Auctioned for a Dollar, Claimed by the Billionaire Chapter 05

The doors swung open on “one.”

The laughter died mid-breath.

Four hundred heads turned. Champagne flutes froze halfway to lips. At the table nearest the entrance, a hedge fund manager let his cigar holder slip from his fingers and clatter onto his plate.

“Holy hell,” he whispered.

Damien stayed exactly one step behind me, a dark wall of silence at my back.

I walked forward. My heels clicked across the marble. Nobody said a word. Nobody even breathed.

Then a real estate heir pushed his chair back so fast it screeched. “Okay, who invited the supermodel? Sweetheart, whatever table you’re looking for, it’s this one. Best seat in the house.”

“Back off, Preston, she’s obviously with someone-”

“Is that a Victoria’s Secret girl? Is she in the auction? Somebody get me a paddle!”

The whispers turned into a hungry buzz. Not one of them recognized me. Not one.

At the head table, Sloane’s smile cracked like cheap porcelain.

She had walked in tonight in a skintight scarlet dress, ready to be the most beautiful woman in the room while I got weighed like livestock. Now every man in the ballroom was staring at the door. Nobody was staring at her.

A muscle jumped in her jaw. She stood, forced on a sugary smile, and swayed toward me on her stilettos.

“Hi, honey. I’m so sorry, but this is a private gala. We don’t do plus-ones who aren’t on the list. Whoever’s assistant

snuck you in-

“Sit down, Sloane,” an old tech billionaire called from table four, chuckling. “If this young lady had shown up on the

scene a year ago, you’d have been out of a job. No need to get territorial.”

The room burst into laughter. At her this time.

Sloane’s face went blotchy red under her contour. She shot me a look that could have stripped paint.

And then there was Ryan.

He stood on the stage with the microphone still in his hand, and he was staring at me with his mouth slightly open. I

watched his eyes travel down my body and back up. I watched them darken. I knew that look. He used to give it to Sloane at parties when he thought I wasn’t watching.

He didn’t recognize me either.

He straightened his bow tie, stepped off the stage, and walked straight past Sloane like she was a coat rack.

“Well,” he said, flashing his boardroom smile. “I’d remember a face like yours. I’m Ryan Hale, CEO of Sterling Group. And you are?”

Behind me, I felt Damien go very, very still.

Before I could answer, a drunk investor at the bar yelled, “Hey, Ryan! Clock’s out! Looks like Lot 13 chickened out!”

“Told you she’d hide!” another one shouted. “Why don’t you let the new girl take her place on the scale? I’d bid!”

The room laughed again. Ryan laughed with them, easy and charming, and tossed a glance at the empty doorway with open disgust.

“Please. Don’t bring up that cow. She kills my appetite.” He winked at me. “That thirty grand is officially mine.”

I smiled. Slow. Sweet. Lethal.

Then I walked past him.

Past the stage. Straight to the steel livestock scale wrapped in pink ribbon, sitting under the banner that read LOT 13

WEIGH-IN.

The room began to quiet again. People could feel something was wrong now. They just didn’t know what.

I ran one manicured finger along the cold steel rail of the scale.

Ryan followed, his grin turning greasy. “Careful, gorgeous. That’s for the main event. Some sad, sloppy girl who should’ve stayed in Paris. Why don’t you come sit with me instead-”

I picked up the glass of champagne someone had placed beside the scale, a cruel little card propped against it that read FOR LOT 13 (DIET VERSION). I threw it straight into his face.

The room gasped.

“You crazy-” Ryan lunged for my wrist.

I stepped back, cool as winter, and looked up at the four hundred people staring at me. Then I looked at the man who

had put me on an auction block.

“Three years, Ryan,” I said softly. My voice carried to every corner. “Three years, and you don’t recognize the woman

you’re engaged to?”