Chapter 2

Good Luck

For the next hour, each girl walked the stage once more. The bidding wars began with screaming, hollering, and an enormous amount of yelling. Shadowy figures waved illuminated paddles each time a new girl was called.

They went rabid for Matisse who brought a final purchase price of two million dollars. I couldn’t believe they’d started at one million, it made me think that all of the women would get such high payouts, even after Angus took a forty percent commission. We’d been promised no less than $250,000 for a five-year marriage contract. More money than I’d ever seen.

The second and third girls did well, but didn’t come close to the kind of bids Matisse earned. The fourth in line ended up securing a million, but number five didn’t fare as well and was not picked at all. Number six then brought in half a million.

The common denominator among the girls whose bidders pledged seven figures was their innocence. Apparently, if you had your virginity intact, you went for millions. If you were like me and Celine, women in bad positions who really needed the money and weren’t virgins, the odds of receiving a larger sum were not favorable. This was disappointing, but if I brought in a bid of three hundred thousand and lived with my new husband for the required five years, I’d leave the marriage far richer than I would have been able to otherwise. And I’d be off the streets.

Eventually they got to number twelve, which was Celine.

She pranced onto that stage and owned the audience. She shook her ass, strutted from side to side, made kissy faces, and pretended to drop something on the stage, bending over with her booty facing the audience so they’d get a glimpse of cheek. The bids rose as her confidence soared. She was already up to six hundred thousand when I heard the familiar melodic French lilt of the man who’d complimented me earlier.

“She’s too young for you, mon ami. ” My friend.

“I will have her!” Celine’s highest bidder raised his voice over the others, waving his paddle like a flashlight in a pitch-black forest.

We couldn’t see the men, but I focused intently on the French accent and where I thought it was located.

“She’s twenty-five years younger than you,” the gentle voice admonished.

“I don’t care. I want her collared and under me. One million dollars!” the bidder bellowed.

My heart sank. Twenty-five years older. He wanted to collar her? What did that even mean? Fear for my friend blistered scalding hot through my veins. I didn’t know what to do. We were in an impossible situation—one of our own making—with no fallback plan.

Celine must not have heard what they’d said over the noise of the crowd because at the announcement of the million dollars, she clapped and blew more kisses toward the audience.

“Going once, going twice… Sold to Mr. Holt for one million. Please exit the stage, Number Twelve, and wait with the others,” Angus instructed.

Celine walked to me, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it. “You’ll do great. A million dollars!” she whispered with glee, her entire face lit with the biggest smile I’d ever seen on her.

“Aw, isn’t that sweet how my girls support one another’s success,” Angus tutted into the microphone. “Lucky Number Thirteen, Ms. Alana, come on up to the front of the stage, sweetheart. Let’s start the bidding at $100,000.”

I groaned under my breath as I plastered on a barely-there smile. My legs shook and my knees practically knocked together, but I eventually made it to the front of the stage. The bright lights blinded me for a full thirty seconds.

“ Un million. ” I heard the man with the French accent speak.

My breath caught and I covered my heart with the palm of my hand. Why would he raise the price when he could have had me for less?

“One and a quarter million,” a Southern American voice I hadn’t heard in the crowd before pierced the air.

“ Deux million .”

My Frenchman countered with two million and I shook like a leaf, my mind failing to understand what was happening.

“Three million buck-a-roos, amigo.” A shadowy figure stood up at the very back of the audience. The red halo of the exit sign above his head shined over what seemed to be the outline of a cowboy hat.

Suddenly my Frenchman stood and held his number near his face, highlighting his features. He had dark hair that was parted on the side and swept back and away from his face. A strong, chiseled jawline with a straight nose and high cheekbones. His lips were of average size but looked soft even from a distance. His eyes, though, were hard to see. Definitely lighter than mine in color. But when he looked at me, all I saw in his gaze was kindness.

I stared into his eyes and saw his gentle soul staring back at mine.

Safe.

His eyes told me there was safety to be had in his presence.

I clung to that feeling of security and responded with a single plea.

“ Please ,” I mouthed.

“ Cinq million . Five million US dollars.” He reiterated the amount in English.

“Shooooooot, partner. Too rich for my blood.” The cowboy chuckled, lifted his hat off his head, and bent over in what I believed was a bow of surrender.

“Five million! A record!” Angus clapped joyously, the sound crackling around the room through the speakers. “Going once…going twice… Sold to newcomer Mr. Toussaint!”

I pressed my hands together in a prayer position and bowed at the audience. “Thank you,” I said out loud and smiled, not being able to hold back my relief.

I was in a happy haze as I turned around, walked through the curtains, and down the stairs. Immediately my best friend’s small body crashed into mine. She hugged me so tight I could hardly breathe.

“Five million dollars, Alana! Five fucking million dollars! Add my million and we’re going to be able to buy our own island five years from now!” Celine jumped up and down wildly.

I got caught up in her joy. My skin tingled while my heart pounded a hopeful beat and I clung to her.

“You were right. Everything has changed for the better.” I grinned and finally gave into the excitement.

“We’re millionaires!” Celine gushed as one of Angus’s men approached.

“Not yet, ladies. Let’s get you changed into wedding attire. Then we’ll have you sign the marriage certificates and contracts.”

Hand in hand, we followed the hulking man who called himself Burt. He led us to a room in the hotel where the other girls who’d been bid on were going through racks and racks of what looked like American-style white wedding gowns.

“Shit, we’re last to the party!” Celine griped and then bolted to one of the racks.

I, however, was in no such hurry.

My hesitance wasn’t because I didn’t want to marry the Frenchman; it was because I knew what happened after we said those two words: “I do.” It meant that Celine and I would be separated. She’d been my rock for years. We took care of one another, always having each other’s backs. We were family by choice. Family through sacrifice and our small gains over the years. We had been each other’s touchstone.

Even on the streets we had a system to care for one another. While she was with a “gentleman caller,” her term of endearment for the lowlifes we’d had sex with for money, I would stand watch. It took us a good year to find an acceptable place that was clean, would allow us to pay for the rooms in cash, and was relatively safe so we could carry out our business. We’d give the hotel owner extra cash if he threatened the guys as we entered. Promising retribution if they hurt “one of his girls,” even though he wasn’t our official pimp.

Oren was a Black man who’d been a street fighter in another life. He took pride in his rent-by-the-hour hotel even if most of it was frequented by call girls and drug dealers. If the shelters were full, he would let us sleep for free on super cold nights when he wasn’t filled up. We just had to make sure we washed the sheets and towels using the machines in the basement and put the room back together by noon. That had worked for years.

I had been with Celine every day. Now I was going to be staying with and sleeping next to a stranger. Sure, it was supposed to be far better circumstances, but did we really know what was going to happen? No, we didn’t. We had put all of our faith into luck, karma, and worst of all…Angus. None of those three things had ever truly served me well in the past.

“I found the perfect dress for you,” Celine announced.

I sighed and moved to approach, but one of the girls snatched the gown out of Celine’s hands.

“That was one of the options I was saving to try on!” the girl snapped. She was a tall German woman with light brown hair that fell to her shoulders.

“It’s literally a size two. Are you going to fit all of that into this itty-bitty dress?” Celine gestured to the woman’s very tall frame before swiping the dress back and tucking it behind her.

“Are you calling me fat?” the German female hissed, her cheeks turning pink.

Celine shook her head and made a rude noise. “No, you dimwit, it’s science. You’re like five thousand feet tall. And what, a size ten? Twelve maybe? That’s nowhere near fat. What you are not is a size two, like my petite friend here.” She hooked a thumb toward me.

The woman glared.

“You can have it. I don’t really care.” I entered the conversation, taking the dress from Celine who begrudgingly released it. “I’m sorry if she accidentally took a gown you preferred. We’ll look at the others.” I held the dress out. We needed to keep the peace at all costs, and my Celine knew how to get us into trouble. It was my job to keep us out of it. Though her fiery temper was an ongoing battle.

The woman and I stared at the dress hanging before me.

It was a truly magnificent gown.

Simple spaghetti straps with a triangle-shaped top. The dress was an old-fashioned, off-white, lace gown. The back fell completely open, with a zipper enclosure that would fall only a couple inches above my bum. The fabric went all the way to the floor, including a couple extra feet of lace that formed a small train.

It was perfection.

The exact dress I would have picked to wear to a wedding I’d chosen and planned for myself.

“No, your friend is right,” the woman stated in a thick German accent. “It is small and would look good on you. Viel glück.” She shoved the dress back toward me and turned away with the few dresses she’d gathered already slung over her shoulder.

“What’s viel glück again? German’s hard for me,” Celine griped.

“It means good luck.” I held the dress up in front of me, facing one of the many freestanding mirrors placed around the room. It really was beautiful. “Did you find one for yourself?”

“Nope.” She hooked her arm through my elbow, linking us together. “Help me choose.”

* * * *

Once we’d chosen our dresses, we put them on and then went to the vanity provided in the corner. Makeup and hair bits and bobs covered the surface. I lined my eyes into a perfect cat’s-eye shape with black liquid. I added a touch of shimmery blush to my cheeks and then painted my lips a bold cherry red. It was the color of the nightgown I’d worn. The same hue that had to have caught my Frenchman’s attention so fully that he’d bid five million dollars for my hand in marriage. I thought it fitting to wear it for him as a reminder of his choice, lest he wanted to back out.

One by one we were called to action.

Celine and I held hands.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” I murmured, clinging to her.

She leaned her head on my shoulder. “It’s only five years.”

I nodded even though my entire being felt as if it were being ripped in half. “How am I going to survive without you?”

She laughed openly. Her laugher was always loud and free, reminding me of the good times we’d carved out of our sad circumstances over the years.

“Ever heard of a thing called a phone?” she reminded me.

“And how am I going to get your phone number? Will your husband allow you to call me? What if I don’t have access to a phone? That’s not unrealistic, Celine. They could prevent us from ever talking to one another again. How are we going to find each other?” I fretted.

“Oren,” she stated flatly, bringing up our hotel friend. “The Purple Lotus will be home base. He’s not ever leaving that hotel. It’s his baby. We’ll call and leave messages through him for one another. Try to schedule a meet up as soon as possible. He’ll do it. All we have to do is tell him we’ll kick him down an extra twenty when we see him.” She nudged my shoulder smiling. “We’re going to be rich, remember? Rich people have means.”

“I’m still worried,” I admitted.

“It will be okay. Just you wait and see,” she promised right before her name was called.

We both stood, and she hugged me with a ferocity I returned. “Remember all the things we discussed before today. Do everything he says. Be sweet and kind like you always are. Keep an exit in sight at all times. Hide a weapon in every room. Don’t do anything that could anger him. If you do anger him and you feel super scared, run. Find a way to get back to New York and hide out at The Purple Lotus. The first chance I get, I’m calling Oren and giving him my info. You do the same. But don’t be pushy…” Celine went over all of the things we’d already discussed.

“Number Twelve! Come on! You don’t want to keep Mr. Holt waiting,” Burt hollered.

“Holt is my soon-to-be husband’s last name. What was yours?” she asked and glanced over her shoulder at Burt who was frowning and waving for her to hurry up.

“Toussaint. It was French, I think.”

“Okay, got it. Be careful. I love you.” She crossed her fingers and put them over her heart.

I matched the gesture by crossing my own and placing them against my chest. “I love you too. Be safe.”

“Always. My new husband won’t even know what hit him!” she teased and skipped to the door. “Thank you for waiting so patiently, Burt. I’m ready.”

Burt shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. People couldn’t help but be happy when Celine gave them any form of attention. She was that charismatic.

Staring at the door that Celine had exited, I waited for my number to be called.

Not long after, Burt appeared, his gaze directed at me as he pointed and crooked a finger. “Lucky Number Thirteen, you’re up.”

I slid my clammy hands along my dress, making sure everything was in the right place. It was now or never. Once I signed the contract, that would be it.

Burt led me out of the mock dressing room and to another door. In front of the door was a small accent table. Two documents lay on the surface along with a pen and the most stunning bouquet of roses.

“Sign both and then I’ll signal the music,” he noted.

“Music?” I asked while scanning the marriage certificate, noting my bidder’s name was entered as Christophe Toussaint. My name, Alana Kim, was next to his along with a blank space. I wrote out my name in slow, swirling text. I’d only been practicing cursive script with one of the shelter advisors for the past month. She claimed that every person needed a special signature in order to sign important papers. Turned out she was right.

“Your bidder is a romantic. Oh, he wanted you to have these too.” Burt reached for the bouquet of two dozen red roses that had been lying on the table.

“These are for me?” I gasped, never having been given such a beautiful gift before.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I thumbed one of the petals, appreciating its velvety texture, then pressed my face to the blooms. They smelled incredible.

“And don’t forget the contract.” Burt tapped the remaining document.

I allowed myself a full breath in and out before I once more signed my name.

I stood in front of the double doors, placed the flowers down in front of my abdomen, and stood as tall as I could in sparkly shoes that were too loose for my tiny feet. Unfortunately, they were a full size too large but that was all that was left anywhere near my size by the time I’d chosen footwear. Still, I buckled the ankle straps as tight as they would go and crunched my toes to hold them in place.

My loose shoes didn’t matter.

What mattered was that in another sixty seconds I would become Mrs. Alana Toussaint.