Chapter 27

All nine of us stood behind a curtain, fidgeting as we waited for the auction to begin. Well, I fidgeted while the other six (one of whom happened to be none other than Isla) tittered to themselves, looking every bit like the goddesses they knew themselves to be, like this was just another evening they had to get through. I didn’t doubt it.

At first they’d tried to draw me into their conversation, but when it became evident that I had literally nothing in common with them, their welcoming smiles turned brittle and hard until I was forced to get the message.

I’d had a lifetime of practice with being on my own all thanks to my disorder, but this time it was made worst by Isla’s icy regard and an underhanded comment she made when a supermodel, Ivy, asked if my dress was haute couture. I’d been slow to reply, much of it having to do with my being star struck than actual ignorance, but then when I opened my mouth to speak Elijah’s fiancée cut me off, letting slip that I’d come as an aide with him—which I guessed was rich people talk for ‘she can’t afford couture.’

Oh, the look on her face if she found out that her boyfriend had gotten it for me.

Eventually the hall beyond fell eerily quiet and the sound of Inez’s voice carried to us as she introduced the auction, calling up the first woman, a stunning redhead named Astrid who, after a small squeal, proceeded to glide gracefully out of our hiding cove and onto the podium to polite applause.

Inez wasted no time, pulling out a small card from which she rattled on a list of Astrid’s accomplishments—a national title holding Swedish equestrian who’d spent a volunteering in Africa, etc. before continuing into the bid, which lasted for all of thirty seconds before someone with an offer of fifty thousand euros won out.

That was then that I became a nervous wreck, palms turning sweaty as I did some quick math in my head, imagining what fifty thousand euros would accomplish in my life. Clearing out some of my student debts would be a good place to start.

As the auction progressed, my trepidation only seemed to grow as I listened while bids went up for women who’d closed shows for Gucci and could speak five languages, gotten nominated at the Oscars, or graduated top of their class from Harvard.

These were people who, in a few short years, would come to be regarded as cultural icons—and here I stood among them in my too-expensive clothes and an undergrad degree from a college that merited less than a half-raised brow.

I was a fucking fraud.

Through my haze of panic I heard Isla’s name get called and looked up to find that she’d been studying me as I spiraled. A flush crept up my face and I straightened, but the motion came too late as she’d already turned away and begun to make her way to the stage.

I stepped slightly forward to watch as the spotlight hit her, and my breath caught as I watched her. Isla sparkled like something out of legend, lithe and graceful in her gown, with her white-blonde hair piled above her head and a few loose curls left to frame her stupidly perfect face.

You could’ve heard a pin drop as she made her slow ascent up the podium, and even Inez appeared dumbstruck until Isla took the initiative by stepping forward for an air kiss.

“Yes,” our host began, clearing her throat as she fought to regain a measure of her composure. “Our next visitor is Isla Davenport, and I’m sure most of us know her by her other moniker: the Queen of New York—”

“Oh I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, Inez,” Isla cut in self-depreciatingly. “New Yorkers are blood thirsty, and it’d be Marie Antoinette all over again—off with her head.”

Seated guests erupted into fits of boisterous laughter, and even Inez chuckled before delving into a more exhaustive biography of Isla, which included an unparalleled taste in discovering new artists and having the privilege of calling some of the world’s most popular designer’s friends.

The dress she had on, for example, had been a custom-made favor she called in from Valentino, and the more I listened the tighter the feeling in my chest became, as I realized that Elijah had invited me here to call things off.

Knowing him, the dress had been his way of letting me down easy, because next to all of that perfection who would pick me?

My vision swam with tears unshed by the time Isla’s auction started. It began at seventy thousand euros, and around the room several hands went up.

“Eighty,” Inez pressed, and when the hands remained firmly raised she added, “One-hundred.”

Some dropped, but not enough to ease the feelings of insecurity which plagued me as I heard her bid climb up to one hundred and thirty.

“One-fifty,” Inez said, and three hands remained raised up. I craned my neck to deduce their identities and felt my heart sink when I saw that one of them was Elijah, though the feeling got quickly eclipsed when I saw that the other was none other than Vincent.

“Two-hundred,” Elijah called, and the third business man’s hand fell almost like he’d been burnt, but Vincent’s stayed up. Even Inez seemed taken aback, and after a moment she continued the bid, taking it up to two hundred and thirty thousand euros.

The bid climbed up in small increments like this until, seemingly exasperated, Vincent called out: “Three hundred thousand!”

A moment of unassailable quiet swept through the room, and when Elijah let his hand fall the tense atmosphere erupted with a roaring applause as Isla preened graciously under all of that goodwill.

A few short steps away had her in line with all the others, who swept her up in congratulatory hugs, and I was so caught up in watching her that I didn’t realize it was my name being called on stage until the woman beside me, Ishani, gave me a gentle tap on my shoulder.

Only two of us remained behind, and I startled, considering for a split second the possibility of pulling a runner and maybe sending an apologetic email to Inez later, saying I’d come down with a sudden case of diarrhea.

Ishani left me no choice, shoving me out of the alcove and out into the spotlight so that I came stumbling out before I’d made up my mind and froze as every eye in the room turned on me.

A bead of sweat rolled down the nape of my neck as my heart thudded so violently inside me that I feared I would vomit, but somehow, through all of that panic I was able to hold onto a single fiber of self that allowed me to function amidst it all, and I squared my shoulders, mimicking all the others who’d come before, not picking my dress like I had earlier but letting it drag after me in silken ripples.

I didn’t know what to do with my face, whether I was to flash a flirtatious smile, and so I let it be, knowing that in its natural state I had what others called a resting bitch face (RBF for short.)

I looked aloof, I knew, slightly bored with everything and everyone, and inside I screamed, fighting against the urge to bolt like some low-budget Cinderella.

But I wasn’t Cinderella.

Before I left the suite that evening, Paula had given an enthusiastic cheer, calling me her stepmother, only wickeder, sexier, and by all means younger. Under all of that scrutiny I didn’t feel at all wicked or even sexy, but I went with it.

Making my way up the stairs I met Isla’s eyes, and she sent me a patronizing look which I covertly ignored, keeping my mind on my footing as I ignored the blinding glare of lights turned on me.

I made my unsure way to Inez just as all the light in the room dimmed down so I could barely see my way forward, and in the next second I was bathed in a single spot of gold light, which called attention to the many shades of red on my dress that even I hadn’t noticed, and an unsure applause picked up from somewhere in the room, growing slowly until the whole room broke out in raucous noise, that to my ears sounded like thunder.

Something similar had happened to Isla, except her own light had been white to accentuate the gown she had on, and when the clapping finally died down I stood awkwardly beside Inez, unsure of what to do as she recited my less than impressive accomplishments.

At my sides my arms fell laden, and I struggled with an urge to not fidget as the lights in the room slowly came back on and Inez called in the start of my bidding war.

It began at a hundred thousand euros—a sum I found so staggering I almost collapsed in full view of all the guests gathered. It felt like I’d been set up as I couldn’t for the life of me imagine that anyone would pay that much to have my attention, and so when I saw hands come up around the room I had a sensation like I was the only one not in on some kind of joke to humiliate the girl who that saw as hardly any better than some country bumpkin.

All too soon it was at two-hundred, and I felt like the room around me had begun to spin as I broke out in cold sweat, the smile I’d plastered on my face turning on a sour note as my mind ran wild with all kinds of things someone that’d paid two hundred thousand euros could ask me to do.

Inez had assured me that I was under no obligation to even see them, but I’d be a fool if I still believed that that was how the world worked. Powerful men liked to be appreciated, and pretty soon I’d be walking up to one that’d forked out two hundred grand for me for doing nothing but stand.

My stomach roiled unpleasantly, and I hoped I didn’t look washed out and pale.

“Three-hundred,” Elijah intoned in his smooth baritone, and I expected it to end there like it had for Isla, but a suited stranger at the back called out three-fifty and just like that it was off to the races with these men, who seemed hell bent on flexing their financial muscle on me.

Even Inez seemed at a loss for words as my bid went up four hundred thousand euros, and the madness only seemed to abate when finally, Vincent put in his bid for four-fifty.

By now I felt slightly queasy and fought the urge to tear Inez’s mic out of her grip and put a stop to the whole thing, and just as I was beginning to seriously entertain the thought Elijah said:

“One million euros.”

At first I thought I’d misheard, but the moment of disbelieving stillness that followed his words gave proof enough, and when Inez called for any contenders and none came up, Elijah was awarded, well, me. For one million fucking euros.

It felt like I was tethering by the edge of a cliff as I stumbled to the line of disbelieving women, and as I took my spot beside Isla I noticed that the look in her eyes had gone from patronizing to cold, hard, and calculating.

I recognized that look for what it was—hatred—and dreaded its ramifications: Isla had started to see me as an opponent worthy of more than her dismissive scorn, and this could only spell trouble for me.

No matter how well-meaning the gesture had been, Elijah had painted a bull’s-eye on my back, and now his fiancée would be out for blood.