Lot 23

Beatrice's POV

The auction house sends a car at dawn, black with windows so dark I cannot see the driver's face, and I climb inside carrying nothing because everything I own belongs to Desmond and taking it would be stealing from my future buyer.

Sandra meets me at the service entrance wearing a business suit and a smile that would look friendly if her eyes were not so empty. "Beatrice of Crescent Moon Pack, Lot 23, welcome. Follow me please."

She leads me through corridors that smell like fear disguised as luxury, I pass rooms where I glimpse other people waiting to be sold. A young man sits on a chair staring at nothing. An older woman applies makeup with trembling hands. 

My preparation room has soft furniture and expensive lighting but the door locks from outside.

"You have three hours until processing," Sandra says. "Hair and makeup artists arrive in one hour. The bathroom is through that door.. don't leave this room."

After she leaves I sit on the plush chair and pull out my phone to send one last message to Richard before they take it away.

The package I emailed you has instructions, follow them exactly and don't allow Desmond to destroy what we built. Promise me.

His response comes fast. I promise, Luna. Whatever happens today, the pack will remember who actually kept us alive.

I delete the thread and turn off my phone, because after processing I will not have access to anything that connects me to my old life.

The hair and makeup team arrives exactly on time, three women who transform me into someone I barely recognize, sculpting my face and styling my hair into elaborate curls that probably cost more than most pack members earn weekly. 

Sandra returns with contracts spread across a table. "These are your consent forms…sign on every highlighted line."

I read each page carefully while Sandra watches impatiently. The language is legal and cold, reducing me to property that agrees to be sold and will not sue afterward. There is a clause about bond termination that makes me frightened because it means my connection to Desmond will be severed the moment someone buys me.

That thought should not feel like relief, but it does.

I sign my name and watch my handwriting turn me into Lot 23.

"Excellent." Sandra gathers the papers. "You will go on stage at 8:45. The auctioneer will introduce you. Walk to center stage, stop at the marked position, don't speak unless asked a direct question. Smile but not too much. Any questions?"

"What happens if no one bids?"

"That has never happened with Luna quality," Sandra says. "You will sell, Beatrice. The only question is for how much."

She leaves me alone to wait, and I spend the time watching other lots go before me through the monitor in my room. A woman sells for 2.1 million and cries through the entire process. A man who looks angry sells for 3.4 million. A mated pair holding hands sells together for 6 million and I wonder if that is better or worse than being sold alone.

Then it is my turn.

The stage lights blind me immediately, hot and white buty erasing everything beyond them into darkness. My heart pounds so loud I think the audience must hear it but I walk to the center mark like Sandra instructed and stop with my hands at my sides.

"Lot 23," the auctioneer's voice booms. "Beatrice of Crescent Moon Pack, age twenty-six, current Luna with three years proven pack management experience. This is a clean voluntary transfer with no legal complications."

Voluntary is a lie but auction houses prefer polite fictions.

"Lot 23 possesses exceptional skills in financial planning, territorial negotiations, and crisis resolution," the auctioneer continues. "She comes from respected bloodlines and has served her pack with distinction. The starting bid is one million dollars. Do I hear one million?"

A paddle rises in the darkness beyond the lights. Then other and the bids come faster than I expected.

"Two million, do I hear two point five? Thank you, two point five. Three million..."

I stand perfectly still while strangers assess my value in millions, each bid another proof that Desmond undervalued me just like he undervalued everything I did for three years.

"Five million dollars! Do I hear five point five?"

Five million clears his debt. The bidding should stop.

It does not.

"Six million, six point five, seven million dollars for Lot 23!"

The numbers keep climbing and I cannot see who is bidding but I can feel their attention weighing me like pressure against my skin. Are they old? Young? Cruel? Will my new owner be worse than Desmond or is worse even possible?

"Nine million dollars! We have nine million, do I hear nine point five?"

The bidding slows. Only three paddles are moving now, three serious buyers willing to pay this much for ownership of a Luna they know nothing about except what the auctioneer told them.

"Ten million dollars!" The auctioneer's voice pitches higher with excitement. "We have a bid of ten million dollars for Lot 23! Do I hear any advance on ten million?"

Silence stretches while the remaining bidders consider.

Then two paddles rise at exactly the same moment.

The auctioneer pauses, clearly confused. "I have two simultaneous bids of ten million dollars. This is highly irregular."

Murmuring erupts from the audience, excitement mixed with curiosity. Sandra appears at the stage edge holding a card she passes to the auctioneer.

"Auction house rules state that in the event of simultaneous identical bids, the purchased party may choose between bidders if both agree to shared terms," the auctioneer reads. "Do our bidders wish to invoke this clause?"

Movement in the darkness, conversation I cannot hear over my heartbeat. Then both paddles rise again.

"The bidders agree to shared terms," the auctioneer announces. "Lot 23, you have a choice. Lights please."

The stage lights dim and house lights rise and suddenly I can see the audience for the first time, rows of men in expensive suits assessing me like interesting investments.

But I only see two people.

Front row left: a man who radiates danger like heat, maybe mid-thirties with dark hair and a suit that costs more than my pack's monthly budget. He sits perfectly still watching me with eyes so cold they look black, and everything about him screams power and ruthlessness and money.

Back row right: Christopher.

My childhood friend Christopher from Red Moon Pack, the boy who taught me to track deer and who cried when I disappeared ten years ago without saying goodbye. He looks older now, harder, but I’d recognize him anywhere and seeing him here in this auction house makes my heart stop completely.

What is he doing here?

"Lot 23, please approach the bidders," the auctioneer instructs.

I walk down the stage steps on shaking legs. The distant man stands as I reach them and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes because he is tall, over six feet of controlled power.

"I am Vincent Franklin," he says, and his voice is deep and measured. "I own Franklin Enterprises and six pack territories in the northern region. If you choose me, you’ll never lack ."

He didn't say I will be happy, just that I’ll want for nothing.

I turn to Christopher and he takes a step toward me before catching himself. "Bea," he whispers, using the nickname only he ever called me. "It is me…I found you."

"I know who you are." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "But why are you here?"

"I never stopped looking for you," Christopher says. "I could not let you be sold to a stranger."

Vincent makes an impatient sound. "Touching reunion aside, we both bid ten million and she needs to choose. Me, him, or both under shared terms."

Two buyers means divided authority which means room to maneuver between their competing interests, and Christopher is familiar while Vincent is dangerous and maybe together they balance each other out.

"Shared terms," I say. "Both of you."

Vincent nods once like he expected this. Christopher looks relieved. The auctioneer looks thrilled.

"Sold! Lot 23 to Vincent Franklin and Christopher Franklin, joint purchase, ten million dollars!"

Franklin; same last name…they are related.

I stare between them and Christopher has the grace to look uncomfortable. "Vincent is my uncle. I should have mentioned that."

Vincent shows amusing expressions. "Surprise, Lot 23. You have been purchased by your family…How fortunate for you."

Sandra appears to escort me backstage and both men follow, and I am trapped between my childhood friend and the dangerous stranger who is apparently his uncle. I have no idea if I just made a brilliant tactical choice or a deadly mistake.

But at least it was my choice.

For three years with Desmond, I had no choices.

For six months with Vincent and Christopher, maybe I can learn to want more than just survival, and maybe wanting more will not destroy me the way it destroyed everything else I ever tried to build.