YELENA
Sebastian doesn’t call.
My father is intolerable about it.
“I thought you said you secured his interest?” he sneers at me.
“I did,” I say, my lips thin with irritation.
“Then why hasn’t he called?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he’s smarter than he looks.”
While it’s hardly flattering to be ignored, a tiny part of me is relieved.
I never liked this plan. I never wanted to be a part of it.
“Maybe he’s gay,” my brother says.
He’s lounging by our pool, wearing a pair of his ridiculously short
European briefs. Adrian loves to show off his body. He has the
physique of a gymnast—lean, powerful, broad in the shoulders and
narrow in the hips. Despite all his time in the sun, he has only a hint
of a tan. He’s fair like me—ash-blond hair, skin that goes paler than
milk in the winter, and only slightly gold in the summer.
I always find it amusing to look at Adrian, because he is the walking,
talking embodiment of what my life would be like if I had been born a
man. Instead, he came out two minutes before me, the firstborn son
and heir, and I followed afterward—the unexpected twin. The
unwanted girl.
“He’s not gay,” I tell Adrian. “I would know.”
“He has to be,” Adrian insists. “Or else how could he resist my
beautiful baby sister?”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me down on his lap, tickling my ribs right
where I’m most sensitive. I shriek and slap him away, jumping up
again.
I love Adrian, and I love his playfulness. He’s been my best friend
since birth. But I wish he wouldn’t behave this way in front of our
father. I can feel Papa’s cold eyes boring into me. I feel them
combing over my bare flesh.
I’m not dressed nearly as revealing as my brother—I’ve got on a
modest one-piece swimsuit, a cover-up, and sandals. Still, I see my
father’s lip curl at the sight of my bare thighs where the loose smock
pulled up.
My hatred for him is like a blue-gas pilot light, continually burning
deep down in my guts. It never goes out, and it’s always waiting to
flare up with the addition of any sort of fuel.
He expects me to dress like a nun around the house so all his men
keep their eyes to themselves. But then when it’s time to use me for
something—like his little errand the other night—then he’s happy to
tart me up like a street whore.
Pulling my cover-up down over my legs, I try to scrub my voice of
resentment as I ask my father, “What would you like me to do?”
He considers for a moment, top lip still curled up, like it’s my fault
Sebastian hasn’t called. Like he can’t trust me to complete the
simplest of tasks.
He knows as well as I do that I can’t be too obvious. The Gallos are
clever. If the lure is too apparent, they’ll know. Besides, men don’t
want something that’s offered to them freely. They’re predators. They
need the hunt.
“We’ll find a way for you to bump into him again,” Papa says with a
dissatisfied frown.
He goes back into the house, leaving Adrian and me alone on the
deck.
The relief I feel at his departure is immense.
The only time I’m comfortable at home is when it’s just Adrian and
me. Even then, I know someone could be watching us. One of the
bratoks, one of the many cameras all over the house, or Papa
himself, standing at a window.
Or his Avtoritet Rodion Abdulov. A shiver runs across my skin as I
look around the yard, scanning for him. He’s my father’s top
lieutenant. I hate him almost as much as I hate Papa. I think of him
as Papa’s attack dog: ruthless, vicious, and just a little bit mad.
He’s always lurking around, watching me even closer than Papa
does. Eager to report anything he sees. I can always feel his piggy
little eyes crawling over my skin.
But not at the moment, thank god.
Adrian doesn’t have to worry about any of that. He can lounge on
that chair, perfectly comfortable in the summer sun, wearing
whatever he pleases.
He’s not scrutinized like I am. He has so much more freedom. As
long as he follows the rules, he can do whatever he likes in his spare
time.
I don’t have a moment to myself. Anything I do, anything I say, is
picked apart later.
“What’s wrong?” Adrian asks me.
“Nothing,” I say irritably. I shuck off the cover-up and my sandals,
and dive down into the water.
It’s an Olympic-size pool, set in a gorgeous oasis of flowering trees
and privacy hedges. Our yard is like something you’d find behind the
Palace of Versailles. Our house is a temple of marble and glass, full
of luxuries beyond anything I’d ever seen in Moscow: heated floors
and towel racks, a refrigerator the size of a walk-in closet, closets the
size of entire apartments.
Yet I despise it all. What’s the good of being in America, if I’m just as
constrained as I was back home?
Nothing has changed for me here. If anything, it’s worse. Because
Papa knows that we might be corrupted by the individualism and
hedonism of America. So he’s only cracked down harder on me.
I hoped I might be allowed to take music composition classes at one
of the many colleges in the city, but he’s strictly forbidden it. My only
option is to practice on my own like I used to do. I’m not sure when
or where I’ll be able to manage that—Papa has refused to get a
piano for our new house yet. He keeps putting me off, acting as if
he’ll do it as a reward for some unspecified behavior. I think he
enjoys denying me this thing that I need, one of the only things that
makes me happy.
Adrian jumps into the water too, though I know he prefers sunbathing
over swimming. He strokes the length of the pool, back and forth, in
tandem with me. When I push off the wall and do a front crawl, he
does the same. When I flip over to backstroke, he imitates me. He’s
the faster swimmer, even though he barely practices. He keeps
perfect pace with me, trying to goad me into attempting a race.
After a few laps, I do start swimming faster. Sure enough, he stays
right next to me. Even though I know how this will end, I speed up
even more, until I’m pushing off the wall with all my strength,
swimming half the length of the pool underwater, then stroking madly
for the wall trying to beat him.
Adrian’s fingers touch the tile a moment before mine, and he pops
up, grinning.
“Ohhh . . .” he says. “You almost got me that time.”
“The hell I did,” I scoff. “You weren’t even trying.”
“I was trying a little.”
We’re both holding onto the edge of the pool, breathing hard.
Looking into my brother’s face is like looking into a funhouse mirror.
He doesn’t look like a separate person. He looks like me, just slightly
different.
I think if I didn’t have Adrian, I would have killed myself a long time
ago. Since our mother died, he’s the only person who’s loved me.
The only person who’s brought me any happiness.
“I hate it here,” I tell him.
“Why?” he says. “The weather’s better. The food is better. The
shopping too! You can get anything here. And you know it’s real—not
some knockoff. Which is why it’s all so goddamned expensive,” he
laughs.
“I just thought . . .” I sigh.
“You thought it would be different,” Adrian says. He always knows.
“Yes.”
“It will be, Yelena. Give it more time.”
“I don’t like this thing with the Gallos. I feel like a lamb tied to a stake,
set out in the snow to entice a wolf. Even if you shoot the wolf, he
doesn’t always fall before his jaws close around the lamb.”
“I’ll help keep you safe,” Adrian promises me. “And besides . . .
you’re no lamb, Yelena.”
Grinning, my brother wraps his arms around me and pulls me down
under the water. We sink down to the bottom of the pool, hugging
each other tight. This is how we spent the first nine months of our
lives—floating in each other’s arms.
Now it’s the only way to show affection without anybody watching.
T
, Papa throws a garment bag down on my bed.
“Get dressed,” he says. “It’s time to do some charity work.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I know better than
to question him. I put on the dress, which is skin-tight and flame red,
with a halter top and a slit almost up to the hip.
I put on a pair of gold sandals and a single bangle, plus a pair of gold
earrings. I pull my hair up into a sleek ponytail, because I like the
way it makes my face look sharp and ferocious, the high pony
adding to my height.
I paint my lips, fingers, and toes the same shade of crimson as the
dress. I don’t know where we’re going, but I know my father will
expect me to look flawless.
The armored car is already waiting out front, with Timur driving. He
knows better than to look at me as he jumps out to open the back
door. Still, I catch the involuntary flicker of his eyes that lets me know
I’ve done well with my preparations.
Timur and I are distantly related on my mother’s side. He’s fiercely
loyal to my father, because Papa got him out of a fourteen-year
sentence in Taganka prison. Papa always starts his business
relationships with a favor. He wants you to be in his debt.
I’m surprised to see Adrian climbing into the backseat beside me,
dressed in a neat black tux with his blond hair combed back from his
brow.
“You’re coming along?” I say.
“Of course!” He grins. “I want to see the show.”
“What show?” I demand.
He gives me a look of maddening mystery. “You’ll see soon enough,”
he says.
I scowl at him, debating whether it’s worth trying to wring the
information out of him, or if that will only result in more teasing. I love
my brother, but he’s spoiled and not always considerate of the
difference between his situation and mine. What amuses him often
drives me to absolute fury. He and I live parallel lives, with entirely
different stakes. He always knows things will work out for him in the
end. I have no such assurance.
We have to wait almost an hour for my father to come out of the
house. He could be handling some other business, locked up in his
office. Or he could be keeping us waiting for the hell of it.
He, too, is dressed formally in a smoke-gray tux, his beard and hair
freshly washed and fragrant with Moroccan oil. He smells of cigar
smoke and vodka, so maybe he was taking some kind of meeting
with one of his brigadiers.
“Go ahead, Timur,” he says as soon as he’s in the car.
Adrian and I are crunched over in the corner to give him more space.
He glances over at us and gives a grunt of approval at our
appearances.
“No drinking tonight,” he says to Adrian.
“It will look odd if I don’t at least have a glass of champagne,” Adrian
says.
“Only champagne,” Papa growls. “If I see you with anything harder,
I’ll have Rodion tie you down and waterboard you with a bottle of
Stoli.”
“That doesn’t sound half-bad,” Adrian murmurs in my ear. He says it
so quietly that a mouse could hardly hear him. He’s not foolish
enough to talk back to our father.
The car pulls up in front of Park West, a long, flat building with
almost no windows and dark painted sides. I suppose it must be an
event center of some type—I can see a stream of high-society types
heading inside, so clearly we’re here for some kind of gala or dinner.
I look around until I spot a navy and gold banner that reads Chicago
Green Spaces Charity Auction.
Fantastic. Maybe Papa will bid on a yacht.
Papa gets out of the car first, and Adrian and I follow after. Adrian
gives me his arm to help me scale the steps in my heels. As soon as
we’re out of the car, camera flashes explode in our faces. I doubt any
of the Chicago press knows who we are, but my brother and I always
make an irresistible pairing. On our own each of us is beautiful—as a
matched set, we’re stunning. I see even the fanciest guests turning
to stare at us, and I hear a murmur of whispers from those who want
to know who we are.
Papa walks just ahead of us, looking smug. He views us as assets,
and as such, our beauty is a credit to him. He’s not a handsome man
himself, though he is striking. To ensure good looks in his children,
he married the most beautiful woman in Moscow. Our mother wasn’t
wealthy or accomplished. Her father was a sanitation worker, and
her mother ran a small daycare out of their house.
My mother’s best friend convinced her to enroll in a national
modeling contest called “Svezhiye Litsa.” It was a televised event,
where viewers could vote for their favorite contestants. Out of the
25,000 girls who entered, my mother received a landslide of votes.
She had more than double the next runner-up.
She was called the Jewel of Moscow, the Princess of the North. My
father watched the contest and bet on her from the start. When she
won, he received 3,000,000 rubles, more than the entire contest
prize. Actually, all my mother won was the equivalent of five hundred
American dollars, plus a fur coat and a packet of coupons for Natura
Siberica cosmetics, who had sponsored the event.
Papa became fixated on her, watching the show. He used his
contacts to find out her name, where she lived, and where she
worked (the shoe department at Tateossian).
He came to her workplace the following week. He actually wasn’t the
first man to do so—an elderly mechanic and a lovestruck student
already had the same idea. But my mother had been able to turn
them away. There was no getting rid of my father. He ordered her to
join him for dinner, and he waited outside the shop until she
complied.
They married two weeks later. She was nineteen years old at the
time. She gave birth to me and my brother within the year.
Carrying twins was hard on her body. I don’t think my father found
her quite as beautiful afterward. He used to sneer at the loose skin
on her stomach and the stretch marks across her sides. This was
years later, when to most people’s eyes she had regained her figure.
I certainly thought she was lovely, still.
She had the same violet eyes as my brother and me—though hers
were large and round, like a doll’s. She had a heart-shaped face with
a pointed chin, delicate little features, a rosebud mouth. Her hair was
so pale and fine that it floated around her head, soft as rabbit’s fur.
She was quiet. She wouldn’t speak to us unless Adrian and I were
alone in a room with her. Otherwise she communicated with us
through little signs and gestures. My father didn’t realize that at first
—later when he discovered it, it enraged him. He accused us of
spreading secrets behind his back. Really, she was just trying to
avoid his attention. She’d do anything to stay small and hidden.
When we were alone, she’d read to us. Always fairytales or fantasy
stories. Stories that took you away to another world, completely
different from the one we actually lived in.
She died in a car accident four years ago. Or at least, that’s what I
was told by my father.
But he’s a fucking liar. The possibility that it might have been
something else, that she might have died by his hand, will always
haunt me.
“We’re sitting at table eight,” Papa says to Adrian and me.
Adrian has already snatched his second glass of champagne off a
waiter’s tray, without Papa noticing the first. I’m not sure whether I
should drink or not. I’d like to, to ease the knot of tension in my
stomach. But I don’t want to get tipsy if I’m expected to perform
some task for my father later.
Papa wanders over to the tables where they’re displaying the various
items for bid in the silent auction. It looks like the usual shit: vacation
packages, golfing trips, spa days, signed memorabilia, concert
tickets, celebrity encounters, gourmet food items, jewelry, paintings,
and so forth.
It’s all a circle-jerk of wealth—the rich people buy the luxury items at
a steep discount, the companies that donated write it off as a
charitable expense and enjoy the free advertising, and the charity
itself pockets the funds, to be disbursed to their CEOs and executive
directors who scrape high six-figure salaries. If anything is left over,
maybe it will be used to help someone.
I’m in a sour mood tonight. It annoys me to see that an event like this
is just the same in America as it was in Moscow. Corruption
everywhere. Kindness in short supply.
I decide that I would like some champagne after all, and I snatch a
bubbling flute off the nearest tray, gulping it down.
Adrian has charmed an entire tray of Kobe beef skewers away from
some hapless waitress, and he’s gobbling them down.
“Want some?” he says, mouth full.
Before I can try a bite, Papa grabs me by the arm and hauls me up
out of my chair again.
“Come on,” he says. “Time to get to work.”
“What am I supposed to be—“
“Here,” he says, thrusting me into the arms of a rather flustered-
looking redheaded woman with a headset and a clipboard.
“Oh, hello!” the woman says. “You must be Yelena! Thank you so
much for volunteering. We wanted to have an even dozen girls, and
we had three cancellations last minute! I think a few of the girls got
nervous, which is perfectly understandable, but it did leave me in a
bit of a pinch.”
She’s talking a mile a minute. While my English is excellent, I
struggle when people talk too fast. Mistaking my look of confusion,
she says, “I’m Margaret, by the way!”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, without meaning it.
“Come along this way! We’re just about to get started. I’ll show you
where the other girls are waiting, and then I’ll give you a quick
breakdown of how this is going to go.”
Before I can cast so much as a look back at my father, she’s hustling
me behind a large, empty stage on which I see no sign of musicians
or any other sort of performer.
She thrusts me into a small dressing room, full of what looks like
eleven other girls. They’re all between the ages of twenty and thirty,
all pretty, well-dressed, and looking mildly nervous.
“You’ll wait here until your name is called,” Margaret tells me. “Then
you’ll walk out to the middle of the stage—you’ll see a little X on the
floor. The MC’s name is Michael Cross. Hahaha, so he really is an
‘M.C.,’ isn’t that fitting?” she giggles. “Michael will read your bio. And
then the bidding will start!”
“Bidding?” I say, stupidly.
“Yes! But don’t concern yourself about that—the amount doesn’t
matter at all. Remember that it all goes to charity! The dates are
always our most popular items every year! And nobody has ever
failed to get a bid. Especially not a girl as pretty as you.”
She hurries away, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging
open.
I’m about to be sold in a date auction.
I assume—though I can never be sure with all my father’s twisted
machinations—that Sebastian Gallo is going to be here tonight. My
father must have seen his name on the guest list and decided that
the best way to remind him I exist is to literally offer me to him on the
auction block.
This plan seems insane for a number of reasons. First, I didn’t see
Sebastian when I walked in. And second, he already has my phone
number. If he wanted to call me, he could have done that for free any
time this week.
I think my father might actually be unhinged. His hatred of the Gallos
is driving him to ridiculous measures.
“Don’t you believe her,” a sulky-looking brunette says to me.
“What?” I say, lost in my own thoughts.
“Don’t believe Margaret,” the girl says. “Everybody gets bids, but not
everybody gets the same amount. You damn well better believe
these prissy little bitches are going to remind you till the end of time if
they sell for five hundred more than you do.”
She casts a resentful eye at the other women in the room.
“Why are you even doing it then, Gemma?” a haughty-looking
blonde sneers at her.
“Because my father’s on the board of the charity,” Gemma says, as if
she’s explaining addition to a toddler. “And when the Twitterverse
was calling the date auction ‘sexist’ and ‘outdated’ and ‘akin to
human trafficking,’ he decided the best way to quash those concerns
was to sell his own daughter to the highest bidder.”
“I’m just doing it because I heard Ian Happ is coming tonight,” the
blonde says, carelessly. “If he’s going to buy a date, I want it to be
with me.”
“Who roped you in?” Gemma says, turning back to me.
“Uh . . . my father,” I reply.
“So you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Gemma sniffs. “It is
sexist, and it is medieval.”
“You don’t have to marry the guy.” The blonde rolls her eyes. “You
don’t even have to fuck him. If you get bought by a dud, you just go
out to dinner with him, drink a gallon of wine, then ignore his calls
thereafter.”
A slim Asian girl pipes up. “Last year my date took me to Tiffany’s
and bought me a necklace. It was really pretty. I still have it.”
“Did you keep seeing him?” Gemma asks.
“Oh, no.” The girl shakes her head. “He was like ninety years old.
Actually, he might be dead by now. I never followed up.”
“There you go,” Gemma says to me, with a small smile. “You might
get a date with a baseball player, or you might get a gift from a
geriatric. The options are endless.”
“I’m Yelena, by the way,” I tell her.
“Gemma. But you already heard that.”
“I did.”
We’re smiling at each other, feeling more relaxed now that we at
least have someone to complain with. That feeling evaporates as
Margaret pops into the room again, clapping her hands to get our
attention and crying, “Alright ladies, we’re about to begin! Make sure
you’ve got your number pinned to your dress, so you know what
order to go out in. Oh—you don’t have one yet, Yelena. Here you
go.”
She pins the number 12 to my dress, right above my left breast. This
makes me feel more than ever like a piece of livestock being forced
down a chute.
I’m not thrilled about going last. That means I have to sit back here
watching everyone else take their turn, while my discomfort grows.
“Oh! Here’s Mr. Cross!” Margaret says.
“Hello ladies! Excited for the auction?” Michael Cross says.
He’s a short, trim man with a full grin of bleached-white teeth. His
hair is almost the exact same shade of bronze as his overly-tanned
skin, which makes him look—to my eyes—a bit like Lisa Simpson.
There’s an unenthusiastic murmur from a few of the girls, and a
chipper, “Oh yes!” from those who apparently entered into this
voluntarily. Gemma just scowls at him.
“Looks like you’re up first, Aubrey,” Cross says to the blonde girl who
was hoping for a date with the apparently famous athlete. “Wait for
me to call your name, then walk out to center stage. You can stand
and pose while I read your bio, and then the bidding will start. Feel
free to smile or wave to the crowd, or even blow a cheeky kiss!”
The idea of “blowing a cheeky kiss” makes me want to vomit, but
Aubrey nods like she’s taking mental notes.
“Alright ladies! Good luck—and happy hunting!” Cross winks at us.
Gemma looks at me and rolls her eyes so hard I think they might
never come back. I give her a look in return that I think conveys the
words, “It’s not too late for a mutual suicide pact.”
Cross strides out onto the stage. I hear his voice echoing through the
speaker system: “Alright gentlemen—and also ladies, we don’t
discriminate, all are welcome to bid! I know you’ve all been waiting
for everyone’s favorite part of the night! The Green Space date
auction has a long and storied history—I’m proud to inform you that
over the twenty-two years we’ve been holding this event, our
philanthropic matchmaking has resulted in no less than SEVEN
actual marriages!”
Gemma leans over to mutter, “How many of them stayed married is
a different question.”
“Even better,” Cross continues, “we’ve raised hundreds of thousands
of dollars for Chicago’s green spaces, a cause near and dear to my
heart since I myself grew up in a green-impoverished neighborhood,
without access to a park close by.”
He pauses for a moment to allow everyone to feel the weight of this
tragedy.
“Not to mention they pay him a hefty fee to run the fundraiser every
year,” Gemma interjects. This time she says it a little too loud, and
Margaret throws her a warning glare.
“The best way to help beautify Chicago is to bid on all the wonderful
items we have for you tonight—most especially the crème de la
crème of our young ladies, the shining stars of Chicago high society!
Let me introduce the first of our available bachelorettes: Aubrey
Lane!”
Aubrey goes strutting out across the stage to applause from the
crowd. Peeking out from the dressing room, I can see that she has
no compunction about posing and turning like a Price is Right model,
with the item on offer being herself. When she pauses in the middle
of the stage, Cross informs the crowd, “Aubrey has her Masters in
Fine Arts from Cornell, and she is currently working as an art buyer
for the 14th Street Gallery. She enjoys horseback riding, scuba
diving, wine tastings, and international travel. Her favorite movie is
Love Actually.”
The reading of her bio is interrupted by several whoops and hollers
from the crowd. Aubrey winks at her admirers and, as instructed,
blows them kisses.
“As you can see,” Cross says, “Aubrey is a stunning young woman
who any of you would be privileged to take on a date. Shall we start
the bidding at two thousand?”
With that, Cross breaks into his auctioneer patter. The bidding swiftly
increases from $2000 to $5000.
“How much do we usually sell for?” I ask Gemma drily.
“Anything over five grand is good,” she says. “Over ten is
impressive.”
Great. Not only do I have to hope that Sebastian bids on me, but I
have to hope the price is high enough to please my father’s vanity.
He’ll never let me hear the end of it if I sell for a measly 2K.
I’m not worried about my looks per se—I know I’m pretty. But I’m
basically a stranger. The rest of these girls probably have friends and
family and boyfriends in the crowd. They’re already well-known in
Chicago high society. I’m a nobody as far as these people know. Or
worse, they might be aware that my father’s a Russian gangster.
Which is hardly going to entice them.
The bidding slows down. Aubrey is finally sold for $8700. Not the
$10K Gemma deems “impressive,” but not far off. Aubrey looks
pleased as she exits the opposite side of the stage, despite the fact
that she wasn’t purchased by the famous Ian Happ.
I can’t see the crowd from the dressing room. But I can hear that
they seem to be getting rowdier by the minute. A curvy redhead goes
out next, with Cross announcing her hobbies as “baking” and
“reading.” This is apparently less enticing to the horny bachelors, as
the redhead sells for only $4400.
They’re much more interested in the Asian girl, who apparently loves
“skydiving, NASCAR, and Cubs games.” She sells for $12,000, after
a ferocious bidding war between two brothers—Caleb and Walker
Littenhouse.
“Sorry Caleb,” Cross says in his smarmy tone. “Looks like big brother
takes home the girl. But don’t you worry—we’ve got plenty more
lovely ladies waiting in the wings. Let’s bring out our next
bachelorette! You may know her father, Ransom Rothwell, the head
of our very own charity board. He’s offering up his lovely daughter for
a date with one of you lucky men as proof of his commitment to our
cause! So don’t let him down, give a warm welcome to the beautiful
and sultry Gemma!”
Gemma stalks across the stage looking anything but “sultry.” She
barely offers a strained smile to the crowd. No kisses or twirls from
her—she faces the audience with her arms crossed over her chest.
The bidding starts, and immediately I can see Gemma grow even
more tense. She keeps glaring at one particular person in the crowd,
and even shakes her head at him when he continues to bid.
“What’s going on?” I ask the tall black-haired girl standing next to
me.
She cranes her head around the corner to get a better look.
“Oh,” she says. “Gemma’s ex is bidding on her, and she’s pissed.”
“Who’s her ex-boyfriend?”
“Carson Woodward. He’s good-looking but god he’s a douche. My
sister used to date him—she said he can’t cum unless he’s fucking in
front of a mirror.”
I snort at that particular mental image.
I have my fingers crossed that Carson won’t win the bid, but I can tell
from the look of fury on Gemma’s face that he does, even before
Cross announces it. Gemma stomps off the stage, face flaming.
The black-haired girl is up next.
“Good luck,” I say to her.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she laughs. “My boyfriend will pay
whatever it takes. He’s sitting right in the front row.”
She strolls out without a hint of concern. Meanwhile, my stomach is
churning because we’ve gone through almost half the girls and my
turn is coming up.
I don’t even know if Sebastian is here. Even if he attended the event,
he doesn’t strike me as someone who has to pay for dates.
I wait until Margaret’s back is turned, then I sneak over to the edge
of the stage to peek around the curtain.
It’s difficult to scan the crowd, with the floodlights trained on the
stage and the overhead lights dimmed in the rest of the room. I can
only pick out Sebastian because, even sitting, his head of dark curls
pokes up taller than anybody else’s.
My heart gives a lurch at the sight of him. I don’t know if it’s relief,
because at least there’s a chance that I can do what my father’s
demanding, or if it’s just that Sebastian looks even more handsome
than I remembered.
Even in this room full of wealthy and attractive people, he stands out.
It’s not just his height—his features are incredibly striking. The dim
light casts shadows in the hollows beneath his high cheekbones, and
his lips look simultaneously stern and sensual.
He’s scrolling on his phone, mildly bored. I see that he’s sitting next
to a pretty woman with dark, curly hair, and a well-groomed man in
an expensive-looking suit. Neither of them is watching the auction
either—the man has his arm around the woman’s shoulders, and
he’s whispering in her ear. Her shoulders shake as she tries to hold
back laughter.
I let the curtain fall back in place.
Sebastian is here.
Now I just have to hope that he bids on me.
I’d like to stay and see if he bids on anyone else, but Margaret
catches sight of me and motions for me to come back in the dressing
room.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “There’s no need to be nervous! We’ve
never had a girl fail to get a bid.”
“I’m not nervous,” I say, but that’s not really true. Two more girls have
gone out, and my turn is drawing closer and closer.
“Here,” Margaret says. “Have a little champagne! That helps me
calm down.”
It looks like she’s already taken advantage of that particular cure.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her red hair is starting to come down
from its updo.
She grabs me a drink, while taking another for herself.
“So far so good!” she says, holding up her glass to mine in a kind of
cheers.
I clink her glass and take a sip of the bubbling champagne. It does
help a little, even if it’s just a placebo effect.
The next girl up is an absolutely stunning brunette with hair down to
her bottom. Cross announces that she owns the Tremont Fitness
Center, which I could have guessed from the triceps popping on the
back of her arms, and her ass that looks sculpted out of marble. This
obviously appeals to the men in the crowd, because she goes for the
highest bid yet: $17,000.
“I can’t believe people pay that much for one date,” I say to
Margaret.
“Well, it’s for a good cause,” she says. And then, with surprising
honesty she adds, “Plus it’s sort of an ego thing. They’re showing off
how much they can spend. There’s this unspoken cachet if you can
take home the hottest girl of the night.”
Realizing she’s said too much, she amends, “I mean, you’re all
gorgeous of course! But you know how men are.”
“Better than most,” I say.
I’m starting to get impatient. Instead of being nervous, I just want this
whole thing to be over.
Two more girls take their turn.
Margaret grabs another glass of champagne, probably feeling that
her job is almost done and she can start celebrating. She whispers
to me that between the date auction and the silent auction, they’ve
taken in a record amount of donations this year.
“Thank god!” she says. “After all that snafu about political
correctness . . .” she hiccups loudly, interrupting herself. “We were
worried . . . it’s damn hard to get a job in the nonprofit sector. But I’m
sure the board will be pleased!”
Now it’s the last auction before mine. This girl isn’t quite as flashy as
the others—she’s wearing a modest prairie-style dress and glasses.
She looks a bit shy and awkward, so I’m worried that she won’t get
many bids. She seems like the type to take that to heart.
Instead, the bids fly fast and furious from the moment she steps
onstage. She ends up selling for $15,500, one of the highest
numbers of the night.
“What’s that about?” I ask Margaret.
“That’s Cecily Cole,” she says, as if I should know what that means.
“Her father owns Western Energy. I would think one meeting with
him would be worth fifteen grand. Not to mention a shot at her trust
fund, if by chance she hits it off with whoever buys her.”
Margaret is leaning on my shoulder, tipsy and friendly.
“I hear your father’s a powerful man, too . . .” she says. “But he’s a
little bit terrifying, isn’t he? Maybe it’s the accent . . . ”
“It’s not the accent,” I say. “It’s his personality and morals.”
Margaret stares at me wide-eyed, not sure if I’m joking.
Cecily exits the stage, and I realize it’s finally my turn.
“I think we just might have saved the best for last,” Cross croons into
his microphone. “Our final bachelorette is a new face on the Chicago
social scene. She recently moved here from Moscow! So you can be
sure there’s plenty of places you can take her on a date that she
hasn’t visited yet. Please welcome Yelena Yenina!”
I walk across the stage, my legs feeling stiff beneath me, like my
knees suddenly forgot how to bend. The lights are far more blinding
from this angle, and I have to resist the urge to shield my eyes with
my hand. The little X mark that we’re supposed to find has
completely disappeared on the shining wooden floor. I have to guess
where I’m supposed to stop.
I face the crowd. I wouldn’t say I have stage-fright exactly, but I don’t
love being stared at by strangers. I feel like the crowd is quieter than
it was with the other girls—fewer catcalls, maybe because I don’t
have any friends out there, or maybe just because I look fierce and
angry under the harsh light.
I see my father first. He’s sitting next to Adrian, his eyes boring into
mine. He’s looking me over like an architect examining a building in
progress—with calculation and judgment. Not with love.
Then, slowly, I turn so my eyes meet Sebastian’s. He’s not looking at
his phone anymore. He’s staring at me, lips slightly parted. He looks
surprised. And—I hope—interested. I wonder if his heart is beating
as fast as mine.
“Yelena speaks three languages: English, Russian, and French.
She’s an accomplished pianist and an excellent skier,” Cross recites.
“And no, your eyes aren’t fooling you—I’m told she’s 5’11 and 3/4s,”
Cross laughs.
I don’t know if that’s actually true. I haven’t measured myself in ages,
I could be over six foot. But that’s not ladylike, so my father gave the
tallest permissible height. He’s always torn between convention and
his desire to boast.
“Shall we start the bidding at the standard two thousand?” Cross
says.
I’m almost afraid to look at the crowd to see if anyone raises their
bidding paddle. To my immense relief, five or six paddles
immediately shoot into the air. Not Sebastian’s, however.
“Three thousand?” Cross says. “Four thousand?”
There’s no reduction in the number of bidders. In fact, the obvious
eagerness of a few of the men seems to be spurring others into
action. Now there’s seven or eight people bidding as Cross says,
“How about an even five thousand? Six?”
I’m not really paying attention to the other men. My eyes are flitting
over to Sebastian, to see if he’ll raise his paddle. It lays stubbornly
flat on the table in front of him. I doubt he’s touched it all night.
The dark-haired girl sitting next to Sebastian leans over and
murmurs something to him. He gives one quick shake of his head. I
don’t know if they’re talking about me, but it makes my heart race all
the faster.
“Seven thousand? Eight? What about nine?” Cross says.
The bidding hasn’t slowed at all. As it crosses ten thousand, a
couple of the men drop out, but those remaining raise their paddles
faster and faster to secure their bids.
“Twelve,” Cross says. “What about thirteen? That’s to you, Mr.
Englewood. Fourteen now? And fifteen.”
The bidding is mostly concentrated between the man apparently
called Englewood, who looks to be about forty years old, with thick
black hair and beard, and a handsome younger man in a flashy suit,
who looks like a finance type. He’s sitting at a whole table of men
who look just like him, and they’re egging him on. The third bidder is
a much older man who might be Persian or Arabic.
“Sixteen?” Cross says. “Seventeen?”
Suddenly, impulsively, Sebastian snatches up his paddle. He calls
out, “Twenty thousand!”
Even the woman and the man sitting at his own table look startled.
The dark-haired girl mouths something that looks like, “What the
fuck?” and then she peers up at me, grinning.
My eyes meet Sebastian’s for one swift moment. I have to look down
again, because my face is burning.
I don’t have to look over at my father. I can feel the triumph radiating
off of him.
The Persian man drops out of the bidding, but the other two are still
in.
“Twenty-one!” Englewood calls, raising his paddle.
“How about twenty-two?” Cross says.
After a moment’s hesitation—with his friends nudging him on—the
finance guy bids again.
I look at Sebastian. My face is still—no smile. Definitely no blowing
kisses. Just my eyes looking into his, asking him . . . what exactly?
I’m supposed to lure him to bid on me. But do I actually want him to?
I like Sebastian. I can admit it to myself now. I was disappointed
when he didn’t call me. A tiny, secret part of myself wanted to see
him again.
But that’s all the more reason to tell him not to bid. I could frown or
shake my head at him. I could warn him off. Maybe my father would
see it, but probably not.
That’s what I should do. I should warn him away.
Instead, I just stare at him. I’m afraid my eyes are showing the
anxiousness and longing in my chest.
“Twenty-five thousand,” Sebastian calls out.
A quiet falls over the room. That’s the highest bid of the night so far.
“We’ve got tough competition for the new girl in town, our beautiful
blonde Russian,” Cross says, barely able to contain his glee. “How
about it, gentleman? Can anyone beat the youngest Gallo brother?
Does anyone want to bid twenty-six?”
He glances over at the table of financiers. The young guy in the
flashy suit looks like he wants to raise his paddle. Instead, he tosses
it down on the table in irritation. I guess we’ve come to the end of his
bankroll.
Englewood hasn’t given up. He raises his paddle once more. “Thirty,”
he says, coolly.
He looks over at Sebastian, his dark eyes glowering beneath thick
brows. I don’t know if these two know each other, or I’m just
witnessing a territorial display between two powerful men. Either
way, the tension is palpable.
Sebastian ignores Englewood and gazes up at me instead. I’m
illuminated by the burning hot stage lights, my red dress aflame all
around me.
Staring right at me, Sebastian says, “Fifty thousand.”
Cross tries to quiet the roar that erupts from every table. “We’ve got
a bid of fifty-thousand!” he says. “That’s a new record, ladies and
gentlemen, and remember it’s all for a great cause! Mr. Englewood .
. . do you care to match it?”
Englewood’s lips tighten beneath his dark mustache. He gives one
jerking shake of his head, and Cross says, “Sold! Ms. Yenina will be
going on a date with Sebastian Gallo.”
I don’t know if it’s fear or relief that floods over me. All I know is that
I’m suddenly cold, even under the hot lights. Cross has to take me
by the arm and point me to the stairs leading down off the stage.
I stumble over to my father’s table. He lays a heavy hand on my
shoulder and mutters in my ear, “Well done. He’s invested now.”
Yes, Sebastian is invested. To the tune of fifty thousand dollars.