“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.