Page 55 of Sugar

Oops.

I’d assumed that Gilded would look basically the same as it had the week before, but I’d been wrong. A stage was against one of the black brick walls with rows of chairs set in front of it. Not the cheap metal folding kind, either. They were elegant and lovely, like something used at a wedding.

There were even bidding paddles in the signature matte black and foiled gold, adding a sense of legitimacy to the auction that Cohen had emphasized in the email was merely for fun.

Naughty fun, but fun, nonetheless.

He lifted his chin toward a woman in a gorgeous cocktail dress that was standing near the bar as she fussed with something. “Melissa is the event planner behind every big celebrity birthday bash or brand launch. She volunteers her services and connections since the auction is her favorite event.”

I looked at her closer. “Wasn’t she the one who, uh, bought a few of the Doms?”

“Like I said, her favorite event.”

“Who is she talking to?”

The man wasn’t one of those Doms, but he carried himself like one. Or how I assumed one would. There was a natural power emanating from him, and if I had allowed myself to think about it, it would’ve reminded me of Easton.

But I was doing my best to stop obsessing over the sexy attorney, so I squashed the thought before it fully formed and studied the mystery man.

Dressed in all black, he looked like he’d stepped off a motorcycle—and he wasn’t happy about it. His glare cut across the room.

He wasn’t as beefy as some of the security guards, but he was far more intimidating.

“Atlas. My brother.” My wide eyes shot to Cohen, and he smirked. “I know. I got all the good looks.”

Both men were equally attractive inverydifferent ways. I knew that genetics were a wild thing, but they didn’t resemble each other in the slightest. Even their demeanors appeared completely opposite. Cohen had a lightness about him that showed in the smile that seemed to permanently curve his mouth. Atlas’ was set in a sneer.

“We’re not related by blood,” he tacked on, solving that mystery. “But we’re brothers.” Before I could ask more, he looked over my head, and his smile grew. “I was just coming over to let you know it’s almost your turn, but now you’re next. Ready?”

No. Not at all.

Run for your life before you make a fool of yourself, dummy.

I gave a shaky nod through my freak-out.

Contrary to that agreement, I didn’t make any moves to actually go toward the front. Not a single step. Not even a little shuffle.

Cohen put his hand on my back—upper not lower like Easton did—and gently nudged me.

I snapped out of my frozen terror and forced my legs to move. I followed Cohen along the perimeter of the audience before pausing at the side of the stage.

“I’d say good luck, but I don’t think you’re the one who’ll need it,” he whispered with a rumbled chuckle.

I didn’t get the chance to ask what he meant when the auctioneer announced my name.

Here goes nothing.

My trembling knees nearly gave out as I climbed the stage, suddenly rethinkingeverything.

My decision to attend.

My decision to wear my cute white sundress when so many others were in sexy cocktail dresses, slinky nighties, or ultra-sexy lingerie that was little more than scraps of lace.

Using my real name.

My answers on the form.

My need for answers and understanding.

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