Page 4 of Branded

3

SEBASTIAN

I am bored as I sit in my usual seat, back row, center, where I can see everything while remaining in the shadows. I watch as another girl moves across the stage in an evening gown that she clearly isn’t comfortable in.

The men in the rows ahead of me are already losing interest, their attention drifting to their phones or the whiskey being served by silent staff members. Nobody wants a woman who isn’t confident. These men are after women who can function in the circles they need them to. I’m fairly sure that most of them would thrive in an environment where they weren’t being ogled and judged on their body.

I check my watch. Rolex, vintage, inherited from my grandfather, along with a share of the Texas ranch I rarely visit, and the oil rights that funded my first resort. Ten-thirty. Another hour of this shit, and then I can go back to my penthouse and forget I was wasting another evening watching desperate men purchase debt to get a woman.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mother.

Mother

Your father wants to know when you’re going to stop playing resort mogul and come home. The ranch needs all its family members to function properly.

That conversation still plays in my mind sometimes. Usually, on nights like this, I’m fulfilling the obligation that comes with that money.

“Your trust fund is available,” Grandfather said, his voice weaker than it had been when I was a child, yet the authority was still iron. “But there’s a condition. The first Drake child to claim it takes on a responsibility that’s been passed down through our family for generations.”

I sat in the leather chair across from his desk, young and arrogant and desperate to escape Texas. “Tell me what it is, and I’ll decide.”

“That’s not how this works, son.” My father walked to the wet bar in the corner, and I heard whiskey glug into crystal. “You agree first. Then you learn what you’ve agreed to. That’s the Drake way, we don’t negotiate our obligations.”

I should have been smarter. Asked more questions. But I wanted out so badly I would have agreed to almost anything.

“Fine.” I’d do whatever I needed to just to get away from this place. I crossed one leg over the other, trying to look more confident than I felt.

“Bring the papers, Walker.” Grandfather’s command was absolute, and as always, my father obeyed.

I signed to accept my trust fund, eight figures, enough to build whatever life I wanted. And I signed a second document, agreeing to take on the responsibility for part of the Drake family business without knowing what it was.

Only then did Grandfather tell me what I was taking on.

“We’ve been running a marriage operation since the mid-1800s,” he said. “Started by your great-great-grandfather as a way to bring mail-order brides to Texas when the West needed civilizing. Good women for good men who were building something out here in the wilderness.”

My father set whiskey in front of all three of us. “It was legitimate then. Respectable, even. Women came west willingly, looking for opportunity and husbands. The Drake family facilitated those connections, and made sure both parties got what they needed.”

“But times changed,” Grandfather continued. “What worked in 1870 doesn’t work now. Women are no longer willing to marry sight unseen, and the men think they’re God’s gift to women, but the only way they can secure a wife is to come to us.” He took a slow drink. “So the operation evolved. Became more discreet. More specialized.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, though part of me already knew I didn’t want the answer.

“It means we now facilitate connections between powerful men who want wives and women who are desperate enough to sign contracts.” My father’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The bones of it are the same as they were in 1870, women trading their current lives for security, and men getting wives. But the mechanisms are different. More protections in place for both parties and more… permanent.”

“You’re talking about auctioning off a woman’s life?” The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water.

“We prefer ‘facilitated marriage arrangement,’” Grandfather said. “But yes, essentially. Women sign contracts, usually to pay off debts or escape situations that they need to get out of. Men bid on those contracts. Marriages happen. Everyone gets what they need.”

“That’s…” I stopped, trying to find words. “That’s not what our family did in the 1800s. That’s not the same thing at all.”

“It’s exactly the same thing,” my father said sharply. “You think those women coming west in 1870 had real choices? They were desperate, running from poverty, from bad situations, from limited options. They signed papers agreeing to marry strangers and went west because it was better than staying where they were. The only difference now is how it’s done. We used to advertise. Now we auction. The men get to see what they’re getting before they sign anything.”

Grandfather leaned forward. “This is the responsibility that falls on your shoulders now, Sebastian. You’ll oversee the operation. Make sure it runs smoothly. Vet the men when necessary—we don’t want anyone with a dangerous streak to cause these women harm. You handle any problems that arise. And most importantly, make sure nobody ever finds out.”

“You also handle complications,” my father added. “By any means necessary. Legal problems, women who try to back out of contracts, and men who get too rough. Whatever needs to be done to protect the Drake family name and keep this operation running quietly.”

I sat there processing it all. A marriage auction masquerading as a legitimate business. Women who are desperate to have a different life, even if it’s only two years. Men with enough money to buy wives. And my family—my respectable, influential, old-money family—facilitating all of it.

I should have refused. Should have given back the trust fund and walked away.