When I was seventeen, I told my dad, “I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love.”

I couldn’t imagine a person fitting into my unconventional life. I couldn’t imagine a companion at my side.

Not like that.

In my head, there’d be no one for me. No man. No woman. No person. I’d be alone, and it was supposed to be okay. It’d be okay that it would always be just me, only me.

My dad, with amber eyes that can cut the soul into jagged pieces, stared right…right into me. Where most would fear him, I bathed in warmth—those sharp-edged eyes, with their bitter history and raw truths, comforted me.

And he said, “Before I had you and your siblings, your mom was the one good thing in my life. And I know I’m supposed to tell you how love conquers all. How we could move mountains together. But the love we had almost destroyed us both. Love is like having a mortal wound and you’re bleeding out and no matter how hard you look, you can never find the goddamn cut.” He never broke eye contact.

I kept looking. Listening, feeling his words.

“It’s its own special brand of pain,” he told me. “Because no matter how much you love, you’re still a passenger to their life. You have to watch all their bad decisions. You can’t think for them or change them. Just be there for them. And sometimes, it’s not going to be good enough. Sometimes things happen out of your control.” He paused. “Love is pain, and you know what…I feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t met it yet.”

I think about that.

As my boots cement and the stage lights overpower my vision, rows and rows of blurred faces staring back, I think about love.

How I thought I’d never feel it.

The pain.

The kind my dad scorned but also ached for.

I don’t want Farrow to be a passenger to my bad choices, watching my fucked-up decision to be sold for a night.

But I keep picturing Farrow Redford Keene…I keep imagining him running down the aisle. Coming towards me. Because if our positions were reversed, I’d want to pull him off this damn stage. And I’d know I can’t, he can’t.

I’d feel like screaming and screaming and screaming just to reach him. Until my veins burst in my neck and my lungs set on fire.

Until my last breath was used to call his name.

I imagine him climbing on stage in one swift motion. His intense focus meeting my tough gaze, his hand catching my hand, his inked arm sweeping around my shoulders. Pulled together, not letting go, never letting go—but I don’t see him, or even hear him.

He’s just the agonized love inside my head.

“Sold!” the auctioneer yells.

I blink out of my thoughts and near the stage stairs.

A delicate hand touches my shoulder—and I swing my head, meeting the kind eyes of a twenty-something girl.

Probably an event coordinator.

Probably. Christ. My face twists in a bitter expression that I almost never fucking wear.

Because I’m not even a tiny bit sure who she is or her job description or why she’s on stage. I’ve been told next to nothing. At this event, I’m just a celebrity guest.

The one up for bid.

At the events I organize, I know everything. Down to the names and faces of the clean up crew.

Ernest didn’t think I’d cooperate if I had knowledge, so he’s blindfolded me. Worse, I have no idea where the auction money is going. The board muttered something about humanitarian projects. Which is vague and nondescript.

And the company should be clear and upfront with all the guests tonight. So I’m not thrilled about the money raised at the auction. Being reinstated as CEO of H.M.C. Philanthropies is the only good thing that’ll come out of this.

“Sorry,” I apologize to the girl before I ask, “who are you?!” I have to shout as the classical music blasts next to me, a violin in my ear.

“An event coordinator!” She flashes a Night with a Celebrity event badge with her name: Tami. “We’re taking a fifteen-minute intermission!”

“Who’s up next?! Beckett or Charlie?!”

She shrugs and forces a smile as an answer.

Great.

I descend the few stairs. Guests mingle in the aisles and around the stage. Bruno grants me about fifteen feet of space, enough that I forget he’s even here.

I’m closer to the right aisle, and that’s when I see him.

Farrow slips through the chatty masses with a determined stride. His shoulder bumps into a woman, and champagne almost spills on her emerald necklace—wait, why is Charlie behind him?

I move faster, squeezing past guests as Farrow weaves between other bodies. Both of us in pursuit of the other.

“Maximoff,” a few people call for me. Wanting to talk.

I don’t stop.

Not until no one and nothing barricades Farrow from me and me from Farrow. His arm instantly curves around my shoulders, and with his other tattooed hand, he holds my jaw, his lips against my ear as he whispers quickly, “Charlie knows who won the two-million dollar bid on you.”

My heartbeat pounds against Farrow’s hard chest.

Two-million dollars.

I nod stiffly. I had no idea I was won for two-million. I must’ve tuned out that part, and I can’t conjure the kind of person who’d spend that life-changing amount on me.

We both turn towards my cousin who nears. Charlie plucks a champagne flute off a server’s tray and downs the drink in two gulps. He sets the glass on an armrest of an empty seat.

Not giving a fuck.

Typical. But his indifference doesn’t grate on me right now. Because I’m majorly confused.

“Who won me?” I ask Charlie, and I keep my arm around Farrow’s waist while his arm hangs over my shoulder.

Charlie steps closer so we’re in a huddle, no one overhearing, and he loosens his already loose bowtie. “Ace Steel.”

My brows knit. “Who?” I look to Farrow.

He stares hard at Charlie. “Never heard of him.”

Charlie runs his hand through his hair and pulls at the strands. Not anxiously. He does it when he’s bored, too, and it always makes his hair stick up in odd places—and Jesus, I don’t know why I’m fixating on this.

Yeah I do. Because I’ve been sold for two-million dollars. Because Ernest has invaded my wheelhouse, steering my ship towards someone with maybe-possibly-fucked-up intentions.

Charlie takes a pair of black sunglasses out of his pocket. Prolonging the answer, and he slips them on. It’s nighttime. We’re indoors. Cameras aren’t even flashing at us. There’s no sense in most of what he does, and sometimes I think that’s why he does it.

I let out an agitated breath. “Charlie—”

“Ace Steel is a porn star.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

My brows scrunch more. “You’re fucking with us,” I state.

Charlie shakes his head once. “Not this time. And I know what pornography companies do to our families, so I warned your boyfriend. He failed at winning you, and that’s not on me.”

Farrow rolls his eyes, but I’m super-glued to the fact that Farrow tried to win me and rescue me off that stage. I’d say I don’t need rescuing, but I’d be willing to let Farrow rescue me.

I just wouldn’t outright tell him that.

My chest rises in a deeper breath. I have no idea how he would’ve paid for me, but I guess it doesn’t matter since he lost me.

Metaphorically.

And a porn star literally won me. Awesome.

“You sure it’s a porn star?” I ask Charlie.

He gives me a look like I’m being senseless. “Of course I know. You can Google him if you don’t believe me.”

I get why I don’t recognize the name Ace Steel. I don’t watch porn, but Farrow does…or did—or maybe he still does. Stop thinking.

“Straight porn,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. That’s why the name didn’t ring a bell for him. Farrow only watches gay porn.

A straight porn actor just purchased me.

I tilt my head backwards and stare upwards.

Dear World, is this a joke? Sincerely, a wide-eyed, severely bewildered human.

I crack my stiff neck. “Let me conceptualize this,” I say to Charlie and motion to my head. “Ace Steel is a guy who only does straight porn with girls?”

Charlie overturns his champagne flute, the lip of the glass to the armrest. “Correct.”

This makes no sense.

Farrow is eyeing the center section of seats. I can’t tell what he thinks or how he feels about this.

I rake a hand through my thick hair. “Why would he want to buy me?”

Charlie arches a mocking brow. “He could want to do a scene with you.”

Huh? “A what?” I have no clue what scene means in this context.

Farrow peels his gaze off the audience, just to glance at me, the corners of his mouth rising.

My neck almost heats, his amused expression practically broadcasts that I’m now six years younger, six years less experienced, and he’s older, wiser.

Stronger.

I am younger, but he’s definitely not that much wiser. At least not in everything.

Farrow lifts his hand to hold the back of my head as he says, “A scene is just the term used for pornography shoots. Actors are paid per scene filmed, et cetera, and there could be multiple actors in one scene.” He barely pauses before asking Charlie, “Is that him?” Farrow points someone out in the center section, on the row nearest us.

“That’s him,” Charlie confirms.

I don’t stare long, my focus on Farrow. “I’m not interested in whatever this porn star has to offer. So if that’s why he bought me, he can save his money.” My tone is firm like this could be just an ordinary business deal.

You know, normal.

Weirdly, it kind of is.

Porn producers used to call me all the time, especially when I hit eighteen. And I get it. I’m the son of a sex addict. People are curious, and curiosity sells as much as sex. But I always had zero desire to upload me fucking anyone for you to see.

Now that I have a boyfriend, my desire has plummeted to negative-infinity, and my stomach is in fucking knots.

Farrow rubs a thumb against the back of my neck. “Loud and clear,” he tells me. “We’ll let him know.” He gestures for Ace Steel to come over, and the man who stands up looks like a Spartan warrior with gunmetal eyes, a quarterback build, and stubble along a hard jaw. He’s older than me, probably around Farrow’s age.

And he wears a tux like he has millions of dollars to spare.

My phone starts ringing.

Farrow looks at me, and I dig my hand in the pocket of my green jeans.

I clutch my phone and check the caller ID: Winona Meadows.

Sulli’s little sister.

“It’s Winona,” I tell Farrow, since Charlie has disappeared into an empty row ahead, slouching on top of a seat, sunglasses still on.

It’s family. I don’t want to ignore her, but there’s a porn star currently squeezing his way out of a row to meet me. And…I don’t want to leave him with Farrow. My boyfriend sees my confliction, and says, “Go,” he nods towards the door. “I can deal with this guy.”

I hesitate.

“Maximoff,” he urges. “Go.” Farrow sends me a single look that says, I’ll catch up with you later, wolf scout.

“I’ll be back,” I tell him and quickly put my phone to my ear. Walking up the aisle, I glance backward just to see Ace approach Farrow and extend a hand.

Farrow doesn’t shake it and instead starts talking, lips moving rapidly but casually. Always at ease during tornadic activity.

My lips lift, settled with this decision. But then Winona’s voice fills my ear in a mad rush, and I stop in the middle of the aisle. My smile falls, and I start mentally gathering battalions.

“Moffy, it’ll be past my curfew soon, so hey, let’s skip the whole you shouldn’t be here, Nona bit and tackle the important parts,” she says in one breath.

Before I can reply, she’s going on, “We need to talk to you. I think it might be bad, really bad. You don’t need to say anything yet. I’m about to text you all the details.” She hangs up.

So you know Winona Briar Meadows as the fourteen-year-old fearless animal lover with a spirit as wild as the Meadows family. You follow her Instagram account that’s littered with nature photography and rock climbing excursions. If she’s not advocating for animal rights with Ben Cobalt, then she’s hanging with her girl squad and keeping to herself. You beg her to post more selfies, and you criticize her when she doesn’t.

I know her as Nona, my cousin who could practically be my little sister. Who I used to carry on my shoulders through the Costa Rican forest while she snapped photos of every damn thing: the leaves, the dirt, the ants and the trees. She would bloody her hands, run off a cliff, and split open her heart for any living thing, and it’s terrifying.

Fair Warning: I will decapitate you with a rusted blade if you fuck with this one, and she’ll probably try to stop me.

My head is spinning on Nona’s words we shouldn’t be here and bad and the “we” in we need to talk to you. Who’s with her? Where are they? And what the fuck happened?

Near the double door entrance, I spot Jane.

She’s stuck chatting with the old woman who bought her. I flag down Janie, and she pries herself away from our grandmother’s friend. Strutting down the aisle, her banana purse thwacks her hip.

I haven’t talked to my best friend all night, and she’s one of the people I’d want on my side during a shit storm.

I catch Jane’s hand. “Bonsoir, ma moitié,” I say, kissing her cheeks.

“It’s just you and me, old chap,” she replies. “And the older crew, security, and about two-thousand dreadfully stuffy socialites.”

Cameras flash as we greet one another, and her blue eyes dart to the left, but not for long. She pushes her wavy hair off her shoulder. “Now that you’re public with Farrow, one would think they’d care less about analyzing our friendship.”

“That’s too predictable, huh? I guess our friendship is just that good.”

She smiles brightly, but her lips downturn as my phone vibrates in my fist. “I know that look. Who’s in trouble?”

“Winona. We may need to leave early.” I slip next to Jane so she can skim the text with me. The message has a ton of random nature and animal emojis.

“Their personal bodyguards are here for the event, aren’t they?” I ask Jane.

She ties her hair back, cheeks flushed hot. “They were given temp bodyguards tonight. It’s likely Ben and Nona ditched them, and it’s even more possible they’re here to protest the auction.”

“I don’t know.” I stare off, thinking. “Winona and Ben are passionate about these things, but they’d both rush in and not just wait in Ben’s car. It seems weird…” I trail off and notice Charlie alone, still slumped on a seat.

He tosses his bowtie to the floor.

I’ve stopped bringing him into the fold. Because he kept ignoring me every time I did. And maybe he still will, maybe he’ll hate that Winona called me first, but I don’t want to chisel him out of my world anymore.

I look to Jane. “Should I ask your brother to come with me?” Jane has always played neutral in my feud with Charlie, but I can tell it’s strained her relationship with him.

She smiles. “Oui, oui.” Yes, yes. “Vous deux, allez-y. Je vais rester avec Beckett au cas où il serait bientôt appelé. Je ne veux pas qu’il soit seul.” You two go. I’m going to stay here with Beckett in case he’s called soon. I don’t want him to be alone.

I wave Charlie over, and he surprisingly drops to his feet and saunters to me. I explain what’s happening and finish with, “Want to help?”

Charlie stares at the ground, processing everything. And when his yellow-green eyes lift up to me, he answers, “You’re in luck. I’m available.”

I was prepared for a fight, but this is better. So much better. And I turn on instinct, looking for someone else.

Farrow.

He’s still chatting with Ace Steel down the aisle, but Akara and Oscar flank him like they’re two-seconds from pulling him backwards.

I cup my hands around my mouth. “Farrow!” I call out, and nearly every head swerves in my direction.

Farrow locks eyes with me, and I know, in this second, that I want him with me.

So I text Winona: me, Charlie, and Farrow are coming in a sec. Don’t drive away.

She’s fast to reply.

I type quickly as a six-foot-three Farrow approaches, and I send: not if you sit in the middle seat in the back.

I plan on it.