6. Ella

Chapter 6

Ella

It's him, I know it's Mr. Whitlock. Even with the mask, the butterflies dancing in my tummy never lie. Long ago, I memorized his hands, his signet ring, the sharp angle of his jaw and those bluer than blue eyes. But why is he here? Is he looking for an arrangement? Every man I've met since Gale and I arrived an hour ago has propositioned me to be their kept woman. I never dreamed Grant Whitlock would be among them.

Slowly, I approach him, conscious of every click of my stilettos, terrified I'll trip and stumble onto him. As much as I'd like to let my fingers accidentally skim his biceps and brush my breasts against him, it's probably not a great idea to begin a conversation in that manner.

Besides, he may not be the man I believed him to be. This is why they say you should never meet your heroes. Mr. Whitlock is just another cad trolling for someone to warm his bed. I pause to consider the idea and wonder what that might entail. Is that why he's here? Is this beautiful man taking applications? I could be that girl.

"Mr. Whitlock?" I lower my mask and peek over it, revealing my face to the man in front of me.

A small smile plays on his lips as he recognizes me. "Ella," he says, his voice a smooth baritone that sends shivers down my spine. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

I choose not to mention my father and make an awkward situation worse, instead focusing on the glimmer in Mr. Whitlock's eyes and the warmth of his hand as he places it over mine. The soft glow of the chandelier overhead casts a warm golden light on our faces, masks removed, as the soft rustling of music can be heard from the adjoining lounge. Despite the presence of the bartender and the men loitering nearby, it feels like we are the only two people in the room.

After a speechless moment, lost in the depths of each other's eyes, Grant's smile fades and his expression grows stern. His eyebrows furrow and lines appear on his forehead, giving him a serious and almost intimidating look. "Wait a minute," he starts, his voice laced with concern. "What are you doing here? I was assured the minimum age was twenty-one." Grant drops my hand abruptly, his fingers immediately finding their way through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. He takes a quick, sharp breath in before tilting his head back and downing the rest of his whiskey in one swift motion.

"I'm twenty-two. You attended my eighteenth birthday party four years ago. Don't you remember?" I reply, my stomach churning with unease. He's a busy man who probably attends a slew of obligatory events, but for some foolish reason, I wanted to believe he'd remember me. It hardly matters now.

Whatever moment we shared appears to have vanished as quickly as it began.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I was invited. What are you doing here?" I point to the men in the adjoining room. "Do you want what they want?"

Grant's eyes widen in shock, his features contorting with a mix of surprise and horror at my comparison. But what other conclusions am I supposed to draw? "I'm only here to support my brother," he retorts, gesturing toward the crowd. His gaze narrows as he scans the sea of people, trying to pinpoint which one is Gareth. "I was just about to leave when you walked over. What's your excuse?" His tone is stern and chastising, almost coming across as paternal. But I don't need another father figure. The one I have is already toxic enough.

I forcefully exhale, my breath escaping in a sharp burst as I try to keep my eyes locked with Grant Whitlock's. Inside, my emotions swirl and churn, a potent blend of anger and desire. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine Grant looking at me like this, his eyes openly devouring every inch of my body. He doesn't even bother to hide his ogling or the extra few seconds his gaze lingers on the swell of my cleavage. And I don't think I can hide how much it all arouses me.

"Here's your Shirley Temple, miss." The bartender sets the glass on the bar in front of me and I can feel my face catch fire.

I can't believe I ordered what can only be described as a little girl's drink in front of a man who already views me as immature.

Grant's tight lips soften and curve into a sly smile, seemingly mocking me for my drink choice. He steps closer and my muscles tighten with anticipation. "You really shouldn't be here, Ella. You're a beautiful girl and these men are arrogant jerks who believe they can buy whatever they want, including women. If you leave now, I won't tell your father I saw you here."

My jaw drops as my mind processes his words. "You can tell him whatever you want, Mr. Whitlock. He's the reason I'm here, and now you're the reason I'm leaving. You're his boss, not mine." I do my best to chug my Shirley Temple, wishing it was a glass of liquor, then slam the icy glass on the counter, wiping my mouth as I storm off.

Weaving my way through a sea of men in suits mumbling inappropriate compliments, I'm halfway to the door, when I'm stopped prematurely by Gale, Gareth, and a silver fox almost as handsome as Grant— almost . Too furious and heartbroken to give the thought it merits, I wave my hand, urging them to let me pass. I've had enough of this place to last a lifetime.

"You can't go until you sign up for the silent auction," Gareth declares, shoving a form with most of my information already filled out. The writing is Gale's, who admits she filled out hers at the same time.

"It isn't what you think. It's not a virgin auction," Gale clarifies and points to the signature line. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"What do you think you're doing?" Grant shoves his brother and prevents him from handing me a pen. "I know her father and I won't let her become involved in a seedy scenario. It could be dangerous."

Everyone stops talking in unison as I turn to gaze at Grant, his fists clenched and moments from clocking his brother's left cheek. Before he interfered, I was ready to tear the form and chuck it into the trash, but his over-the-top bossiness has me seeing red.

"You're out of line, Grant. It's just a date between two consenting adults. Any use of persuasion or manipulation tactics go against club rules. She would have no sense of obligation." The other older man reads my mind and answers my question before I have a chance to ask.

"Stay the fuck out of it, Duncan. I have an obligation to her father…" Grant's voice trails off as if he's trying to convince himself that his objections are solely based on his relationship with my dad. His hesitation leaves me unconvinced and gives me a modicum of hope. But who the hell does this man think he is?

Duncan, a man whose name I only just learned, slowly unbuttons his crisp cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. His sinewy forearms glisten in the dim light of the club, daring Grant to challenge him without uttering a single word.

To my surprise, Gale reaches out and presses her hand against Duncan's chest, trying to calm the simmering anger within him. She then fearlessly steps forward to defend my honor.

"You're the one who needs to stay the hell out of this," Gale shouts, drawing the attention of nearby tables. "Her father is nothing but a thief who stole her college fund and forced her into homelessness. You don't get to judge her for trying to survive—not that she needs your approval. And if she does choose to do something questionable, it's none of your damn business, Mr. Whoever You Are ." Gale's voice rings loud and clear, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a knife.

Despite my appreciation for her defense, I glare at her with a sharp, pointed gaze until she finally pipes down. I don't want Grant or anyone else to know my personal business—it's too embarrassing. "He's Grant Whitlock, my dad's boss," I whisper as my cheeks burn red hot. With a slow, calculated pace, I step away from the group and extract myself from this humiliating situation.

"So, he's Mr. Whitlock?" Gale's words pierce the awkward silence and expose my unhealthy obsession. Without offering a reply or explanation, I turn and walk away. This may be the worst week of my life.