Page 11 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Nico just huffs, adjusting his tie like it’s trying to strangle him. “Whatever. Let’s just get inside. The sooner this auction ends, the sooner I can go home.”

I pat him on the shoulder. “Home, or the office? Because we both know you’ve got a stack of spreadsheets waiting on your nightstand.”

He mutters something I don’t catch, probably a creative insult. Regardless, I let it slide. With a soft laugh, I push open one of the double doors. The place is massive, cathedral-like in its proportions, with velvet drapes lining the walls and a lofty ceiling decked out in chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow.

Between lots, the lights dim, leaving just enough illumination for people to find their seats or wander to the back bar. There’s a subdued hush in the air, the kind that crackles with expectation. Every so often, the stage lights blaze up, revealing a nervous-looking person—guy or girl or some other gender—who’s about to be sold for a jaw-dropping sum of money.

The coordinator has said many times, in a variety of ways, that every virgin is here of their own accord. The virgins sought out the auction and were vetted by The Armory’s team. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. Even if she’s not a virgin, as long as she’s a good actress, that suits me just fine.

As anxious as they all look, though, I’m betting they are the real deal.

The chairs are plush, the sort you’d expect in some exclusive theater. I scan the crowd, catching glimpses of masked faces, expensive suits, glittering dresses. It’s all the same at every event I go to, minus the masks, usually. Opulence has lost its charm.

But the virgins on stage? Charming as fuck.

The auctioneer, wearing a sleek black suit and a simple half-mask, announces the next participant. A spotlight sweeps across the curtains, and out steps a petite brunette, visibly trembling, wearing a short slip dress. She bites her lip and looks like she wants to vanish. Yet the bids come rolling in, driving the pricehigher and higher. After a tense minute, the gavel slams down, and the crowd murmurs with approval.

“Holy hell,” Nico whispers, eyes locked on his phone, which displays a running feed of bids. “That’s more money than I’d pay for a sports car.”

Sal grunts. “And someone paid it for one night, maybe more. Huh.”

I lean back, crossing my ankles under the seat in front of me. “Hey, different strokes for different folks.”

The lights dim again as the brunette is led offstage. A moment passes, the stage empty save for the auctioneer adjusting his microphone. Quiet chatter buzzes around us. Then, the curtains part to reveal a stunning young woman with long black hair, wearing a silky gown that clings to every curve. She looks bolder than the last girl—though I still sense some nerves in her posture. Her nipples are dark and hard, showing through the material, thanks to the spotlights on her. The bids begin quickly. Over to my right, I catch a few masked men practically climbing over each other to raise the numbers.

Sal folds his arms, watching. “Kinda hot, right?”

Nico wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Feels weird, though. Bidding on someone’s virginity? Feels…I don’t know.”

“Exploitive,” Sal says, finishing his sentence.

I shrug. “Or maybe it’s empowering. Hard to say without stepping into their shoes.”

I swear, there’s more nuance to this than meets the eye. They just don’t want to see it. I can’t claim to be an expert, but from the hush and excitement in the room, it’s clear a lot of peoplefind this arrangement appealing—buyers and sellers alike. These people on stage are nobody’s victims.

They’re here for money. We want to give it to them. A simple exchange.

The bidding ends, the lights dim again, and the next participant is announced. We cycle through two or three more lots, the same process each time. Someone comes onstage, the crowd stares and chatters, bids escalate, and the price is announced to our collective approval or surprise.

My brothers and I occasionally trade crude comments—lighthearted jabs about the lingerie, or how many zeroes that last bidder must have in his bank account. But we don’t raise a single paddle.

Honestly, I’m enjoying the show without feeling pressured to jump in. The environment sparks a frisson of excitement I haven’t felt in ages—like I’m on the cusp of some outrageous new adventure. Still, I’m perfectly content to watch from the sidelines.

Until it happens.

I’m mid-sip of champagne—yeah, I gave in to the open bar—when the auctioneer’s voice booms, “Our next guest is Tabitha. Let’s welcome her.”

A spotlight flares, and onto the stage steps a redhead in a white slip dress. She’s tallish, curvy, and I realize in a split second that Iknowher. My brain scrambles, trying to remember.

The hostess from that French bistro. The one who looked at me like I was a lost puppy wagging my tail.

Suddenly, I’m half out of my seat, heart pounding. I never expected to see her again, let alone here.

Of all the virgin auctions in the world,she walks into mine.

She stands under that glaring spotlight, blinking at the sea of masked faces. She looks so vulnerable—terrified, even—yet also…determined. Her body’s rigid, her hands clasped tight in front of her, knuckles white. The slip she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, and there’s a sheen of nervous sweat on her brow.

I feel a jolt of empathy, as well as something a lot more primal. My inner caveman demands, “Mine.”

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