Page 35 of My Soul for Sale

“You don’t have to leave. In fact, I don’t want you to. Stay.”

“Atlas.” I sigh. “This was only for the weekend. You knew that. I have to go.”

“No, you don’t. You could stay here. Stay with me. I’ll give you anything you want… anything you need.”

As I turn to face him, I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling the strength of his presence. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, a thousand unspoken words pass between us. “I have to leave,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat. “I don’t know if there are rules about fraternizing afterward, but I’ll ask. I need this money, Atlas.”

“You don’t,” he responds, his voice pleading. “Whatever you need it for, I’ll take care of it for you. Just please don’t leave. I can’t lose you again.”

My heart doesn’t break, but it cracks, and I swear I can feel the pain radiating from it. My stomach churns, knowing that I’m hurting him, but I have to go back to the club to get the money.

Not returning means forfeiting my house, losing everything I’ve worked so hard for. I won’t allow that to happen. I know Atlas says he’ll take care of it, but he doesn’t understand what I did this for, what it would cost.

I need to do this myself, to take control of my own destiny. No one can use this against me or hold it as a bargaining chip.

With a heavy heart, I step back, releasing him from my embrace. I can see the desperation in his eyes as they search mine, silently begging me to remain by his side. But I can’t. I have unfinished business to attend to.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “But I have to do this.”

Atlas’ expression shifts, a mix of resignation and understanding crossing his features. He knows me well enough to know that once my mind is made up, there’s no changing it.

With a new combination of hurt and anger in his eyes, Atlas clenches his jaw. "Well, we better go then," he says, his voice strained. "I'd hate for you not to get your fucking money."

My heart sinks. "It's not like that," I protest, but even to me, the excuse sounds weak.

"Well, tell me how it is then, Sloane," he snaps, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Tell me why this money is more important than me—than us."

A tear slips down my cheek. "I can't," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own thoughts.

I don't know why I don't tell them or keep insisting that I can't. It's not like I sold myself for drugs or a new designer purse. But for some reason, telling them why I did it makes me feel cheap. Like there was a price tag on my soul. And while if they were anyone else, I might not care, Atlas and Ripley knowing just makes me feel icky.

"I'll see you in the truck," Atlas mutters, but I can feel the underlying sting in his words as he slams the door behind him.

“I’ll ask Edward about post-auction communication!” I call after him.

“Don’t bother. You’ve made your choice,” he fires back.

With a heavy sigh, I slip my boots on and trudge down the stairs, the weight of his disappointment sitting in my gut like a rock.

When I close the door to the house and turn around, the truck is already idling, waiting for me. Rip is behind the wheel, with Atlas beside him, his expression defeated and pissed off. Climbing into the backseat, I buckle up as Rip starts backing out of the driveway, the tension in the air thick. I want to reach up and put a hand on Atlas’ shoulder, to apologize for the pain I've caused, but the words stick in my throat like bile. We drive in silence, Atlas never saying anything or even looking at me, and the only thing I get from Rip is a few glares in the rearview mirror.

We pull up to the club and Rip doesn’t even turn the truck off, just slips it into park and turns around to look at me.

“I should have known you’d be a whore, just like your mom. She fucked and left just like you are. The only difference is you’re getting cash, and she got smack.”

His words are like a thousand cuts, slicing deep, and tears pool in my eyes. I look to Atlas, hoping he’ll stand up for me. But I’m met with nothing but silence and the back of his head as he continues to stare out the window.

Fine!

If these two want to act like a duo of fuckheads, they can do it solo. I unbuckle and fling the seatbelt from around me so hard that the buckles hit the window. Wincing, I check to make sure I didn’t do any damage because I’m not trying to pay for a window.

Oh, thank fuck. There’s nothing wrong.

Opening the door, I get out and slam it—hard. I want to make it clear just how furious I am. How much they’ve hurt me.

I storm into the club, my body vibrating with anger. Natalie is waiting inside, still looking every bit the twin to Miss Thank You, Next, with her hair half up, high on her head like a crown.

She escorts me to the elevator and down to the dressing room where this all began.

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