Auctioned heart

Chapter1

The dress feels too tight, clinging to my skin like a glove. But it is nothing compared to the chill in the room and the myriad of eyes staring at me. I feel their gazes like blades digging into my skin.

“Chin up, sweetheart,” Genevieve whispers behind me, her perfectly manicured nails grazing my lower back as she gives the dress a pat. “If you are going to be a prize, at least, you should look expensive.”

I turn to look at her. “I agreed to serve drinks here, not to be auctioned off like a luxury handbag.”

The smile on her face twists into a frown. “Do you blame me for wanting to make the auction a little bit livelier?” She murmurs. “I mean, take a look at the crowd. The audience is bored, and there will be no proceeds to further the mission of the gallery if we keep it up this way for the rest of the night.”

“But…”

“Do you love your job, Bella?”

She knows I do, but is it enough to be here, parading myself like a meat meant to be sold? I have been working for Genevieve for a while now at her art gallery, and this isn’t the first time we have had an auction sale.

So what makes tonight different?

Genevieve sees the answer in my eyes as she dances away from me, moving to the end of the room. “And Bella?”

“Yes?”

“That little tantrum you threw earlier? The one where you yelled at me in front of the interns for hiding your work in the back room?” She narrows her eyes and clicks her tongue. “You should have thought twice before doing that. Consider this your punishment.”

My stomach drops. “You’re joking, Genevieve.”

A sneer stretches on her red lips, and her eyes bear a mischievous glint. She shakes her head slowly, bringing her fingers under her chin. “Oh no, darling,” she drawls. “When have you ever seen me joke when I am pissed?”

“Genevieve!”

“Just smile. It will be over in no time.”

And then, she gives me a once-over, her eyes snaking from my hair to my shoes. “I mean, who would want to buy someone like you, even for a minute? This is just to make the guests laugh. You are the perfect comic relief for the night. Enjoy it.”

From underneath the curtains, where I stand in the center of the stage, I see the lights grow dim. And in one second, the silver-haired auctioneer clears his throat.

“And now, for a truly spectacular experience,” he starts, barely able to conceal the excitement in his tone. He knows about it. He was in on it right from the start.

I wonder how long this plan has been in motion, if, while I was moving through the crowd, handing out mocktails and cocktails, they were behind the stage, laughing at what a fool I am. I swallow, pushing down the ache in my chest.

I know what will follow, and right now, fury is the last thing that can help me.

“We have a one-week companion package,” the auctioneer announces. I hear the sudden shift in the air. The guests are interested in this. Of course, they will be. My hands move to the hem of the short dress, and I tug.

Genevieve crosses the space and moves back to me. “If anything happens to that dress, I am deducting it from your next pay.”

A pay, by the way, that is barely enough.

“And the companion package is none other than our very own. The talented and beautiful Miss Bella Carter.”

Just before the curtains slide open, I hear Genevieve snicker under her breath. “Beautiful? That is an overstatement.”

Tears burn in the corners of my eyes, just as my boss gives me a sharp nudge by my side. “Walk.”

I am standing under the spotlight, gazing at the hundreds of faces staring at me. My feet refuse to move an inch, and my heart thuds hard against my chest, as if trying to claw its way out.

“Walk,” she mutters, harshly this time. “Or you are out of the gallery. Permanently. You and your substandard art.”

Swallowing the ache coursing through me, and the brutal cold whipping at my exposed skin, I walk, my heels clacking against the marble ground and the sound getting louder than the roar of my own blood against my ears.

My breath comes out in rage, and every eye that falls on me makes me feel like I am dirty. I resist the urge to tug the dress down again when a pair of lustful gazes falls on them.

When I reach the auctioneer, he winks at me before turning to the crowd. What will happen if I push him from this point? Will they call me a murderer, just as my parents earned the title of drunks?

“The rules are simple,” he booms into the mic. “The highest bidder gets to keep her for one week. She goes where you go and does whatever you need. Personal assistant, hostess, companion….” He allows his voice to trail off and stares at the crowd pointedly.

I see the wheels turning in their heads, a roar of laughter spreading through the crowd.

I want to disappear.

“I’ll start the bid at ten thousand dollars,” someone says casually, like I am not worth more than an item.

Silence stretches through the crowd, and then, another voice pierces through it, sounding amused.

“Twenty.”

I hear the shuffling in the crowd, the head whipping around. Another hand comes up.

“Thirty.” It is from a man hidden in the shadows. I cannot see his face, but that deep baritone travels through the walls compellingly. Eyes dart in his direction. I

I try to make out his features.

“Fifty,” someone else says, eliciting a few gasps from the room.

I swallow, taking in a deep breath. Is this real?

“Eighty-five thousand,” the voice from the shadows calls again. The lights shine in his direction for a brief moment. I don’t see a lot, but I can tell that he is sitting alone, watching the scene with boredom in his eyes.

Boredom that does not find its way to his sharp and commanding tone.

He is in a black suit, without a tie.

But what makes me freeze is those blue eyes.

The light meets him again, just as he tilts his head, watching me. Suddenly, I find it difficult to breathe, almost like the temperature in the room has been turned up a notch.

The auctioneer clears his throat. “Ninety?”

“Two hundred thousand.” He says it without blinking an eyelid, his gaze still on me. My lips part slightly on their own accord, and fierce heat travels up my spine.

The room is suddenly plunged into silence. Even the violins stop playing.

Everyone watches as he gets on his feet, taking all the time in the world. He knows that we will wait. He is fully aware of the kind of authority he carries, and he uses it without mercy.

God, he is tall. So tall that he easily towers above most people in the room.

“I believe that settles it,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving.

“We have a buyer!” the auctioneer announces excitedly, but his voice sounds like a dull throb in the background, because I still have not been able to look away. “Sold to Mr. Damian Blackwood.”

No one claps or makes a sound as he crosses the space, stopping in front of me.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

I blink, then utter the first thing that comes to mind. “Should I?” It comes out as a breathy whisper. I wish I could take it back.

“You should.”