Page 16 of Highest Bidder

But Macy’s words worked. The men perked up and bids rose fast.

Forty thousand. Forty-five. Fifty.

Bradford shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I couldn’t help but smirk thinking that we were getting into the range where he might have a hard time explaining to his wife where that money went.

Fifty-five. Fifty-seven. Sixty.

I didn’t even realize I was standing until I was already on my feet and declared, “One hundred thousand.”

The room snapped silent.

Macy’s brows lifted, but she recovered quickly. “We have a new high bid of one hundred thousand. Do I hear one hundred and five?”

I looked around the room, silently daring anyone to go higher.

Not because I wanted her. Not because she was special.

Because she’d turned me down and given herself to someone else.

And now, she was mine to punish for doing just that.

No one moved.

I didn’t sit. I didn’t blink. I locked eyes with Vivian.

She froze and her eyes went wide for a breath, then her chin tipped up defiantly, like I’d seen before.

Bradford leaned toward me and muttered under his breath, “Fucking asshole.”

I didn’t respond; didn’t even look at him. Let the fucker seethe. He wasn’t worth a reply.

The adrenaline had drowned out everything but her.

The dress. The eyes. That look she gave me like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to run or fight.

Oh, choose fight, baby girl. Please. That will be fun.

She had no business putting herself up for sale to the highest bidder after giving Bradford what should’ve been mine. And now I got to erase him from her—one brutal, filthy inch at a time.

Time to pay the piper, sweetheart.

You get to serve the man you thought wasn’t good enough to fuck for free.

I own you now—your body, your obedience, your tears, your shame. I’m going to make you crawl for every goddamn cent like the good little whore you chose to be.

And when it’s over, you’ll beg me to take more. And hate yourself for doing it.

****

Vivian

I was pleasantly surprised when I heard the bids climbing. I’d had myself half-convinced before I went onstage that I’d be lucky if my “package” sold for a thousand dollars. Then a deep voice offered one hundred thousand.

After the club took their forty percent, that would leave me with sixty.

Sixtythousanddollars. That was enough to put a real dent in Daddy Dearest’s debt. Maybe enough that we could actually pay it off before the interest ate up any progress we made.

My mom, sister, and Roscoe would be safe.

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