BIDDING WAR FOR THE VIRGIN HEIRESS

The rain fell like nails, sharp and cold, pounding the cracked pavement outside the café where Emma Rae had just finished a twelve-hour shift. Her hoodie was soaked, her sneakers squishing with every step as she crossed the street toward her tiny apartment. She had less than thirty dollars to her name and half a loaf of bread in her fridge. Happy 21st birthday. She didn’t see the black car until it swerved into view, sleek and silent like a predator. It stopped inches from her, tires hissing. The passenger window lowered, revealing a man in a crisp gray suit. Mid-40s. Silver hair. Cold eyes. “Emma Rae Winslow?” he asked, his tone clipped, precise. Emma blinked. “Uh… who’s asking?” He stepped out of the car and approached with calm authority, holding a waterproof leather folder. He stopped just short of her, opened the folder, and held out a sealed envelope. “This is for you. It’s urgent.” She hesitated. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.” “You’re Emma Rae Winslow,” he repeated. “Born July 31st, 2004. Your mother was Olivia Winslow.” Emma froze. She hadn’t heard that name in years. Not since the foster system. Not since the fire. The man held out the envelope again. “I’m William Ashford. Legal executor of the Winslow Estate.” “The what?” “You may want to sit down.” “I’m not going anywhere with you—” “I’m not here to harm you. I’m here to inform you that as of midnight tonight, you become the sole heir to the Winslow family fortune.” Emma blinked. “What fortune? I’m broke. I work at a coffee shop. I—” “If you marry by midnight,” he interrupted, “you will inherit the remaining Winslow assets—estimated at just over $1.2 billion.” Emma laughed. Or tried to. It came out as a choked, awkward sound. “This has to be a joke.” “It’s not. The clause was written by your late grandmother, Beatrice Winslow. You must be married by the stroke of midnight. Legally. Publicly. With witnesses.” “You’re serious?” “Deadly.” Lightning flashed. The wind whipped through her hoodie. He handed her a tablet. The screen lit up with a list of names. Familiar ones. Names she’d only seen in Forbes magazines and business headlines. And next to those names were figures. Bids. “What is this?” she whispered. “A private event,” Ashford said. “Bidders have been notified. The highest offer wins the right to marry you before midnight.” She stared at the screen. Ten men. All billionaires. One already bid five million. Another offered twenty. The highest: one hundred and twenty million dollars. “For what?” she croaked. “For me?” Ashford’s voice softened. “The Winslow name still holds power. You are the last bloodline. Whoever marries you becomes heir to the legacy—and gains leverage in international markets. That’s why the offers are so high.” “I’m not—no. I’m not doing this. I’m not an auction prize.” “You have a choice. Walk away, and the estate dissolves. Your mother’s name disappears. Or… take the offer. One night. One marriage. And everything changes.” Emma’s knees buckled slightly. Her chest squeezed. “Why now?” she whispered. “Because today, you turn twenty-one. The contract was written long ago. It expires at midnight. After that… it’s gone.” “And the person who wins this bid… he just gets to own me?” “You’d be protected. Rich beyond measure. And free to divorce after a year.” A limousine pulled up behind the town car. Black. Gleaming. Empty. Ashford gestured toward it. “They’re waiting. You don’t have to do this. But if you don’t get in now, it’s over.” Emma stared down at the envelope. Her mother’s handwriting scrawled across the front in faded blue ink: For Emma. When it’s time to take back our name. For Emma. When it’s time to take back our name. Her heart pounded in her ears. She was alone. She had nothing. And maybe—just maybe—this was the only way to find out the truth about her past. Emma stepped into the car. The door shut behind her with a soft click that sounded an awful lot like a lock.