The Highest Bidder

Chapter 7

"One hundred and three thousand dollars."

The number burns into my retinas as I refresh the app for the twelfth time in an hour, my thumb moving with desperate compulsion while spreadsheets blur on my monitor.

The auction climbs with each refresh—strangers placing values on my inexperience like collectors bidding on rare artifacts they intend to possess.

One hundred and seven thousand.

My stomach twists into knots I cannot untangle.

"Ethan, the Morrison contracts need signatures before noon."

Asher's voice cuts through my spiral, and I shove the phone beneath a stack of papers with clumsy urgency.

"Is there a problem?"

"No problem." I force my voice level, professional. "I'll have them ready in fifteen minutes."

His steel eyes linger on my face longer than necessary, cataloging whatever cracks he sees in my composure.

Then he nods once and retreats to his office, leaving me alone with the weight of secrets I cannot share.

One hundred and twelve thousand.

The hospital visit cannot wait any longer.

The ICU smells like antiseptic and mechanical breathing, every surface scrubbed clean of anything resembling comfort.

I find my father awake this time, propped against pillows, his granite features softened only slightly by exhaustion.

"You came back," he says, his voice rough from disuse. "Thought maybe you'd given up on the old man already."

"I'm here every day, Dad."

I settle into the chair beside his bed, keeping my hands clasped between my knees to hide their trembling.

"The doctors say you're showing some improvement. Your vitals are stabilizing."

"Stabilizing."

He laughs, a bitter sound that dissolves into coughing.

"That's a polite word for dying slowly instead of dying fast. They told me about the surgery, Ethan. About the money."

"I'm handling it." The lie tastes like copper on my tongue. "You don't need to worry about the finances right now."

"Don't need to worry?"

His eyes sharpen with the familiar disappointment I've spent decades trying to escape.

"Twenty-six years old. When I was your age, I had a wife, a mortgage, a career that meant something. What do you have?"

I have an auction selling my virginity to the highest bidder.

"I'm working on it, Dad."

"Working on it."

He shakes his head slowly, the oxygen tubes shifting with the movement.

"You've been working on it your whole life, and you're still stuck in some cubicle, still alone, still nothing like what I tried to raise you to be."

The words land where they always do—the soft places I've never learned to armor.

I stare at the floor tiles, counting the specks in the linoleum while my lungs squeeze tight, refusing air.

"I used to wonder what I did wrong with you," he continues, relentless in his disappointment. "Whether I was too hard or not hard enough. But now I think some people are just born without the spine to become anything worthwhile."

"Dad, please." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "You just had a heart attack. Can we not do this right now?"

"When else are we going to do it?"

His hand reaches toward mine, and for one brief moment I think he's going to offer comfort—but his grip closes around my wrist with surprising strength, pulling me closer.

"I'm dying, Ethan. If you can't save me, at least tell me the truth. Are you ever going to amount to anything? Are you ever going to make me proud?"

The monitors beep their steady rhythm while I search for words that don't exist.

"I'm trying," I whisper finally. "I'm doing everything I can."

"Your everything has never been enough."

He releases my wrist and turns his face toward the window.

"Go back to work, Ethan. At least pretend you're accomplishing something with your life."

I leave without saying goodbye, my throat too tight for words.

The elevator at Apex Global carries me upward while I refresh the app with shaking hands.

One hundred and twenty-eight thousand.

One hundred and thirty-three thousand.

One hundred and forty-five thousand.

The bidding plateaus at that number, hovering for twenty minutes without movement.

I do the math obsessively—one hundred and forty-five thousand leaves me thirty-five thousand short.

Thirty-five thousand dollars between my father's life and a grave I cannot afford to fill.

"You look like you're about to shatter into a thousand pieces."

Cole stands in his office doorway, tracking my expression with concern I don't deserve.

"I'm fine." The automatic response sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Just processing some personal matters."

"Personal matters that have you checking your phone every ninety seconds and looking like someone kicked you in the chest?"

He moves closer, lowering his voice.

"Ethan, you keep building walls like they'll protect you. They won't. They'll just make sure you suffer in private."

"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why would you care? You barely know me."

Something shifts in his features—vulnerability breaking through carefully constructed walls.

"I didn't intend to say any of this." Cole's hand drops to his side, and for the first time he looks uncertain. "Forget I—"

"Why?" The word tears out of me before I can stop it. "Why would someone like you think about someone like me?"

His eyes hold mine, and I watch him decide whether to retreat or advance.

He advances.

"Because you look at the world like you're waiting for it to hurt you, and something in me wants to be the reason it doesn't."

His voice drops to barely a whisper.

"From the moment you crashed into Blaine in that elevator lobby, covered in coffee, I haven't been able to stop thinking about ways to make things easier for you."

The words settle into my bloodstream like a drug I never knew I needed.

"Cole, I don't know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything."

He reaches out and touches my shoulder, his palm warm through the fabric of my shirt.

"Just know that whatever you're facing, you don't have to face it alone. Me. Asher. Even Blaine, beneath all that insufferable charm. We're here."

His thumb traces a small circle against my shoulder, the touch almost unconscious, and my entire body responds with a hunger that terrifies me.

My phone buzzes against my palm.

I glance down automatically, expecting another incremental bid, another stranger adding dollars to my degradation.

Instead, the screen displays a notification that makes my heart stop completely.

New bid: $250,000. Single buyer. Anonymous.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. More than enough to save my father's life with margin to spare.

One buyer, offering more than the surgery costs, wanting something badly enough to exceed the previous offers by over a hundred thousand dollars.

My hands shake so violently I nearly drop the phone.

"Ethan?" Cole's voice sounds distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears. "What's wrong? You just went completely pale."

"I'm fine," I manage, shoving the phone into my pocket. "I just need a moment alone, if that's okay. I need to process something."

He studies my face, clearly unconvinced, but nods slowly.

"Take whatever time you need. My door is always open."

I retreat to the break room on trembling legs, locking myself in the single-stall bathroom before pulling out my phone again.

The notification still glows against the dark interface.

Below the bid amount, a new message appears, the text pulsing with urgency:

Your highest bidder requests a private meeting. Accept?

My thumb hovers over "Accept" for three heartbeats. Then I press it.

The response arrives instantly: Tomorrow night. 8 PM. 847 Hollow Creek Road, Greenwich. Come alone.

A rural address. Somewhere private. Somewhere no one would hear me scream.

What are you doing, Ethan? What have you agreed to?

But the number glows in my mind like a lifeline—$250,000, more than enough, one meeting with one anonymous stranger who might save my father's life or end mine.

I screenshot the address and delete the app from my phone.

Tomorrow night, I'll find out which.