Page 4 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

The auctioneer turns his attention to me, a nod of respect for the bid. "Fifteen thousand from the gentleman at the bar. Do we have sixteen?"

The young man, not ready to bow out, pushes further. "Sixteen!" he asserts, his determination painting him as a worthy adversary.

"Seventeen thousand," says the older man, his voice now carrying a hint of challenge.

With a glance toward Allie, who watches the proceedings with both awe and curiosity, I steel myself for the next leap. "Eighteen thousand," I say, locking eyes with her for a fleeting moment.

The auctioneer, basking in the excitement of the bidding war, turns to the crowd. "Eighteen thousand going once ... going twice ..."

The tension is palpable, a thick cloak enveloping us all as we wait for the final hammer. In this scenario, amidst a sea of onlookers, the stakes are more than monetary—they're a pledge, a declaration of intent and interest, masked beneath the veneer of philanthropy.

“Twenty thousand!” calls out the younger man, a sneer appearing on his lips after he says the words as if he’s convinced he’s clinched the win.

The room is charged, every eye locked on the unfolding drama of the bidding war. The rapid climb of the bidding has become the evening's main spectacle, drawing curious glances from every corner of the ballroom. Even those backstage, previously absorbed in their own preparations, find themselves drawn to the edge of the curtains, craning their necks to witness the battle of wills and wallets.

Feeling the weight of the room's anticipation, I lean back in my chair, a sigh escaping me. This isn't my typical way of handling business at an auction—I prefer to keep my wealth under the radar, letting my culinary achievements speak for themselves. Yet here I am, caught in a game that's strayed far from its starting point.

It's time to end this.

I stand, my voice cutting through the crowd's whispers and murmurs. "Twenty-five thousand," I announce, loud and clear, the finality in my tone unmistakable.

A collective gasp sweeps through the ballroom, a wave of shock at the sudden jump. Heads turn, whispers grow louder, but my focus narrows down to one thing—the blonde on the stage.

Her reaction is immediate and unguarded. Eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, she’s a picture of stunned beauty. With the spotlight casting her in an ethereal light, I'm captivated.

The auctioneer, momentarily taken aback as well, quickly regains his composure. "Twenty-five thousand! Any counters?" he challenges the room, though his tone suggests he knows the game is all but over.

The ballroom falls silent, and the previous contenders bow out with nods and murmured concessions, recognizing the conclusion of the bidding war. No paddles rise, and no voices dispute. It's an unequivocal victory, won not by the monetary amount but by the statement it makes.

As the auctioneer declares, "Sold, for twenty-five thousand dollars!" the applause is automatic, a ritual acknowledgment of the auction's highest bid.

For me, however, the ceremony fades into the background, overshadowed by the lady on the stage across the room. Her expression shifts from shock to a complex mix of emotions—gratitude, curiosity, perhaps even intrigue.

As the applause diminishes, the auctioneer makes his way over to me, his hand extended in gratitude. "Mr. Spellman, your generosity tonight is unparalleled. Thank you for your wonderful donation to the Bright Futures Foundation. Your contribution will make a significant difference."

I shake his hand, allowing myself a brief moment of satisfaction. Of course, supporting the charity was my initial intent. The Bright Futures Foundation's mission to provide opportunities for underprivileged children is a cause close to my heart, a reminder of the bigger picture beyond the glitz of tonight's event.

Yet, as much as I'm committed to the cause, I can't deny that my focus has shifted, honing in on a singular point of interest—Allie.

The excitement bubbling within me is a rare sensation that I haven't felt in quite some time. It's a heady cocktail of anticipation, curiosity, and, admittedly, a touch of nervousness. The auctioneer's instructions to head backstage to finalize the payment and meet my date for the evening only heighten my senses.

I make my way through the crowd, nods and murmurs of congratulations following me, my thoughts solely on the upcoming encounter.

I can't remember the last time I was this excited. The evening, which started as a routine gesture of philanthropy, has morphed into the beginning of something entirely unexpected.

As I make my way backstage, I'm intercepted by the older gentleman who was bidding against me. There’s a warm smile on his face, a stark contrast to the competitive intensity from earlier.

“Patrick is it?” he starts, extending his hand. “I just wanted to thank you for making the auction quite the spectacle. Haven’t had that much fun in a while.”

I shake his hand, finding his demeanor surprisingly congenial. “Glad to hear it. It was quite the bidding war, wasn’t it?”

He chuckles, nodding. “Indeed, it was. Allie looked like she’d be a fun gal to take out, but I’m glad it was you who won her over in the end. Make sure you show her a good time, will you?”

There’s sincerity in his words, and I can’t help but feel a sense of respect for the man. “I plan to. Thank you. It was all in good fun and for a great cause.”

He pats my shoulder with a grandfatherly affection before parting ways, leaving me with a sense of warmth and an unexpected camaraderie.

My brief moment of reflection is interrupted as I catch the glare of the younger man who’d also been in the fray. His look is sharp, a silent challenge lingering in his eyes, but no words are exchanged. His demeanor doesn’t faze me; instead, it reinforces the frivolous nature of his participation.

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