Page 2 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

Still, as an aspiring romance writer, it would be a great setting for a book.

“Kaira! Move your ass! You’re on the clock!”

The sharp bark of my manager’s voice shattered my musing. I jumped, nearly tripping over the dolly, and yanked myself back into reality.

“Right, sorry!” I called, scrambling to stack another load.

I pushed through the back entrance and into the kitchen, struggling. The rest of the staff moved like a well-oiled machine. They weaved around one another as plates clinked and voices rose over the hum of industrial appliances. The air smelled faintly of butter and rosemary and my stomach rumbled like a famished lioness. Easy, girl.

I hustled through, careful not to bump into anyone, and emerged into the grand ballroom. And oh, what a ballroom it was.

The chandelier was breathtaking, a massive cascade of crystals catching every glimmer of light and refracting it across the marble floors. The ceilings soared three stories high, and the entire far wall was made of glass. Beyond it, the landscaped gardens sparkled with twinkling lights in the cool, dark evening. It was pure magic.

For a second, I forgot I was sweaty and awkward and out of breath, feeling like maybe I’d stepped into one of my own stories.

But then the dolly hit a crack in the marble and the boxes wobbled. I lunged forward to steady them. The event planner, a sharply dressed woman with a clipboard that seemed permanently attached to her hand, glanced my way.

Her eyes narrowed as she took in my near disaster. “Keep it moving, Kaira,” she said briskly, her voice carrying the sharp edge of authority and impatience. “These boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, wincing at the stiffness in my back.

I quickly unloaded the dolly and rushed back out to get the next haul. Each trip from the van to the ballroom felt longer as fatigue set in, my muscles pleading for reprieve. I stole moments, brief seconds to breathe in the beauty of the Kelly Hotel’s majestic architecture and the event slowly taking shape within it. Tables draped in rich velvet cloths were arranged meticulously around the room, each one crowned with elaborate floral arrangements bursting with colors—deep red, pink, and gold.

I wondered if this was like a pre-Valentine’s thing. I was noticing a trend in the colors and there was a shit ton of heart-shaped everything.

I was not a fan of the Hallmark holiday. Maybe I would be if I had a Valentine or any hope to find one. Valentine’s Day was all about singling out the poor souls who were all alone. It was like the universe’s way of saying, “Look at all these happy couples! Isn’t it too bad you’re not one of them?” Or, in fewer words, “loser.”

The ballroom transformed before my eyes. The setup crew had moved to positioning elegant golden chairs around the tables. Giant heart-shaped balloons were being affixed to the walls, and strings of fairy lights added a magical touch to the scene.

By the time the van was empty, my back ached and sweat stuck my hair to my neck. I snatched a bottle of water and gulped it down, although I was tempted to pour it over my head. It wasn’t hot out, but after that kind of physical labor, it felt like it was a hundred degrees. In reality, January in LA was pretty comfortable. The parts that weren’t on fire, anyway.

After dabbing away the sweat and adjusting my uniform so I didn’t look like a total slob, I made my way back inside to see what else they needed me to do. The event would be starting soon. I would probably be dismissed and rushed out of the place.

My manager waved me over. “Kaira, if you’re done with the van, help out with the lighting adjustments. They want a more romantic vibe, some kind of dim ambiance. I guess it’s easier to fall in love in the dark.”

“Got it,” I replied, though the very idea of tweaking mood lighting felt miles above my pay grade.

He pointed me toward a tech guy who was fiddling with a control panel bristling with sliders and buttons.

“You know how to work one of these?” he asked without looking up.

“Not really,” I admitted, “but I can follow directions.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Just go stand there on the stage so I can get the lighting right.”

I shrugged. “I think I can handle standing.”

I climbed up on the stage and stood on the tiny white X that had been placed on the floor. Suddenly, bright light blasted me and I immediately shielded my eyes.

“How about now?” the lighting guy called out.

I opened my eyes, but all I saw were stars. And red, shiny hearts. The lights were much dimmer now. I blinked a few times and gave him a thumbs-up. For the next fifteen minutes, he had me moving around the room like I was a pawn in a chess game.

When it was done, I escaped back to the kitchen and found a spot with a great view of the ballroom. The string quartet played and the lights twinkled like distant stars. The space had been transformed into something spectacular.

The balloons bobbed gently in the air currents stirred up by the bustling event staff. Servers dressed in black and white began circulating, bearing trays of champagne flutes and bite-sized hors d’oeuvres.

The guests arrived in a parade of living art—impeccably dressed, glowing with confidence, and utterly out of my league. My practical work clothes, black on black, only made me feel more invisible. My fingers twitched at my side. If I were them—if I had even a fraction of their poise and beauty—what would my life look like? Would every night be this glamorous?