.

God, it’s soher.Still fighting the good fight while I’ve been chasing power in tailored suits.

And then I see it. A headline. A photo.

Local Advocate Poppy Prine to Participate in Hawks Roost Charity Auction.

I blink, stunned. Then a slow grin spreads across my face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I laugh—really laugh—for the first time in weeks. The cats both look up, startled. I drain the last of the bourbon and close the laptop with a soft click.

I’ve made a career out of strategic decisions.

But this?

This ispersonal.

I’m not letting her slip away again. Not this time.

Not when fate just handed me a second chance.And all I have to do is be the highest bidder…

Chapter 2

Poppy

Thesecuritydoorsclankbehind me as I step out of the juvenile detention center, and the sound echoes in my bones. For a place meant to rehabilitate kids, it sure feels like punishment.

I rub the back of my neck, trying to work out the tension. My blouse is clinging to my back, damp with sweat from the stuffy visiting room. It’s fall in Tennessee, which means the air is thick and sticky and confused about whether it wants to grace us with an autumn rain or roast us alive. I exhale and glance at my watch.

Shit.

I’m officially out of time. No way I’m making it home to change before the charity auction.

I tug open the door of my dusty Prius, toss my briefcase onto the passenger seat, and slide behind the wheel. My car smells like old coffee and lavender hand sanitizer—a scent I’ve grown weirdly fond of. The A/C wheezes as it kicks on. It’s barely stronger than a toddler blowing air through a straw, but I’ll take it.

My mind is still on my client as I merge onto the highway. Sixteen years old, charged with armed robbery, and facing transfer to adult court.

He swears he didn’t do it. That he was just the lookout, too scared to run when his cousin pulled a pocket knife at the gas station. But Tennessee’s laws don’t exactly leave room for fear or nuance when it comes to kids from the wrong side of the tracks with criminal records, no matter how minor the prior offenses.

I keep thinking about the way his hands shook when he handed me a drawing. Just pencil on notebook paper, but detailed and careful. A superhero version of himself, with a cape, a shield, and a big letter M on his chest.

“You’re the only person who’s ever believed in me,” he’d said, trying to sound casual. “I hope someday I can make you proud.”

God.

I blink away the sting in my eyes and refocus on the road. It’s bad enough that I don’t have time to change before the charity auction… I certainly can’t have mascara streaking down my face, too.And Lord knows my organization needs the money.I can’t continue to represent Marcus and other kids who’ve been failed by the system without it.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the gravel lot behind the Hawks Roost Town Hall. Cars are packed in like sardines, some of them luxury SUVs with gleaming black paint and tinted windows. I spot a Lexus, a Tesla, and what I’m pretty sure is a vintage Mustang. There’s even a stretch limo. Hawks Roost is a small town, so I’m used to seeing pickup trucks and mom vans, but it looks like the businessowners with deep pockets have shown up for the event.Good. Hopefully, they’re feeling generous.

I quickly park and rush inside. The building is buzzing. String lights are strung across the rafters, casting a warm golden glow over the crowd. Tables are stacked with silent auction items—gift baskets, artwork, a handmade quilt. And at the front, a little platform stage has been set up, flanked by ferns and a glittery cardboard sign that readsAuction for a Cause!

A well-dressed volunteer with a clipboard intercepts me the second I step inside. Her smile is a little too wide. “You’re just in time, Ms. Prine! We’re lining up the participants now.”

“Oh—uh—great,” I say, trying to sound upbeat even as I glance down at myself.

Wrinkled gray pantsuit. Stain on the sleeve I don’t have time to identify. My blouse is a little crooked, and my sensible black loafers—God bless ’em—look like they belong in a DMV. My dark brown hair is twisted into a messy bun and held in place by a No. 2 pencil. I meant to take it out before arriving, but honestly, it’s the only thing keeping my hair off my neck right now.

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