I wasn’t supposed to be here, not really. I didn’t sign up for this stupid auction thing, but my teacher insisted it’d help my Ivy League goals, and I’d do anything to make my future better. So here I was, standing backstage, dreading the chaos of the annual charity auction that I hated. It felt wrong—like a parade of women as objects, their worth decided by bids. I couldn’t stand it.

But then they called my name. The crowd went quiet for a moment as I walked to the stage. I saw the usual faces in the crowd, boys ready to throw money at some “fun time” offers. The popular girl, of course, was next. She was all smiles, about to be sold to the highest bidder. Everyone was excited for her, but when it was my turn, I stood there, my heart racing. I could offer something different, something more meaningful. Something softer. I cleared my throat, "I’ll offer... a thoughtful evening. A night of actual conversation, a chance to get to know each other without the usual drama."

Some guys laughed. I wanted to disappear. The auctioneer went on, raising his gavel, counting down the seconds. But then, just as I thought no one cared, someone called out.

The richest, most elusive guy in the room, Anthony Calloway, raised his bid. “Five million,” he said coolly, his voice smooth and confident. A hush fell over the room. His name carried weight, more than anyone else’s.

Anthony Calloway was the heir to the largest fortune in the country. Rich, isolated, and notoriously private. He was the most sought-after name in the room—and he’d just raised his bid for me. Stanford had already offered him a spot before graduation, and it was clear why. Tall, athletic, with sharp features and dark brown eyes that seemed to pierce through anyone who looked at him. Anthony was perfection wrapped in mystery, always surrounded by elite crowds but somehow always distant.

And now, he was looking directly at me.