My body had been streamed live to every eligible billionaire with auction access–every stranger who could afford a bid had already seen everything.
My exposed body had been broadcast to every wealthy bidder with online access to the auction.
Brandon quickly tucked away his phone, feigning nonchalance.
“You’re overreacting,” he said, brushing past me. “You just had to wait a little. I’m working on it, okay? One day I’ll get over it.”
His indifference stung more than anything.
With Clarissa, there was no hesitation–no sign of that so–called “germ phobia.”
But when it came to me, I was untouchable. Contaminated. Less than human.
I clenched my fists, nails digging deep into my palm, but I no longer felt any pain.
Brandon threw on a suit, feigning casual.
“Go take a shower. We’re heading to the auction tonight. Big–ticket item’s on display–everyone in Eldenridge is talking about it. Let’s see what the fuss is about.”
I recoiled instinctively, my voice trembling with panic.
“No. I’m not going. I don’t care about antiques.”
His face darkened.
Stop acting like a child. Clarissa even said she’d bid on some jewelry for you. Try being grateful for once.
“You’ve been playing house for five years–cooking, cleaning, folding sheets. Hell, even the maid’s out of a job. People might think you’re trying to be the maid. You need to get out and see the world.”
I glanced down at my ruined hands–cracked, red, raw from years of scrubbing sheets and hand–washing his clothes three times a day. All for the sake of his so–called “condition.”
So that’s all I was to him. Not a wife. Not a partner.
Just… help. Disposable help.
Brandon lost his patience. Without warning, he shoved me into the bathroom and dumped me into my designated disinfectant tub.
Afterward, he dried me off like I was a contaminated object, his disgust plain as day.
Only once I was dressed did he allow himself to disinfect himself, then dragged me into the car.
The Montclair Auction Hall hall buzzed with champagne and chatter, and tailored–every corner filled with the elite of Eldenridge.
When Clarissa saw me arrive, she rushed over with a saccharine smile, her eyes locking onto my hands.
They were pale and blistered, flushed pink from years of chemical exposure–so thin they looked like they might tear.
She gave a mocking hum.
“Oh, Valerie. Your skin’s so delicate. No wonder Bran won’t touch you–he’s probably afraid you’ll fall apart.”
Someone nearby snorted.
Please. It’s not about breaking her–he just doesn’t want to touch her. Five years and still untouched? That’s a record!”
Laughter burst like a wave around me, crashing from every direction.
I stood there, face burning, jaw tight.
Chapter 3
33.33%
“That’s enough,” I said, my voice edged with steel.
Brandon rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed.
“They’re literally complimenting you. You seriously can’t take a joke, huh? It means you’re pure. Most women would kill for that kind of praise. Stop being so ungrateful.”
When my face remained stone cold, one of the men raised a glass and shoved it toward me.
“Come on, lighten up, Mrs. Westwood. He meant well. Have a sip–it’s a $1,200 bottle.”
I looked around.
Dozens of eyes. Leering. Waiting.
This wasn’t about a party.
This wasn’t a joke. They were here for me.
To bid on my body.
I pushed the glass away with a steady hand, cold as stone.
