The restaurant was gorgeous. Crystal chandeliers dangled above velvet booths, and everything gleamed under the soft gold lighting—too perfect, too composed. A place where deals were made with a smile and a secret.
Melinda sat across from Susie in a booth tucked near the back. Their plates had long been cleared, wine glasses half full, conversation winding gently through safer topics. To her own surprise, Melinda was relaxed. Comfortable. Almost… enjoying herself.
Susie had a way of drawing people in when she wasn't being a tyrant. She smiled a little more, and for once, Melinda found herself talking without filtering every word.
They were laughing about one of Susie's biggest investors—a tobacco magnate who had once tried to bribe her with a yacht—when Brandi's name slipped into the conversation like a knife between ribs.
"Brentford," Susie said, her tone immediately shifting. "Always pressing her way into places she doesn't belong."
Melinda tilted her head. "Is it just the control thing? Because I know you said she takes over companies once she invests, but—"
"That's not the half of it," Susie interrupted, swirling her wine before setting it down untouched. Her voice dropped. "That girl doesn't just throw money around. She launders it."
Melinda blinked. "Launders—?"
"She's got money in places she shouldn't. Dirty money. Cartel-adjacent, I'm guessing. She invests to clean it up. Builds influence from the inside, then guts a company until it's just a shell she can wear."
Susie's gaze was sharp now. "No one knows how she got where she is. She's, what? One year older than you? And somehow sitting on millions but hasn't appeared on a single Forbes list. No interviews. No legacy. No family name. Nothing. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
Melinda frowned. "Maybe she asked not to be listed. Maybe she values privacy."
Susie's jaw clenched slightly, the comment clearly hitting a nerve.
"No," she snapped. "That girl is a criminal. She doesn't want privacy. She wants power. There's nothing good that comes from Brandi Brentford, and you'd be smart to remember that."
Melinda stayed quiet, fingers grazing the rim of her wineglass. But something stirred in her chest—curiosity, confusion… a flutter of interest she couldn't kill.
She hadn't even saved the number from the note. She hadn't responded. And yet, she found herself wondering.
What would a date with Brandi even look like?
Would she be cold? All sharp wit and dominance, like in the office?
Or would she be softer than she let on—still powerful, but careful?
Would she look at Melinda the way she had when she first walked in? Like she was everything?
The thought made her skin warm again.
"I mean," Melinda murmured, mostly to herself, "Would it be so bad to just… get to know her?"
Susie scoffed loudly enough to draw a few stares from nearby tables.
"That's a terrible idea," she said firmly, reaching for her clutch. "You've seen what she's capable of. Don't be naive just because she smiles like she wants to undress you with her teeth."
Melinda gave a weak chuckle, staring down into her lap—but Susie's words died midair.
Because that was when Brandi walked into the restaurant.
Tall. Commanding. Dressed in a smooth slate-gray suit that shimmered slightly beneath the chandelier light. She spoke briefly to the host, smile smooth, charm turned all the way up. Then she was led to a table—directly across the restaurant, within perfect view of Susie's booth.
And when she sat down, she looked up.
Right at them.
Her eyes locked onto Susie's.
And then, slowly—purposefully—she shifted her gaze to Melinda.
She smiled. Nodded. Winked.
Then dropped her eyes to the menu like nothing had happened.
Susie stiffened. Her mouth twitched in a mix of irritation and disbelief.
"Of course she's here," she muttered.
Melinda blinked, blood rushing to her ears. Her heart thudded louder with every breath. Before she could process it, her phone vibrated on the table. She picked it up, her breath catching in her throat.
Unknown Number:
I didn't expect you to be here, you never called, but you look stunning, by the way.
Melinda's cheeks went crimson. She snapped the screen off and slid the phone beneath the napkin on her lap, hoping Susie hadn't seen.
But she had.
Susie let out another cold scoff and raised a hand to flag down a waiter.
"We're done here," she said flatly. "Check, please."
Melinda didn't speak. She only nodded quietly as the bill was paid, and followed Susie out without a word.
Outside, the air was cooler. Melinda folded her arms against herself, climbing into the passenger seat of Susie's car.
Brandi watched from her table as Susie and Melinda stood and left the restaurant.
She didn't rush to follow.
Instead, she leaned back in her chair and rolled her eyes with a low chuckle. "God, Susie is so dramatic."
She flagged down a nearby waiter, who looked startled—like being approached by a myth.
"I want a bottle of wine," Brandi said smoothly. "And have the kitchen prepare a filet. Well done. Baked potato on the side, butter, and chives. Thank you ma'am" she said as she reached low into her pocket and pulled out a hundred for them.
The waiter nodded so quickly, he nearly dropped his notepad. "Y-yes, Miss Brentford. Of course."
"I'll be back shortly…" She rose with slow, deliberate grace.
She didn't rush.
No power play required. No frantic pace. Brandi simply walked.
Her heels clicked softly across the floor, the subtle rhythm of someone used to owning the ground she walked on. She exited the restaurant and followed the path the others had taken, her breath steady, expression unreadable.
Then, just as she rounded the corner—
She stopped.
Across the parking lot, lit only by the glow of nearby streetlamps and the shimmer of Susie's black car, she saw them.
Melinda was in Susie's lap, curled into her arms, lips locked in a deep, lingering kiss.
Brandi froze.
She didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
The sight pierced something in her chest she hadn't expected to feel. Not for anyone. And yet—here it was. She stepped closer, silently, until she was close enough to see it clearly: the softness in Melinda's expression, the way she held Susie like she'd been waiting for this. Hoping for it.
And then Susie looked up—her mouth still on Melinda's. Her gaze locked with Brandi's like it was a trigger.
She didn't stop kissing her. If anything, she kissed Melinda harder, hands gripping tighter, eyes on Brandi the entire time.
Brandi stood there.
Hands in her pockets.
Her fingers wrapped tightly around the cool, familiar shape of cold metal—a comfort shed hoped she'd left behind. Once, she hadn't touched since she started trying to be better. Since she started thinking she could want someone without breaking them.
She closed her eyes. Whispered low under her breath:
"I care too much."
Then she turned on her heel and walked away.
—
Susie finally pulled away from the kiss, brushing a thumb along Melinda's jawline, her breath warm against her cheek.
"I'm taking you home," she murmured. "See you at work tomorrow, sweetheart. And who knows… maybe we will do this again."
Melinda blinked. Still dazed. Still confused by the way her body responded to things her mind hadn't fully agreed to.
But then her lips parted. "I… can't."
Susie frowned. "Can't what?"
"I can't tomorrow. I have plans," Melinda said carefully, heart pounding.
Susie's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "What kind of plans?"
For a second, Melinda nearly told her the truth… that she had entered a sweepstake on a whim, that she might be selected to go on a date with a millionaire…
But she stopped herself.
So she lied.
"I've got some friends coming over," she said quickly. "Girls' night. We're catching up. Snacks, bad movies, you know."
Susie didn't move. Her stare lingered, reading between every syllable.
"… You're not lying to me, are you?" she asked, a hint of edge in her tone.
Melinda shook her head too fast. "No. I swear."
Susie reached out and softly patted her cheek, her fingers cool against Melinda's flushed skin.
"Good girl," she said quietly. Then pulled back and buckled her seatbelt with a sharp click. "Let's get you to your car. We'll head back to the office then."
Melinda stared out the window, jaw tight.
—
"Stop moving, you little—!" Jonathan hissed as he grappled with the woman in his arms.
She was strong—far stronger than he expected. Her nails were long, dangerously sharp, slashing across his forearms and tearing through fabric. Blood welled up in thin lines across his skin, but he didn't stop.
Furniture scraped across the hardwood. A lamp shattered to the floor. Her screams were muffled by the gag, but the rage in her eyes said enough.
"Goddamn it bitch! I SAID LET GO OF M-" he snapped as she caught him in the ribs with her knee.
The two of them careened into a side table, sending it toppling. His balance faltered, and she surged forward—nearly breaking free.
But Jonathan reached out and grabbed the closest thing within arm's reach.
A porcelain vase. Heavy. Expensive.
With a grunt, he hurled it.
It shattered against her head with a sickening crack.
She dropped like a stone, slumping into the overturned armchair, completely unconscious.
He stood there for a moment, panting. Chest heaving. Hands on his knees.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "This is why I hate working with the scratchy ones."
He straightened slowly, then cracked his back with a dramatic twist and rolled his shoulders. From his coat pocket, he pulled out a handful of zip ties. One by one, he bound her wrists, then her ankles. Tightly. No second chances.
Lifting her over his shoulder with practiced ease, he carried her out the back door into the alley, where a large black van idled beneath a single flickering streetlight.
A man twice Jonathan's size stood waiting—muscle-bound, dressed in all black, face unreadable.
"Here," Jonathan grunted, shifting the woman into the man's arms. "Be careful with her. Hit her again, they won't pay and I'll take your damn teeth."
The guy grunted, then tossed her gently into the back of the van, where two others already sat—both wide-eyed, but quiet. Dazed. Compliant.
"Wow, they're really not going to be a problem now?" Jonathan said, slipping into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him. "Three down. A hell of a lot more to go."
The man behind the wheel, already adjusting his gloves, glanced sideways. "So we're really doing all this for the girl Miss Brentford wants too?"
Jonathan scoffed. "Hell no. You think I'm crazy enough to lay hands on that one?"
He shook his head, pulling out a small metal box from his coat and flipping it open to reveal a pristine, black velvet envelope.
"Miss Brandi Brentford may want to buy her—but we don't touch her. Not a scratch. Not a whisper. That girl needs to be showroom perfect. We pick her up tomorrow, drive her around in circles like she's being taken somewhere nice. Upstate, maybe. Let her relax. Feel special."
He clicked the box closed with finality.
"Then we told her. Bring her in. Stage her first thing. Sell her fast."
The driver raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue. "Sounds clean."
"As clean as it gets," Jonathan said with a smirk.
—
Brandi sat at her table, swirling a half-empty glass of the most expensive red on the menu. Her steak was perfect—tender, seasoned, seared exactly the way she liked it. She cut into it cleanly, lifting a bite to her lips as her eyes remained fixed on the screen of her phone.
Jonathan had finally come through. A full rundown on Melinda Carter. She read slowly, chewing in silence.
Birthplace: Baltimore.
Parents: Deceased.
High school: Private. Scholarships.
College: Two-year communications degree.
First job: Receptionist at a Barn's law firm.
Efficient. Resourceful. Never fired. No red flags. No criminal records. Clean as glass.
Brandi exhaled, resting her chin against the back of her hand, the phone still glowing in her palm.
It was all falling into place.
She hadn't been looking for love when she started this. She'd been trying to find a woman she could get into Hillsdale. Someone who could get her close enough to Susie to force the door open from the inside.
But Susie had refused her. Flat out.
She only took legacy clients—old money, high profile, people who played polo and had yachts named after ex-wives. Brandi had the money. The power. The mind. But Susie had made it personal. Now? Brandi had someone better.
Melinda was everything. Everything Brandi wanted—not just as a means to an end to get in, but as a woman. As a promise. She was the in-between—unaware of Brandi's power, unaware of what she herself deserved.
But Susie? That woman had manipulated her. Baited Brandi into outbursts. Mocked her. Disrespected her—when Brandi could buy her twice over and gift-wrap her to the banks for foreclosure.
But her focus wasn't Susie, or how to use her already inside assistant to her advantage.
Right now… it was Melinda. Just her.
And Melinda was kissing Susie like she belonged to her. Letting that cold glass executive mash herself into Melinda's softness, her youth, her willingness to be claimed.
It disgusted Brandi. But she understood it. Melinda had never been treated like a goddess before. She didn't know what she could have. What she deserved.
But Brandi would show her.
She'd stay back for now.
Think.
Plan.
Not just a night—but a day. A perfect day.
A day that would make Melinda see her.
Fall for her.
Wanting her more than she wanted the comfort of her office desk and the tight leash Susie kept her on.
Because Melinda wouldn't throw away her job. Or her apartment. Or her little curated life. Not unless Brandi gave her something bigger.
Brandi could do that.
Brandi would.
She smiled to herself, finally relaxed, and finished the last bite of her steak.
She left a stack of hundreds under her wineglass and walked out, coat draped over her arm, her heels clicking with deadly precision. Her driver opened the door without being asked, and she slid into the back seat.
The city rolled by in streaks of gold and neon.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced down.
AUCTION IN: 21 HOURS.
Your presence is required at 9PM sharp.
Top prize to be revealed first.
Private buyers only. Secure location.
She clicked the notification.
A secure, encrypted web page opened.
Ten silhouettes. Blank faces. Numbered tags.
Seven marked FOUND.
Two labeled IN TRANSIT.
One labeled PRIME LOT. FIRST PICK. ARRIVAL TBD.
She stared.
At the top of the list… the silhouette of a woman with delicate curves. Rounded shoulders. The outline of the same hairstyle she'd watched walk past her when she visited Hillsdale.
Her blood went ice-cold.
She tapped back to the file Jonathan had sent.
Opened Melinda's ID photo.
Then back to the silhouette.
No doubt.
Her jaw clenched. "Melinda," she whispered.
She called Jonathan instantly.
He picked up, sounding exhausted. "Yeah?"
"Who the fuck is the top prize?" she snapped. "I want the name. Now."
"Jesus, calm down. Breathe, Brandi—"
"Don't tell me to fucking breathe," she hissed. "I know who that is. But I need you to confirm it right now before I shoot a hole in my window."
He exhaled. "Look, I'm not gonna ruin the surprise. I know how you get it. If I tell you, you'll back out."
"Back out?" she growled. "If you sell that girl to anyone but me tomorrow—if you even pretend to auction her to someone else—I WILL BLOW YOUR KNEES OUT AND LET YOU BLEED OUT ON THE CARPET. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!?"
Jonathan went silent for a long moment.
"… Yes, ma'am," he finally muttered.
She hung up without another word.
Her hand trembled as she locked her screen and leaned back in the seat, staring at nothing. Her chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths.
—
Melinda skimmed through the dresses in her closet, each hanger sliding with a soft clink as she passed them.
Too bright. Too tight. Too much sparkle.
She wasn't going for attention—at least not the kind that screamed desperation.
Finally, her hand settled on a simple black dress. Knee-length. Clean lines. Elegant in its restraint. It didn't beg to be looked at. It simply existed, confident in what it was.
She stepped into it, smoothing the fabric over her hips before slipping on a pair of modest black heels with gold-tipped toes. Her fingers brushed through her curls, framing her face with just enough effort to look effortless.
In the hallway mirror, she paused. Smoothed the fabric again. Took a breath.
What was this night going to bring?
She hadn't checked her phone. Hadn't looked out the window.
Some part of her still wanted to believe this wasn't real—just a fantasy, a harmless jump with risk.
But she wanted the surprise. She wanted to believe.
And whatever it was… it had to be different from the office.
The past week had turned into a carousel of Susie pulling her in and out of meetings, lingering kisses between emails, soft touches hidden behind locked doors, whispered compliments against her neck in the middle of schedule briefings. It was intoxicating at first. Exciting.
But not love.
Melinda didn't love Susie. She didn't want her.
She just liked what came with her—the attention, the thrill, the power imbalance. It felt strange, surreal, like something out of a movie where the intern gets everything she never asked for.
It made her feel… small. But chosen.
Still, her mind wandered.
To Brandi.
What would it feel like to be under her?
Would it feel like drowning—or flying?
Would it be hotter, wilder, more dangerous?
Would Brandi be gentle… or would she devour?
Melinda's skin flushed as the image formed—then a noise shattered it.
A sharp, expensive engine. Definitely not something you would find at the local dealership.
Melinda blinked and rushed to the window.
A sleek, black Bentley was parked at the curb directly beneath her apartment.
A man stepped out, dressed in a deep gray suit. He looked up.
And waved.
Adrenaline spiked in her chest.
Her mind screamed to shut the blinds. Stay inside. Forget this.
But her feet moved anyway.
She turned from the window, snatched her purse off the table, and walked out the door—locking it behind her like it was a finish line.
By the time she stepped onto the sidewalk, the man was already holding the back door open.
"Evening, ma'am," he said with a professional smile. "You look lovely tonight."
Melinda returned a nervous smile and ducked into the plush leather interior. She expected to see someone else already inside—but the seat beside her was empty.
"Where are we going?" she asked carefully as he shut the door and rounded to the driver's seat.
The car pulled away smoothly, slipping into the city like a ghost.
"We're headed to a private venue," he said over his shoulder. "An exclusive restaurant. All ten guests will meet their ten matched partners tonight. It's… an experience."
The way he said it made her skin crawl a little—but not enough to ask him to stop.
His eyes met hers briefly in the rearview mirror, assessing.
He smiled.
Melinda nodded faintly, fingers tightening around the strap of her purse as the city fell away behind them, and the lights grew dimmer.
Somewhere beneath her nerves… something bloomed.
A pulse of curiosity.
Of danger.
Of desire.
—
The car ride dragged.
The city blurred past in a haze of neon and glass, then slowly began to dissolve into something unrecognizable. Buildings that once looked familiar bled together, blending into looping streets and alleys she couldn't distinguish.
Hadn't they passed that same intersection before?
Maybe it was her nerves.
Or maybe they were driving in circles.
Eventually, the skyline disappeared altogether—replaced by trees and darkness. A winding road swallowed them whole, its curves too perfect, its silence too complete.
Melinda's stomach churned.
But she didn't say anything.
Not when they were this far out.
Not when turning back was already impossible.
Finally, they pulled up to a building tucked beneath a vague, flickering sign. The canopy above the entrance read "Caprice" in a flowing script—just fancy enough to suggest wealth, just generic enough to be forgotten. The kind of place that thrived on secrecy.
The driver got out and circled around, opening her door with practiced ease. His hand extended.
Melinda hesitated, then placed her fingers in his. Her feet touched the ground, and her pulse raced higher.
He murmured something as she stepped out, but it was too quiet.
"I'm sorry—what was that?" she asked.
He smiled politely, meeting her eyes with that same too-calm gaze.
"You look absolutely stunning," he said. "But I believe the directors will want you to change into something more… fitting for the occasion."
Her lips parted. "Occasion?"
He didn't respond.
Just turned, walking her toward the door.
Inside, the restaurant was… wrong. The tables were immaculate, polished silver and deep crimson napkins folded into perfect fans. The lighting was dim, too warm. Not a single diner in sight. No music. No chatter. Just an empty elegance.
And then she saw it.
The stage.
A single podium at the center.
Above it hung a long black banner with gold lettering, sharp and regal in its cruelty:
15th Annual Ladies Auction