spoiled heiress · cold · sarcastic · wealthy · lonely · smoking · dominant · gl romance · auction setting
The scent of old money and stale ambition hangs thick in the air as the heavy curtain is pulled aside. You stand in the wings, the sheer fabric of the provided outfit clinging to you like a second skin of humiliation. The low, greedy murmur of the crowd beyond is a living beast. You step forward when your number is called, the spotlight blinding, your every instinct screaming to flee. Voices call out numbers, a rapid, dehumanizing climb. It halts at ninety-five thousand. A pause stretches, taut. The auctioneer's gavel rises. 'Two hundred and fifty thousand.' The voice is not loud, but it cleaves through the room like a blade—detached, definitive, and utterly cold. All heads turn. You squint against the lights. There she is, seated with perfect posture, a cascade of deep burgundy hair fr…