Page 36 of The Auction
He laughs, but there’s a twitch in his eye. Good. I hate this fucking guy.
He took my first real software pitch and resold it under his name when I was thirteen. Called it a “mentorship.” I called it what it was—intellectual theft. Two years out of college, I eclipsed his empire. Now I own half the companies he wishes would return his calls.
He blinks, clearly not expecting the hit. “Still got that mouth on you, huh?” I finally look at him. Really look. And I let the edge creep into my voice.
“You’re still the guy who cashes in on the scraps,” I say, slow and sharp. “I’m the one they build the fucking table for.”
He stiffens.
“Now stop wasting my time.”
And then, like the coward he’s always been, he grins and slinks away—already retreating, but not without tossing one last jab over his shoulder.
“Looking forward to outbidding you tonight.”
That’s laughable.
If I ever cared to step in, he wouldn’t last a round with how deep my pockets go.
Elijah Fuck-face joins the rest of the hoard and the first round of bidding starts not long after. Pretty tame stuff, compared to what I know is coming later. Romantic weekends. Private yacht excursions. One girl’s offering some kind of sensory deprivation retreat, which—look, not judging, but that’s a hard pass for me.
The auctioneer works the crowd like he’s orchestrating a slow, seductive waltz. He teases a"last-minute addition to the catalog—one worth staying until the end."
I snort into my drink. Yeah, right. It’s always the same thing. A high-end flesh market dressed up in red silk and velvet lighting. The Companions design their experiences, sell them to the highest bidder, and hope the winning client is more charming than creepy.
Bidders go after the girls they want, or sometimes they just want to outbid their enemies. Ego over desire. It’s all posturing with a boner.
Still, I’ll give Lucian credit—he runs a clean empire. The Companionssetthe terms of their contracts. Every single one of them. The clients follow those rules, or they get a very personal visit from Lucian himself.
And trust me—that is not the kind of house call you want.
But he was right about dinner.
I park myself at the bar, claim a plate stacked with grilled steak skewers and lobster dumplings, and watch the chaos unfold from afar. The food’s decadent. The entertainment,even better. Drunk billionaires throwing money around like it’s Monopoly and all the girls want Boardwalk. I sip whiskey and fix a few backend settings when the admin panel pings with a slow transfer.
No big deal. I reroute the traffic and fix the bottleneck in under thirty seconds.
And then, because I’m apparently a glutton for chaos, I check on Cassidy.
She’s been unusually quiet on social today. No breakfast post orGet Ready With Me. No story with Dominion or her grooming Saving Grace.
Honestly, I figured she blocked me after my call with Eve.
She definitely got jealous.
And I definitely enjoyed it.
But then my thoughts shift to her mom.
What if today’s a bad day? What if something’s wrong?
Shit. I should’ve checked earlier.
Her Snap location is turned off—which is mildly irritating—and when I open our messages, I see that her notifications are silenced.
Now I’m getting that tight feeling in my chest. The one that doesn’t mean lust or ego—it means something might actually bewrong.
I shoot her a quick text:
