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.