Chapter 3: Sold to the Highest Bidder

Derek’s people showed up right on time.

A black Escalade idled at dawn, engine purring like a threat. The driver wore a suit and mirrored shades, even though the sun barely crested the rooftops. I took one last look at the house—peeling paint, mailbox crooked—then slung my duffel over my shoulder.

I packed my things and left. Before I stepped out, my dad grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. His eyes were red, desperate, like I was his last hope.

"When did you get such a rich friend? Can you ask him for more? I had a good dream last night—I swear I’ll win this time."

He sounded almost innocent, like a kid wishing for Christmas. The twitch in his jaw, his restless fingers—it made my skin crawl.

I shot him a cold look, sneered, and yanked my hand away.

"Don’t count on me," I muttered, voice flat. I almost said something softer, but bit it back. The last tie between us snapped. I didn’t feel guilty anymore.

After college, I’d landed a job in Chicago—good pay, good benefits.

The city was my escape—bright lights, busy streets, people who didn’t know my story. I worked hard, saved, built a life that was finally mine.

Then someone called—said my dad was beaten into a coma. Even though I hated him, I quit and rushed home to care for him. But it was a scam. He got me drunk and gambled away my savings.

The betrayal still burned. I remembered sitting on the sagging sofa, a cheap bourbon bottle between us, hoping for a fresh start. By morning, my account was empty and he was gone. That feeling never left me.

Still, I kept hoping he’d change. Until today, when I saw his selfishness for what it was.

Today, that hope finally died. I felt lighter—free of illusions, free of any duty to a man who’d sell me to save himself.

I didn’t say a word, just climbed into the car, cold as stone. From now on, I wouldn’t care. Let him destroy himself.

I watched the house shrink in the rearview, the neighborhood slipping past—mailboxes shaped like eagles, basketball hoops over cracked driveways, the smell of fresh-cut grass drifting through the window. All the ghosts of my childhood, left behind.

The bodyguard drove me to a house in the suburbs.

We rolled through winding streets with neat lawns and brick mailboxes. Derek’s house looked like something out of a luxury listing: two stories, brick and stone, a yard so green it looked fake. It was quiet here—too quiet.

I steadied myself and went inside. Derek was on the couch, not even glancing up at the door, just staring at the TV like nothing could surprise him.

The scent of coffee hung in the air. Derek lounged in sweats, hair tousled like he’d just woken up. The TV flickered with a late-night movie, blue light playing over his sharp features. He didn’t look at me, but I felt his presence, heavy and inescapable.

I stepped closer, voice small but sincere:

"Thank you for that day."

The words came out softer than I meant. I hovered in the doorway, bag clutched tight, not sure where I belonged.

Derek leaned back, eyes sweeping over me—slow, deliberate, like he was deciding what kind of Nate I was now.

Suddenly, he reached out and pulled me onto the couch, dragging me between his legs. His smile was slow, dangerous, savoring the way I froze up.

"What’s there to thank? It’s just a partnership. I get what I want from you too."

His words buzzed against my ear. The room felt too hot, the TV too loud. I held myself still, pretending I wasn’t terrified.

His hand slid to my waist, rough palm lingering over the thin fabric. My body tensed—he noticed, and his grin widened.

Maybe I was too obvious. Derek’s hand paused, and he asked, voice almost gentle:

"Scared?"

The challenge in his tone was clear. He wanted me to say it, to fight or flinch.

I pressed my lips together:

"I’ve never done this kind of thing."

The words were brittle, barely above a whisper. I hoped he’d go easy. I doubted he would.

"Never done it with a man?"

He watched me closely, cataloging every twitch.

I nodded.

A flicker of surprise—almost a smile—crossed his face. He looked away, then back, searching my eyes.

He didn’t react, just kept going:

"What about with a woman?"

He sounded like he was joking, but he was dead serious. I shook my head, cheeks burning.

"No, never."

A heavy silence settled. My face burned, hands twisting in my lap. Derek’s eyes widened—a glimmer of real surprise.

His breath caught. His hand on my waist tightened. He turned my face toward him, searching my expression. Once he was sure I wasn’t lying, something softer flashed in his eyes.

His thumb brushed my jaw, and he smiled—a real one, gentle for a heartbeat. Then he grabbed the remote, shifting us back to business.

He clicked the TV. On the screen, two naked boys tangled together.

The movie filled the room with breathy noises, flushed skin. I swallowed, refusing to look away. My palms sweated.

Derek wrapped his arms around me, chin resting on my shoulder. His breath was hot in my ear, sending chills down my spine.

"If you don’t know, pay attention. Watch how they do it."

His voice was low, sticky in my ear. I forced down my revulsion, kept my face blank, and watched, feeling myself go numb.

I focused on my breathing, the couch under me, the TV’s flicker. I wanted to vanish.

Suddenly, the TV went dark. Derek turned me toward him, fingers tracing my cheek, his voice unexpectedly soft:

"Disgusted?"

I answered quietly:

"No."

I didn’t dare anger him. If he took back the $250,000, I’d be finished.

Derek’s eyes chilled, then, for some reason, he smiled again.

His mood was a storm—quick to change, unpredictable. He hooked his fingers in my belt, thumb pressing into the space between waist and buckle.

The pressure was gentle, but insistent. My whole body tensed, caught between dread and anticipation. As Derek’s hand tightened on my belt, I realized—whatever happened next, I’d already sold the last piece of myself I had left.