Page 100 of Auctioned

Ophelia stares at me through my reflection in the vanity. She’s so tiny compared to my height and size. So defenseless.

This is her best opportunity to escape this hellhole. She could break the glass of the mirror. Grab a shard and go for my jugular.

I know I would.

Not her.

A small smile plays on her lips as I tie a towel around her body.

She stands very still as I attend to each knot in her hair. The brush is new, has only been used once. On her.

Just like the blow dryer I use to dry her hair.

It’s embarrassing that I watched a YouTube video to figure this hair-blowing thing out so I could tend to Ophelia.

It is what it is.

“What would you do if you weren’t…” she trails off. I’m done drying her hair, dipping my chin, indicating for her to go on. She gestures with her hand in the air around the room. “This.”

“A man who brushes your hair?”

“Ha!” She barks a laugh. Me, joking. Who would’ve fucking believed it. “Well. That and an attorney. Owning the auction house. Owning me.”

The question is a personal one. A disturbing one.

“What wouldyoudo?” I ask her, refusing to open up. To give her more power over me.

Her eyes go blank. She blinks, huffing, and turns her head to the corner of the room. “Forget it. You’re right. It was better when we were strangers.”

Pressure builds inside my head. This isn’t right. Isn’t what I’m after.

I’m after her secrets. After what lies hidden deep inside her.

And I have a way to pull it out of her. I leave her there, stalking out of the room to my walk-in closet.

“James?” she calls out.

“Stay where you are.”

Ophelia does as I say until I return. I have a pair of lace panties and one of my T-shirts in my hands, and this isn’t right.

Undoing the knot in the towel wrapping her body. Helping her into the clothes is worse. It’ll give her false hopes. Make her think I’m normal.

A calm, comfortable life isn’t in the cards for me.

I wasn’t born for that. I’ve been programmed to do one thing. Be this one person.

Somehow, my hand finds the small of her back, and I guide her back to bed.

“Talk.” I’m under the covers, next to her, watching her sip on her coffee. My muscles tense at the strangeness of this. I’m used to meetings in the office. Meals in the dining room. She’s destroying me, and I’m unable to stop it. “What would you be doing if you weren’t here.”

“This doesn’t sound like you’re asking anything.”

“That’s because I don’t. I demand answers. That’s what I do.”

She smirks behind her mug, her cheeks flushing. When she lowers it, I see a thin layer of foam has remained over her lip. I press my thumb to it, wiping her clean.

Shoving it in her mouth.

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