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.”