On my screen, the sponsor bids for this season’s recruits load in a neat column. I intend to skim through them with the same clinical precision I apply to everything else.

Until I see her name right at the top of the fucking list.

Sienna Knight.

I didn’t need to search for her. She’s the name already highlighted, bold and glowing with more bids than any other recruit in this class.

Of course she is.

I sit back, jaw tight.

It’s not just her looks. The Ledger sees beautiful women walk through its doors every week. Polished. Poised. Professionally seductive. I’ve seen thousands. I’ve forgotten most of their names.

But Sienna?

There’s something raw in her. Something unshaped.

She doesn’t even realize how enticing she is.

That makes her dangerous.

Her lack of experience isn’t a liability—it’s a fucking selling point. The sponsors don’t just want to guide her… they want to mold her. Shape her. Break her in. Claim her as their own.

The thought sits like a shard of glass in my gut.

I push the espresso aside, suddenly uninterested.

Curious. Eager. Defiant.

That’s what I saw the night she stood on that rooftop, face-to-face with a man who thought he could intimidate her. She didn’t back down then—and she hasn’t since.

The sponsors see it. They want it.

And I don’t like it.

Not one damn bit.

I tap a finger against the screen, then slide open the document with her post-mixer notes. Standard protocol—each recruit ranks their sponsor interactions. Comments, impressions, preferences.

Sienna’s are… brief. Polite. Noncommittal.

She liked several. Admired a few. Thought one or two seemed “interesting.”

But she didn’t pick one.

Not yet.

She’s waiting.

Or hesitating.

And she has every right to. The top girl always gets her pick. It’s how we’ve always done it.

But Sienna Knight isn’t like the others.

She’s too new. Too raw. Still full of bright edges and nervous smiles. The kind of recruit who doesn’t know what the wrong choice could cost her.

And I’ve seen what the wrong sponsor can do.