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Taking a stray paddle from the table next to me, I move to the front and raise it. Sloane exhales in relief once she realizes it’s me… until another paddle climbs into the air on the far side of the room, and I see the hand holding it.
Fucking Adrian.
Sloane tries to step back, but the handler is there, herding her back to the center as the auctioneer’s gaze drags down her body like he’s appraising livestock. I raise my paddle before the next number is even out of his mouth.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jace approaching the trust-fund kid in the center of the room. He doesn't threaten him. He leans in with that easy grin, says something that makes the kid laugh, then gestures toward the stage and the growing numbers on the auctioneer's board.
The kid hesitates. Jace gives an understanding nod, as if he's just been let in on a secret. Another few words, a friendly pat on the shoulder, and the paddle lowers. The kid even shakes Jace's hand before turning his attention to his phone.
Next is an older man near the bar. Jace changes tactics without missing a beat, trading his playful charm for something more respectful. He listens, laughs at whatever the man says, then offers a suggestion with a casual tilt of his head toward the stage. A moment later, the man lowers his paddle, looking almost relieved.
That's Jace's gift. He finds out what people want to believe, then gives them a reason to believe it. By the time he's finished, they're thanking him for talking them out of something they were perfectly happy to do five minutes ago.
Four bidders become two.
Me and Adrian Cross.
Adrian has abandoned his seat for a spot near the opposite side of the stage. He catches Jace watching him and raises his paddle with a mocking smile.
“Three seventy-five.”
Jace doesn't approach him. He knows better.
You can't sell a man a better outcome when the only thing he wants is to make someone else lose.
His eyes meet mine across the ballroom, and he gives the slightest shake of his head.
No leverage. No opening.
Adrian isn't bidding because he wants Sloane's company. He's bidding because he wants to prove he can take something from me, whether she agrees to it or not.
“Four hundred,” I say, my voice carrying across the room.
The auctioneer’s eyes gleam as the number climbs. Adrian doesn’t hesitate.
“Four-fifty.”
I can see Sloane trembling from here, her amber eyes locked on mine, pleading.
“Six hundred.”
Adrian doesn’t blink. “Six twenty-five.”
Sloane’s face is a map of panic, and the handler chooses that moment to try to tilt her chin up for the cameras.
Our girl does not disappoint.
She yanks her head away and glares at the woman with a look so ferocious it makes the handler take a half-step back.
Half a second more and she would’ve slapped her.
“Seven hundred.” My voice doesn’t waver, but the ache behind my molars starts to spread.
Adrian tilts his head, studying me the way he used to study chessboards when we were boys—looking for the tell, the weakness, the moment I’d crack.
The auctioneer’s mouth hangs open for a fraction of a second before he remembers his role and is about to bang his gavel, but Adrian speaks. “Seven fifty.”
I breathe and weigh my options. Dragging her offstage gives Adrian the spectacle he wants. Outbidding him turns this into exactly the game he came here to play.
