Page 2 of The Highest Bid

When we were children, my name was said with such care and softness. That was until he went to university and got a taste of fame because of his family name; it all hit a turning point in the worst way possible though, when I reached the age of twenty-five and brother dearest realised I was an asset to sell instead of a family member he’s supposed to love.

I’m worth a lot of money because of my last name and the old money we come from, and instead of getting himself a wife, I am the one who needs to save our family from total ruin by marrying some rich elite.

Evangeline Clairwater, his sister, is the woman he keeps at home, ready to sell to the highest bidder. My name is simply a formality. A stupid last name that offers him the world yet tethers me to the four walls of our new London townhouse.

“Evangeline,” he repeats louder, his voice echoing through the car, and my eye roll follows. I used to jump when he demanded my attention, but now, I prolong the bliss of being on my own for as long as possible. I’d rather be stuck in my head than talk to the person who’s set to ruin my life. I slowly say goodbye to the beautiful view of serene family houses passing by before I turn his way.

“Yes, brother?” I ask.

The word tastes bitter on my tongue every time I say it. It’s almost as if the term is fake and disgusting. Frederic stopped being my brother the day father died andrealised then that money doesn’t magically appear in his bank account. It must be obtained by work, lots of hard work. And when one wants to capture the moon, oftentimes, sacrifices must be made to the stars.

And I’m the one on the chopping block now. Ready to be placed in a wedding dress and shipped off to the first wealthy bachelor.

It’s disgustingly selfish, and I’ve learned to loathe the same man who used to help me fish biscuits out of the cupboard before the nanny caught us. With our five-year age gap, he took the big brother role seriously when we were kids. He taught me how to lace my shoes, to scare our grandmother, and he read fairy tales to me when I couldn’t sleep. But that part of his character is long gone and now he’s the type of person who destroys dreams and futures.

But it isn’t all Frederic’s fault. There are people in this world who will screw you over left and right and left, if you don’t pay attention. It’s a domino effect, and it just so happened to have massive consequences for my family’s life and mine.

When father drew his last breath, it took us only a few months to leave London in a hurry and move to the bustling city of New York. It was abrupt, and my best friend, Topper, said it was weirder than him liking pickles in his porridge.

“We’re here.” I stare through Frederic’s window, realising the limousine has come to a stop. The glass doors of the luxury hotel show a busy lobby filled with carbon copies of my brother and me.

The men are dressed in almost the same attire as Frederick: a suit that costs a pretty penny, no doubt. Their colours never vary from blue, black or grey. If it weren’t for the women, every party would be as dull as if we were living in a black and white movie.

Thank God for the women who bring the rainbow to these types of events.

The driver opens my door and reaches out his gloved hand to help me out of the car. My silver high heel steps on the wet pavement before my pink-champagne silk dress falls to my ankles. A second later, my brother grabs my hand and lays it on his arm.

This is where I become useful to him. Every event, I smile and compliment the dresses of the upper-class women. I talk to the gentlemen about their new investments. I pretend to fit the image of the perfect sister who supports her brother through all his business ventures.Even the ones that ruined our life and forced me to move back from New York to get married to save us from even more financial ruin.

It’s always the same conversations with an exact copy of the guest list from last time.

I’ll complain about the food catered at the previous party to women who are similarly stuck like me. I’ll share my opinion about a new handbag that costs as much as a waiter makes in a year. Always the same, and I long for something different.

The glass door of the lavish lobby is, once again, opened for us, and Frederic pushes his shoulder back, a fake smile gracing his lips. I suppress an eye roll because of how ridiculous he is. The picture of a peacock pops into my head — one that behaves like an overly cocky man.

The soft sounds of an orchestra playing in the event hall echo through the lobby. The music is beautiful and soothing but sadly disrupted by the number of people arriving and waiting for their coats to be hung.

“What a beautiful venue. Almost as pretty as your face, Frederic.” I chuckle at my own sarcastic remark to lighten the mood, but my brother lifts the right corner of his lip in disgust.

“Behave, Evangeline.”

“Will do. We don’t want to ruin our reputation even more. Imagine them figuring out how little manners I possess on top of our financial problems.” With a harsh pull, he has me stuck to his body. His face is an inch away from mine. With teeth bared and a murderous gaze, deadly wolf eyes stare back at me.

I swallow, and my heart slowly starts to pound in my chest. Dread falls over me before twisting into fright. Frederic doesn’t let me move; instead, he breathes in my face like he’s close to bursting out of his skin before telling me off.

“Please stop,” I plead, but instead, he only grabs my arm harder, making me wince when a spark of pain travels upwards. “You’re hurting me.”

“You keep your fucking mouth shut or you’ll regret it,” he threatens, without lessening the pressure on my arm, and I know full well he means every word, so I quickly nod my head, surrendering before it escalates any further.

Frederic finally turns back around and walks towards the entrance with my hand still lying in the crook of his arm.

I school my expression and shake away the fear by scanning the room and focusing on what started this small, but fearful altercation of my brother showcasing how quickly he shifts from calm and collected to angry and violent.

“I still think it’s beautiful.” I point at certain aspects of the décor. The chandeliers dangle from the ceilings with large crystals dripping from it like waterfalls. The walls are painted with impossibly intricate floral designs and embellished with gold details, and the stone floor is a swirl of soft browns and whites giving it that early 20th century vibe. “It’s like we travelled back in time.”

“That’s what money gets you, Evangeline. London’s elite only celebrate in the most expensive and over-the-top locations.” He remarks with jealousy in his voice.

We pass the marble staircases before entering the ballroom area. Every single time, it takes my breath away for just that initial second before it all dissipates. This kind of gathering works to accomplish one thing, and that's to make rich people even wealthier than they already are. It’s most definitely not to celebrate someone else’s success, but a way to bring together those who hope that they can benefit from it as well. It’s networking while dining in a £1,000 dress and hoping it doesn’t get ruined by the five-course meal.

---