As I retrace my path up the aisle, headed towards Omega, Maximoff climbs the few stairs to the stage.

Stoic, unbending, and undeniably striking, he stands beside the podium like a 15^th century sculpture, body and jaw carved from marble. And the affluent crowd is about to bid on the modern, real-life version of Michelangelo’s David.

He’s mine.

I don’t love him because he’s a coveted piece of art to the thousands here and the millions outside. I love him because he’s so pure it hurts, so moral it aches, and so strong-willed it kills me not to speak to him, not to be near him, not to look at him or to protect him.

Velveteen seats squeak, bodies shifting to open purses and reach in pockets for a remote device called a clicker. The auction is electronic, no hand raising or numbers hoisted.

My boots feel heavier.

Each step is cumbersome and barbed as I put more distance between me and the stage. Instinct says turn around, don’t leave him.

Don’t leave him.

I fight the urge to rotate, race towards the stage, climb up and kiss the fuck out of Maximoff. My jaw tics, and I stuff my hands in the pockets of my slacks.

I’m not losing him.

I’m not really leaving him. What I said was true: this isn’t real, but shit, the desertion is a kind of torment I’ve never experienced. It bites at my heels as I walk away and let him do this alone.

Since I’m not his personal bodyguard at this event, I can’t be a part of the “night” portion of a night with a celebrity. The “night” is planned one week from now. At a location Ernest hasn’t disclosed yet. And I have to trust Bruno to protect Maximoff there.

Unless I can win him myself.

I pull a clicker out of my pocket. I already registered my information and bank account, and this is my attempt to prevent bad shit from happening.

I reach SFO, and no one seems surprised that I went “rogue” and chose my boyfriend over door-duty. It’s not just me being a maverick. If that’d been their own client, they’d be hard-pressed to say they wouldn’t do the same.

Akara spins his phone in his hand; he’d be tenser if Sulli, his client, were participating in the auction. “I can’t vouch for you anymore with Alpha,” he tells me. “It’s not sticking, and we’re in a spot where Omega has less leeway.”

I nod. “Okay.” I can’t say I’ll change my actions, but I’d rather Akara not put his neck on the line for me. I can take all the heat.

Oscar motions me forward, about the same time I slip between Donnelly and him. I face the stage, and my stomach overturns.

Maximoff is staring off in the distance. Lost in his head. Almost like he’s not here.

I’m not close enough to wake him up.

“…the grandson of two Fortune 500 moguls with the billion-dollar companies Fizzle and Hale Co…” The auctioneer pushes up his silver-rimmed glasses and reads a bio to the audience.

I partially tune him out and whisper to Oscar, “How much do you think he’ll go for?”

“More than you have, Redford.”

I roll my eyes, but I would’ve said the same thing. This is a fucking pipe dream, but Luna only went for twelve grand. Jane was forty.

Oscar bats his eyelashes. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Did you come up with that one all on your own, Oliveira?” My curt voice draws his lips down. This shit is actually serious to me, and he notices.

“How much do you have to spend?” Oscar asks, his strict tone matching mine.

“Twelve grand.”

Donnelly smacks a pack of cigarettes on his palm, but he won’t smoke in this venue. “You really sold it?”

“I had to.” With all the fines I incurred on tour for breaking security rules, my bank account sat idle at three hundred bucks.

I don’t need to be an Ivy League grad to know Maximoff’s price tag will be much higher than that.

“Sold what?” Quinn Oliveira asks. The youngest bodyguard sidles over to us, distancing himself from Thatcher Moretti: the six-foot-seven immobile bodyguard who hasn’t budged verbally or physically since we’ve been here.

A silent Thatcher is my favorite Thatcher. Because when he’s speaking, nine-times-out-of-ten it’s to reprimand me. Since he accepted his demotion, no longer a lead of any force, he scolds me eight-times-out-of-ten now. But he has no real power over me anymore.

“Farrow sold his bike,” Donnelly answers, sliding an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Quinn gestures to me. “Bro, I would’ve bought it. I’ve been looking for one.”

I keep watch of the stage, Maximoff, the auctioneer, and Omega all at once. “What would you’ve offered for a five-year-old FZ-09?”

“It’s a Yamaha,” Oscar says to his little brother.

“I know,” Quinn snaps and rubs his unshaven jaw, frustrated.

Oscar raises his hands. “Just trying to help.”

Quinn ignores him and nods to me. “Four grand.”

“And that’s why I didn’t sell it to you,” I say easily, and then I catch some of the auctioneer’s words.

“…at nineteen, Maximoff Hale attended Harvard University and swam for their team…”

I heat, the clicker damp in my palm. I rub my hand on my shirt, then I glance at Oscar, feeling his gaze on me. He’s perceptive and clever, a lethal combination for those who don’t want to be analyzed. But I don’t mind.

“You can say it,” I tell him.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

I’ve never cared about someone like this.

“What’d you sell it for then?” Quinn asks me about my bike.

“Twelve grand,” I say distantly, hearing voices escalate in the lobby behind the double doors.

Quinn frowns. “No way it’s worth that much.”

“It’s not,” I say. “The guy was an idiot.”

Truthfully, I put the ad on Craigslist and mentioned how the motorcycle belonged to “Maximoff Hale’s boyfriend” and a middle-aged man bit the bait. He said he had no plans to ride it, and after he made an offhanded joke about a CVS deal on lotion, I wasn’t going to ask.

Oscar watches the stage, then me. “Should’ve just sold the boyfriend’s motorcycle. He’s more popular than you.” Oscar knows that fame is why I got more for less.

“I’m not selling my boyfriend’s Kawasaki to win him,” I say. “Also, his bike is a piece of shit.” The brand is great, but he’s had his Z1000 since he was sixteen and crashed multiple times, as aggressive on a bike as he is in a car. I tried riding the motorcycle, and it had almost no torque.

Oscar opens a snack-sized bag of Lays. “Fans don’t care if his bike is a piece of shit or a plastic vehicle in Barbie’s dream house.”

Donnelly digs in the chips. “You know Akara’s bike would’ve sold for more.”

Oscar slaps Donnelly’s hand away. “This is snack-sized. For one person. Me. Get your own.”

Donnelly gives him a middle finger.

Akara hears his name, vaguely listening to our conversation. “I’m never selling my bike, guys.” He has a CBR1000RR sportbike that he wrecked, but he cashed in a favor with Banks, the most skilled mechanic on the team. Thatcher’s twin brother worked on the Honda, removed the fairings, fixed the engine, and turned the bike into a street fighter.

It’s beautiful and worth more than what Akara paid for it.

“…at twenty-one, Maximoff Hale was honored with the World’s Philanthropy of the Year Award for founding one of the most profitable charities…”

The noise behind the door grows louder, footsteps pounding, and we all shift before the door creaks open and a head pops out. I see a tight bun, Botoxed forehead, and an ankle-length dress, no…I don’t recognize this woman.

But her beady gray eyes land on me.

“Mr. Keene,” she whispers. “Come here, please.” She gestures towards the lobby.

I’m not leaving. “What is it?” I ask.

She glances nervously at the few heads we turn from the audience. Whispering, she says, “I’ve been informed that you are no longer serving as security tonight. I can’t let you in the orchestra hall without paying the entrance fee. I’m sorry.”

I run my hand over my strong jaw. Someone on the security team had to have “informed” the event staff. My narrowed eyes drift to Thatcher, but he’s still staring unflinchingly ahead.

Focus.

I act quickly and whisper to the woman, “I can pay afterwards.”

“You can’t. I’m sorry. If you’d step into the lobby, we can get your entrance fee squared away and you’ll be able to return.”

I may not make the start of the bidding, and I make a split-second decision. I raise the clicker between Donnelly and Oscar. “Which one of you fuckers wants it?” I’m trusting them to bid for me if I’m not back in time.

Oscar licks his salty thumb from his chips. “Can’t choose between us, Redford?”

I’d like to make that choice, but I met them both nearly at the same time in my life. I was just eighteen, and ten years later, we’re all still here. I can’t say who needs each other more or less. We’ve all just been there in rough terrain, and that’s why I can’t choose right away.

Oscar sees and takes the clicker. “Donnelly isn’t good with numbers. Go.”

On my way out, I warn, “You bet over ten grand, Oliveira, and you’ll be paying for my bar tabs for the next decade.”

Oscar crumples the chip bag. “Love you too, bro.”

I slip through the doorway, and the auctioneer’s voice fades.

With the heavy door opened for a half a second, Thatcher turns to peek into the lobby. He’s clearly looking for his client, and I don’t let him see Jane.

I kick the door closed, his glare meeting mine before it shuts.

“This way.” The woman directs me past a fancy concession bar that sells wine, caramel popcorn, and cocktails.

I follow and survey my surroundings. The carpeted lobby is quiet, even as a throng of security hovers near Luna Hale and Beckett Cobalt.

Maximoff’s little sister sits on the staircase that leads to the balcony levels, and she’s showing Beckett something on her phone. Could be a fanfic story that she wrote. She looks better than earlier. More talkative.

Near the restrooms, the woman stops at the registration table, laptops opened and papers stacked in neat piles.

“Farrow?” Jane exits the girl’s bathroom, a blue tulle skirt over leggings, and cat-eye sunglasses perched on frizzy brown hair. “Isn’t Moffy on stage? He needs one of us out there in support—”

“I’m dealing with some shit.” I gesture to the table, and the woman stiffens at my language. “Sorry,” I apologize to her and open my wallet. “You can go, Cobalt.”

Jane frowns.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “He needs you.” I want his best friend to be in sight if I can’t be, but it’s not easy to swallow the fact that money is what’s obstructing me.

Jane studies the table, the woman, my wallet, putting two-and-two together. Especially as the woman tells me, “We don’t take cards for the entry fee. Only check.”

Shit.

My fingers freeze on my wallet. “Who carries around a checkbook?” I ask, my gaze drifting as soon as Jane unzips her yellow-sequined, banana-shaped purse.

I blink once and Jane already has the checkbook open, bending over the table to write the amount. “Two thousand, correct?” she asks me.

I appreciate the gesture, but I prefer buying my own way. “Jane—”

“You’ll pay me back.” Her blue eyes flit up to me as she scrawls her name. “You don’t have time to argue, and if you have another plan, please let me know.”

I don’t. “Okay.” I nod.

I’m not sure if she’s doing this more for Maximoff or for me. I almost roll my eyes. Of course this is for Maximoff, but I’m lucky that he has Jane unflinchingly on his side.

“Thanks, Cobalt,” I say as she rips the pink check out of the book.

Jane offers a small smile, and then passes the check to the woman.

I don’t waste another second that Jane’s given me. And she’s right in tow as I reenter the orchestra hall.

Thatcher reaches a hand above Jane’s head behind me. Just to hold the door open for her, but she follows my lengthy stride. Catching up quickly.

The auctioneer is already spewing numbers at rapid speed. “2k, would I get a 3k? 3k, would I get a 4k? Somebody bid now, make it 5k.”

I can spend twelve grand again since I didn’t need to use two.

When I near Oscar, he clicks the clicker, but the device lights up red. Meaning he was too slow, and someone else whose device lit up green locked in for that bid.

“Boyfriend is popular,” Oscar says and passes the clicker to me. “I only got the 1k bid, which is null and void now that it’s at…”

We all listen to the numbers…7k.

I click at 8k. Flashes red.

“Merde,” Jane mutters.

Fuck, there are too many bidders.

“Somebody bid now, make it 9k.”

Finally, the device lights green.

“9k, would I get—10k, we got 11k—,”

Fuckfuckfuck.

I click and click.

Red. Red.

“We got 12k—”

Green. I hold my breath, and we all wait to see if a rich prick bids on him.

“Somebody bid, make it 13k,” the auctioneer chants. Don’t.

I want him.

“13k!” he shouts and bangs a hand on the podium. He pushes up his slipping glasses. “Would I get a 14k?!”

My stomach drops.

I can’t let this eat at me; I saw this happening from the start, but an acidic taste runs in the back of my throat.

Jane has her knuckles to her lips, worried.

That’s not good. I look down at her and ask, “What’s the chance that one of your family friend’s bids on him like they bid on you?” Jane has already gone through this process tonight. After Maximoff is finished, Beckett and Charlie are the only two left.

14k. I hear the number grow.

“Terribly small,” she whispers, and me and the rest of SFO listen closely as she explains what most never hear. “The old woman who bought the night with me—she was the friend of my socialite grandmother, and my grandmother has never doted over Moffy the way she does me. She buys me thousand-dollar tea pots when she knows that I dislike tea, and she only gifts Moffy store-bought cards with no signature.”

I catch myself grinding my teeth.

Donnelly tightens his loose cartilage earring. “Grandma Calloway sounds like a b…” His voice trails at Akara and Thatcher’s reprimanding looks. “…itch. Bitch. I meant bitch.”

15k.

“Paul,” Thatcher snaps.

Donnelly lets it go without care.

I’m stuck watching Maximoff stare off in space, green lights flashing in the hands of the audience, and my muscles tighten. That acidic taste in my throat keeps rising.

Jane shifts her weight, nervous.

17k.

“Redford,” Oscar says my middle name with a flat tone. It’s serious, and I instantly follow his vigilant gaze to a boxed seat, up in the third tier across the orchestra hall.

Where Charlie Cobalt sits.

His bowtie is undone, white button-down sticking out from his slacks, sandy-brown hair ruffled.

Oscar has been keeping an eye on his client, and something’s not right. Charlie is bent forward, hands on the railing, unblinking.

Watching. Too carefully.

He’s usually slouching or slumping in disinterest. But Charlie zeroes in on the audience while clickers blink green and red. Too interested in this outcome.

All of a sudden, Charlie bolts to his feet and disappears through the upper-tier door.

Oscar whispers, “He knows something.”

“And he’s not going to tell us shit,” I say softly. “This is Charlie.”

“He’ll tell his older sister.” Oscar’s dark curls fall over his forehead as he nods towards Jane.

Jane looks uncertain.

I tilt my head. “You’re his sister.”

“He can be abnormally private,” she says as though being left out doesn’t hurt. “We should find Beckett—though, Beckett will only spill Charlie’s secrets if it’s life-threatening.”

I don’t pretend to understand the Cobalt family hierarchy of secret-keeping and secret-spilling. None if it has any ounce of order or sense to me.

“Boss, I’ll get my client,” Donnelly says about Beckett. He already pushes the doors to the lobby before Akara says, “I’ll go with you.”

They leave.

25k.

Oscar brushes his earpiece, someone’s speaking, and I never thought I’d miss my radio or Alpha in my fucking ear.

While I wait for him to fill me in, I concentrate on Maximoff. He stares at the wall, his trance broken, but he’s listening carefully to the number.

28k.

Oscar touches my shoulder. “Charlie is coming here to speak to you. It can’t be good.”

“No shit.” My voice dies as the double doors blow open. The pop of noise causes a wave of mutterings and heads to turn.

Charlie couldn’t care less, his attention plastered to me.

“What is it?” I ask. That acid in my throat is bile. I taste it. My gut—my intuition that I rely on—sickens with dread.

He nears quickly, his shoulder brushing mine at the same height, and he says hushed but fast, “You have to win him.”

I shelter the urge to ask why. “I don’t have thirty grand—”

“I’ll wire you the money,” Charlie cuts me off, not removing his intense yellow-green eyes from my face. “Farrow.” Urgency is on my name, but I can’t tell if fear, worry, or something else accompanies it.

He reaches for the clicker in my hand.

I pull back, and not wasting time, I press the button. The device blinks green and I enter the 30k bid. Someone else bids 31k, but I manage to get to 32k before anyone else can.

“Charlie,” Jane whispers, “the H.M.C. board said we’re not allowed to pool our money into any bids. It was a stipulation—”

“Fuck the board,” Charlie says beneath his breath, and to me, he says, “Continue.”

I comb a hand through my hair. “If this is serious, Charlie, security has the ability to shut down the entire auction—”

“Maximoff wouldn’t want to end an event early,” Charlie cuts me off.

A short laugh sticks to my throat. “When have you ever cared what Maximoff wants?” 37k.

“It’s fine,” Charlie says, glare on my glare. “It’s fine. You’re going to win him. The solution is right here.”

I should grab Maximoff off the stage. I should leave with him, but I can’t tell if that instinct is just me being hyper-vigilant of the guy I love, combined with the after-effects of a stalker.

I’d like to say that Nate, that sick motherfucker, didn’t affect me, but I’m standing here questioning my natural instincts.

My memory makes years feel like yesterdays and weeks feel like minutes ago.

Great for sex. Better for love. Shit for what Maximoff calls doomsdays.

I can still feel the animal blood pouring down my head. I can feel Nate’s limbs slipping out of my grip and how my adrenaline thrashed my pulse…

I almost shut my eyes. But the image will still be there. And I have to live with this forever, but I wish it didn’t have to fuck with my reflexes.

Normally I wouldn’t hesitate this long. Fuck it. I make an abrupt choice and put trust in Charlie. I stay here to bid on Maximoff.

There’s no going back.

“Who else is bidding on your cousin?” Oscar asks Charlie.

Charlie is quiet. He had the best vantage point in the boxed seat, and he could tell whose clicker kept lighting green. I stare at backs of chairs and heads. Unable to distinguish the person I’m electronically contending.

“Charlie,” Jane snaps angrily and speaks in rapid French. He replies back just as swiftly in the same language.

The auctioneer spouts off, “45k, got 46k…” My clicker lights green, locking in the bid, but the auctioneer’s voice suddenly fades, and the orchestra hall goes strangely quiet.

The auctioneer frowns and lifts a tablet he’s been using. “It looks like a bidder has put in a high offer.”

“Oh no,” Jane breathes.

I run my tongue over my lip piercing, watching concern pass through Charlie’s features.

He brushes a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s fine.” But I can’t tell if he really means it.

I grit down. Fuck this. I look at Oscar. “I’m getting him.” I’m getting my boyfriend off the motherfucking stage.

Oscar nods.

“Wait a second,” Charlie says with more confidence, holding out a hand.

The auctioneer sets down the tablet. “We’ll start the auction at the highest offer.” He clears his throat. “Two million, would I get a two-point-one mil?” No chance. I don’t even know if Charlie has access to that amount of money, and he could lie and say he does.

I pocket the device, and Charlie stares ahead, not stopping me.

“Going once,” the auctioneer calls.

My stomach somersaults. “Charlie, who’s bidding on him?” I ask.

“Going twice.”

Charlie’s eyes are locked on the stage like he’s in a daze. “No one good.”

“Sold!”

Violins screech as the quartet plays again, calling for an intermission, and hundreds rise, congesting the stage and aisles.

Get him.

I head down the right aisle, and I’m surprised when Charlie Cobalt follows me, step for step.