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So does Kir’s.

Preston Howell throws up his hands. “Jesus Christ, Lazarev! It’s a charity auction, not a hostile fuckin’ takeover. Or a dick-measuring contest…”

Lukas ignores him. His eyes find mine across the room.

And for the first time tonight, he actuallylooksat me.

Not through me.

Not past me.

Atme.

Atme.

The room holds its breath.

Lukas fixes his jacket. He moves as if he has all the time in the world. One button. Two. “Five million dollars,” he repeats. His voice carries to every corner of the room without effort, like a slow-moving sonic boom. “Bidding is over. The girl belongs to me.”

The emcee’s hands tremble as he lifts the microphone. “Five million! S-sold! To Mr. Lukas Lazarev!”

Scattered applause breaks out, though it’s nervous and uncertain. People don’t know if they should clap or flee.

I stand in horror on the stage. My brain won’t process what just happened. Five million dollars. Forme. For an evening withme.

What does that evenmean?

Lukas starts to carve through the crowd. People scramble even more frantically to get out of his way than they did the first time around. But still, even with every eye on him, he takes his time. He moves like water through rock.

Smooth. Relentless.Inevitable.

He reaches the stage and climbs the steps. His eyes never leave my face.

Up close, he’s overwhelming. The black tuxedo fits him like armor. His silver hair catches the stage lights and gleams.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, that oceanic mint, and a smoky, primal musk beneath it.

His eyes scour down my body. It’s a slow trek from head to toe, taking in every inch of red silk clinging to my curves.

I feel more naked than if I actually were standing up here in my Natasha suit.

This is exactly what he pictured; I know it with absolute certainty. When he chose this dress, when he sent it to my apartment, when he arranged for the car and the diamonds and all of it—he was imagining this exact moment.

Me, standing here.

Exposed. On display.

His.

The humiliation burns in my chest. Is this how it feels to be his “something interesting”? The newest bauble in Lukas Lazarev’s collection?

But underneath the shame, there’s something else. Something that feels a hell of a lot like…pride.

Because he paid five million dollars. Forme.

Not for Natasha with her perfect figure and undimmable confidence. Not for any of the wealthy, gorgeous socialites in this room.

Me. Plain, ordinary, cotton-underwear-wearingme.