Page 24 of Final Proposal

Funny how you can meet someone in the oddest of times to find out they gave you the advice, the hope, and the will to change something that you haven’t had the strength to change before.

One night stranded in a thunderstorm and my perspective changed. My wants have changed. I take that back. My wants have always been there; it’s more the drive to secure them for myself that has been strengthened.

I’m a win at any cost kind of girl.

As I walk out of Chandler’s apartment, past bits and pieces of me that have migrated here over the past year and into this new me, I just hope I have enough currency to make it all work in my favor.

Because falling flat on my face and proving everyone right isn’t an option I’m willing to accept.

Ford

I bump shoulders as I move through the small space, surprised at the number of people here. The last time I was at a property auction was . . . never. Hell, I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I was involved in a project at the grassroots level.

I’m excited.

“By the size of the turnout, I think we’re already outbid,” a woman murmurs to her companion as I push past people and move toward the front of the room.

When I glance around, I don’t recognize any faces in the crowd, nor do I expect to. The general sale price I think the inn will go for is less than a tenth of what we pay for our typical S.I.N. properties.

“Let her bid,” a guy on the left of me says as I get stuck behind a woman oblivious to her surroundings. “It’s her money. And if she’s actually able to turn it around, then we quitclaim deed it into the company. Her risk. Our reward.”

Underhanded fuck.

“She’ll go broke,” his counterpart replies.

“And that’s a bad thing why? More proof that she can’t handle shit. Besides, if she fails then it’ll be ours even quicker.”

Correction. They’re both assholes.

I glance at the strangers—sure I know one of them from somewhere—and offer a subtle nod in polite greeting to the one facing me before the oblivious woman realizes there is a line of people waiting on her and steps out of the aisle.

“Can we get this damn show on the road?” a woman grumbles as I take a seat in the only available one beside her.

The smile I offer is unreturned. Perfect. That means I don’t have to make small talk. And luckily it remains that way as the auctioneer takes her spot at the dais and begins to go through several of the properties on the block today.

Some are single-family homes. Others are commercial buildings. One is an apartment complex. Each one is an empty shell representing a dream shattered for whoever owned it before the bank took possession of it.

The crowd has dwindled with each successful auction and then refilled with the start of each new one.

Right now is no different.

“Next up,” the auctioneer says, adjusting the red frames of her reading glasses on her nose as she looks down at the paper, “is the White Sands Inn. Property located at 13212 White Sands Drive. This is a unique opportunity to create a world-class, income-producing luxury destination in East Coast’s most desirable beach enclave a little more than two hours from New York City. Located on a sprawling five and a half acre waterfront parcel, this noteworthy compound offers sweeping views of the water and western exposure for spectacular sunsets.” She goes into the details of the property at length. The existing number of cottages. The bulkhead waterfront. The private beach. Other possible ideas for the location such as razing it and creating a condominium complex or a sprawling high-rise hotel.

All details and possibilities my team has already vetted and verified while many of us wait for her to open the bidding.

And where I plan to step in with a price on the first bid that will knock everyone out.

“Bidding opens at ten million. Do I have any takers?” At a quick glance of the room, about a dozen people call out and lift their paddles. “How about at eleven million?” Paddles raise again with voices saying aye.

“Fifteen million,” I state loudly with a raise of my paddle so that many people in the room look my way with eyes wide, including the auctioneer.

“Fifteen, sir? Did I hear you correctly?” she asks as her assistant next to her takes down my paddle number and scribbles furiously.

“Yes. Fifteen.”

“Do I hear anyone at—”

“Fifteen-five,” a female voice I can’t see calls out from the far end of the room.