Page 74 of Boardroom Sins

I grip my clutch so hard that the clasp bites into my palm. Strangely enough, the pain grounds me. At the very least, it reminds me I’m still here, still breathing.

Unfortunately, it also reminds me that I’m notdreaming, so it’s not all good.

“Sixty!”

“Seventy-five!”

Oh, how nice. I’m worth seventy-five thousand dollars to someone. The thought makes me want to laugh. Or scream. Or throw up. Maybe all three.

As the bidding continues, the numbers start to blur together. My face burns under the lights and sweat trickles down my spine.

“A hundred grand!”

The arrogant voice comes from my right. I turn to see a tall, skinny man in his thirties or so, with slicked-back hair and a smile that makes my skin crawl. He’s wearing a watch that I can see all the way from up here, encrusted with diamonds.

“Well, I’ll be damned—if it isn’t Preston Howell!” the emcee announces. “CEO of Howell Technologies! Ladies and gentlemen, this is truly an illustrious group we’ve gathered here tonight! Who will come out on top?”

Preston winks at me when he sees me squinting in his direction. “You’re worth every penny, darling. I promise I’ll show you a good time.”

My stomach lurches sideways. A few people laugh, while others make dirty jokes under their breath that I pretend not to hear.

I’m going to be sick.

“One hundred thousand is the going bid!” the emcee crows. “Do I hear one-twenty?”

Pin-drop silence. Preston’s grin widens. He thinks he’s won.

Then—

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

The voice is familiar.

Kir.

The room goes absolutely still. Even the emcee’s jaw drops.

I find him in the crowd. He’s standing near the edge of the dance floor where I left him, champagne glass still in hand. But he’s not looking at me.

He’s looking at his father.

Their eyes are locked. Gray on gray. Fire on ice. Something passes between them that I can’t read, something old and bitter and dangerous.

The room erupts in gasps and scandalized whispers. One by one, the members of the crowd clue each other in to what’s happening. All eyes veer toward the two Lazarev men glaring daggers at each other from across the room, waiting to see what will happen next.

I’m waiting, too.

Lukas doesn’t move. He doesn’t raise a paddle or a hand. He just speaks again, louder this time.

“Five million.”

…

…

…

My jaw falls open.