4
MAXIMOFF HALE
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.