CHAPTER FIVE

EVA

The dress was white silk and far too expensive for someone like me to be wearing.

I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror backstage, barely recognizing the woman looking back. The fabric clung to curves I'd spent years learning to accept, draping elegantly from thin straps that left my shoulders bare. My hair had been styled in soft waves that cascaded down my back, and someone had done my makeup—subtle but flawless, emphasizing eyes that looked too wide, too frightened for the confidence this dress was supposed to project.

Through the heavy curtains, I could hear the low rumble of voices and the clink of crystal glasses. I'd peeked out earlier, just once, and immediately regretted it. The ballroom was filled with men in tailored suits that probably cost more than my entire year's rent. Expensive cars lined the circular driveway outside—Maseratis, Bentleys, and a midnight-black Lamborghini that gleamed under the fairy lights strung through the winter trees.

These were not normal men.

These were men who could buy people.

And tonight, one of them was going to buy me.

I couldn't stop shaking.

My hands trembled as I smoothed down the front of the dress for the hundredth time, trying to steady my breathing, trying to convince myself that this was the right choice. That I wasn't making the biggest mistake of my life.

The door behind me opened, and Cynthia swept in wearing a stunning emerald gown that made her look like she belonged in this world of wealth and excess.

"Eva, sweetheart, you need to stop looking like you're about to throw up," she said gently, coming to stand beside me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and met my eyes in the mirror. "Everything is going to be fine. I promise. These men have all been vetted. They're safe. Respectable. And you can stop this at any time if you feel uncomfortable. Okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Good," she said, then stepped back and let out a low whistle. "I'm still shocked by how different you look. I mean, I knew you'd lost weight, but Eva, you're absolutely stunning. That chubby girl I knew in high school would not recognize you right now."

I forced a smile, but the words stung in ways Cynthia couldn't possibly understand.

That chubby girl had spent every single day after leaving Willow Creek obsessed with transforming herself. I'd counted calories until the numbers blurred together. Worked out until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned and I couldn't think about anything except the pain. Stared at myself in the mirror and hated every inch of flesh that reminded me of the girl Grayson Holt had called disgusting.

It had taken three years to lose the weight. Another two to keep it off. And even now, standing here in this beautiful dress that fit me perfectly, I still saw that broken, humiliated girl staring back.

My phone buzzed in my clutch, and my heart jumped when I saw Mom flash across the screen.

I answered immediately. "Mom? Are you okay?"

"Eva, sweetheart." Her voice was weak and thready, like she was talking through water. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm feeling worse today. The doctors keep poking me with needles and running more tests, and I'm just so tired. So tired of all of this."

My throat tightened. "I know, Mom. I know you're tired. But you have to hang on for me, okay? Just a little bit longer. I'm going to bring you the money you need in the next few days. I promise. You're going to get the treatment, and you're going to get better."

"You're such a good girl," she whispered. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn't cry. Not now. Not when I was about to walk out on that stage.

"I love you, Mom," I said. "Just hold on for me."

"I love you too, baby."

The call ended, and I stood there clutching my phone, letting the sound of my mother's voice strengthen my resolve.

This was why I was here.

This was why I was doing this.

For her. For the woman who'd stood by me when everyone else had turned their backs. For the only family I had left.

I could survive twelve days with a stranger if it meant keeping her alive.

"Eva?" Cynthia's voice pulled me back to the present. "They're ready for you."

I took a deep breath, slipped my phone back into my clutch, and followed her toward the stage entrance.

The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers as I waited in the wings, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

"And now, gentlemen, for our final offering of the evening. Lot Number Twelve. The Twelve Nights of Christmas. One beautiful, untouched woman for twelve uninterrupted days and nights of pleasure from Christmas Eve through Twelfth Night. Anything the winner desires within the boundaries of consent and safety. Starting bid: five hundred thousand dollars."

Five hundred thousand.

Half a million dollars just to start.

I stepped onto the stage, and the lights hit me like a physical force. The room went quiet—so quiet I could hear my own breathing, could hear the rustle of my dress as I walked to the center of the platform.

I couldn't see their faces. The lights were too bright, the room beyond them too dark. But I could feel their eyes on me. Assessing. Calculating. Deciding if I was worth the money.

"Five hundred thousand," a voice called from somewhere in the darkness.

"Seven hundred and fifty thousand," another voice countered.

"One million."

The bids climbed faster than I could process. Two million. Three million. Four.

My hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together in front of me to keep them still.

"Five million dollars," a smooth, cultured voice announced.

The room fell silent.

The announcer's voice cracked with excitement. "Five million dollars from paddle number seven. Going once—"

"Fifty million dollars."

The words cut through the silence like a gunshot.

Everyone froze.

I froze.

Fifty million dollars. That was impossible. That was insane. Who would pay fifty million dollars for twelve days with a stranger?

The lights shifted, and I caught a glimpse of movement at the back of the ballroom. A figure stood there in a crimson Santa jacket trimmed with white fur, the costume absurdly festive and completely out of place among the tailored suits.

"Fifty million dollars from paddle number one," the announcer stammered, clearly as shocked as everyone else. "Going once... going twice... sold! To the gentleman in the Santa jacket!"

The room erupted in whispers and gasps, but I couldn't hear any of it over the roaring in my ears.

Fifty million dollars.

Which meant I'd receive twenty-five million after the hospital took their share.

Twenty-five million dollars.

More than enough to pay off Richardson. More than enough to cover my mother's treatment for the next five years. More than enough to rebuild our entire lives.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process what had just happened.

Cynthia appeared at my elbow, guiding me off the stage with a hand on my lower back. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you backstage. You did amazing."

"Fifty million," I whispered, still in shock. "Who pays fifty million dollars for this?"

"Someone who really, really wanted to win," Cynthia said, her voice carefully neutral in a way that made my stomach twist.

She led me down a corridor to a private room where the contracts and final paperwork would be signed. "You'll both be taken to a private cabin that's been reserved for the twelve days. It's secluded, beautiful, fully stocked with everything you could need. There are guards stationed around the property if you ever feel unsafe, and you have my number on speed dial. If anything goes wrong—anything at all—you call me immediately. Understood?"

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

"Good," she said, squeezing my hand. "Now let's go meet your buyer."

The walk to the signing room felt like walking to my own execution. Each step echoed too loudly in the quiet hallway. Each breath felt like it might be my last.

Cynthia opened the door, gestured for me to enter, and then quietly closed it behind me.

The room was dimly lit, intimate in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness. And there, standing by the window with his back to me, was the man in the Santa jacket.

He didn't turn around.

"The car is waiting outside," he said, his voice low and smooth and achingly familiar in a way that made my blood run cold. "We should leave before the roads get worse. The storm is supposed to hit within the hour."

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. My entire body had gone numb.

After the contracts were signed—my hand shaking so badly I could barely hold the pen—we were escorted to a sleek black limousine waiting in the circular driveway. Snow had started falling, fat flakes that caught in the headlights and turned the world into something from a winter fairy tale.

I climbed into the car first, settling into the plush leather seat and trying to make myself as small as possible. He climbed in after me, and the door closed with a soft, final click.

The partition between us and the driver was already up. We were alone.

Completely alone.

I sat there in the darkness, listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling the weight of his presence beside me like a physical thing.

"I'd at least love to see your face," I said quietly, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "I think I deserve to know who just paid fifty million dollars to own me for twelve days."

There were a few seconds of silence.

Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled off the red Santa hat. The white fur trim fell away, revealing dark hair that I would have recognized anywhere. Anywhere in the world.

And when he turned to look at me, when the dim interior lights caught the sharp angles of his face and the cold gray of his eyes, my entire world stopped.

Because the person staring right at me, wearing a slight smile that didn't reach his eyes, was the last person I ever wanted to see again.

Grayson Holt.

“Hello, Rosie Posie.”