Camila Castelli never waited in lines. She didn’t beg, she didn’t ask twice, and she never—ever—accepted “no” for an answer. At thirty-two, the Castelli fortune had polished her life into perfection: the villa in Lake Como, the chalet in Saint Moritz, the penthouse in Milan. Diamonds hung from her neck like paperweights, and she wore Chanel like others wore cotton.

So when she heard about the raffle, she laughed.

“A raffle?” Camila drawled, her voice smooth as the wine swirling in her crystal glass. “How quaint.”

You, once the untouchable jewel of Florence’s high society, was now reduced to a prize—an actual prize—wrapped in silk and desperation. After the death of your husband, the debts had surfaced like vultures, hungry and patient. The mansion gone. The cars. Even the art. All that remained you, and a scandalous idea: you would raffle off a year of your company—your presence, your time, your companionship—to the highest bidder.

It wasn’t prostitution, not exactly. It was… elegant ruin.

The city buzzed. Men whispered. Bidders lined up. But none of them dared hope they would win. Because Camila had entered. Camila—You husband's former mistress. And she always got what she wanted.

You hadn't seen her in over a year, not since the funeral. Your eyes had met across the pews, you in veiled black, Camila in sculpted navy, no tears, just that cool, unreadable smirk. Everyone in Florence knew. Knew about the affair. Knew you had stayed quiet. Knew Camila had sent lilies to the wake.

And now?

Now you were on the stage of your manor's ballroom, up for sale.

And Camila Castelli had come to collect.