4. Jensen

This was the last fucking place Jensen Stone wanted to be tonight.

Evan Whitmore, the incompetent CEO of Garcia Richardson Management, was ploughing him with drinks. Probably in an effort to make him more pliable, unaware that the watered-down piss Lux called beer would barely even qualify as alcoholic back home.

"You know I'm Scotch," Whitmore said, giving him a proud glance, as though they were both part of some secret brotherhood.

"Are you, aye?" Jensen muttered.

Whitmore nodded, holding up his glass of icy piss. "Clan Campbell. It's where I get my red hair from," he grinned. "What about you?"

So Whitmore's sixteen times great grandfather probably emptied a Campbell chief's bedpan. Fitting. "No clan."

"Huh," Whitmore said, brows pulled down in confusion. "So what do you think of New York?"

Jensen couldn't wait to be home, that's how he found New York. It wasn't often he travelled on business—as one of the four shareholders of Stone Holdings, he didn't usually deal with emergencies such as this. None of them did. That job went to the CEO, Gloria Monye.

Until Gloria had been in a car accident on her way to the airport and hospitalised.

The four of them had had to scramble to fill in for her. He and Warren flew to New York in her stead, although the private jet they'd travelled in was a far cry removed from the prison they'd met in. Rhys and Aldous, Jensen's cousins, were running Stone Holdings in between visits to the hospital.

What Jensen had learnt from it was, firstly, that they needed to give Gloria a pay rise, and, secondly, that Evan Whitmore was losing his job the moment the takeover was finalised.

Somehow he didn't think Whitmore would have brought Stone Holdings' CEO—a middle aged woman—to Lux. It was touted as an exclusive gentleman's club, but the more he saw, the less he liked. Lux was kitted out in sleek black, with the furnishings a sparkling gold—including the women.

They, more than anything, made him uncomfortable. They sashayed around the club, winding their way between the tables in front of Lux's empty stage, balancing drinks trays on their dainty arms, wearing sheer golden gowns that revealed everything beneath.

So much so that when they first arrived, Whitmore accidentally dropped his phone and asked one of them to pick it up, just to see her bend over, giving Jensen a wink.

Not long after that, Whitmore had shared a tad more about Lux. Namely that everything here was free—including the women. If they're wearing gold, he'd said, they're free game. Whitmore apparently paid some extortionate annual membership for the privilege. But tonight's a special occasion; they've got an auction. Wait until then before you make your choice.

Whitmore would likely never have guessed Jensen, part owner of a multi-billion pound company, grew up in poverty, so much so that his mother once shared an occupation with the women serving them. Grimly, he couldn't help but wonder what his drinking companion would do if he realised Jensen had spent seven years in prison for murdering a man.

The only thing he regretted was the time he spent away from his loved ones.

"New York has been eye opening," Jensen replied. He didn't bother to smile. How Garcia Richardson Management was still running was a mystery, but the bones were there to make it a success—once Whitmore was firmly out of the way.

Jensen pulled out his phone. It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening, but with the time difference it was early hours of the morning for him. He scrolled through his messages. Euan Llewellyn had been in touch, sending over information about a joint venture they were embarking on.

His cousin Rhys had also sent him an update on their CEO's hospital stay, and Jensen was pleased to see Gloria was being discharged in the morning. Aldous, Rhys's brother, had messaged as well, updating him on plans for Jensen's aunt's birthday party. Smiling, Jensen sent a reply.

"I'll bet. It's about to get better, my friend."

Oh good. Are they closing?

But as Jensen looked up, the spotlights around the stage ignited as one, illuminating every square inch of the long, rectangular platform, the banner underneath it bearing Lux's logo.

"Gentleman, please welcome our English rose to the stage," a voice boomed through the speakers as a lone, shadowy figure climbed onto the stage. "Are we ready to bid?"

The room thundered into life, with Whitmore whistling and slapping the table, adding to the cacophony.

And then she stepped into the light.

Jensen's lips parted. The sight of her hit him like a physical blow to the chest. He stopped hearing the noise around him, or the host's voice blaring across the room. All he saw was the woman in front of him, dressed in a sheer white gown that left nothing to the imagination, revealing every inch of perfect, unblemished skin.

But her eyes—big and bright and so desperately, desperately afraid.

She must only be a few years younger than Aldous.

The thought gritted his teeth, just as he realised numbers were being thrown around as though they were weightless. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Jensen slapped Whitmore on the shoulder. "What are they bidding for?"

"A hundred thousand!" an older man bellowed from just behind them.

Whitmore leant in, raising his voice above the room's chatter. "To have her. For the entire night, she can't say no."

Jensen glared at the older man behind them. A good-looking man, on the surface, but his eyes were as cold as ice. He glanced at the woman on the stage, doing her best to be brave. Fuck, was she being forced into this?

With Lux's annual membership fee being worth more than most people's mortgage, only one-percenters lurked here. And tonight, Lux's rich, powerful patrons swarmed the room like flies, their lecherous stares almost wilting the English rose on sale.

Jensen knew all too well the devastating scars one influential man could inflict.

"One hundred thousand dollars," the host announced. "Going once, going twice—"

"A quarter of a million," Jensen called, blurting out the first number that came to his mind. It didn't matter. He could afford it.

The room fell silent around him—including Whitmore, thank fuck. Even the host took a moment to recover. "A quarter mil is bid. With the gentleman on Table 12 for a quarter of a million dollars. Do I hear two-hundred-and-sixty thousand?"

The older man replied with a lazy flick of his hand. "Here."

"The gentleman on Table 14 wi—"

Jensen didn't hesitate, his eyes on the woman on stage, who looked more terrified with every bid. "Half a million."

"Three quarters," that dark, cold bid came, not letting the host get a word in edgeways.

If the older man was anywhere near as wealthy as he was, they were in for a long night. Jensen almost rolled his eyes. He wanted to get this over with. In a normal auction, he'd be eking this out bit by bit, but he didn't want this filth looking at the woman on stage for any longer than they already had. "A million," he shouted, hoping it would scare off the scumbag behind him.

The room was as silent as a morgue, but was that hesitation he detected from his competitor? "One point one million," the man called.

"I have one point one from the gentleman on Table 14. Do I hear one point two million?"

"Two million," he snarled, glaring at the other bidder. And stop wasting my fucking time. At this point, the only thing he wanted was to get up on stage and put his jacket round that poor girl.

"Two million dollars," the host repeated slowly, emphasising every word. "Do we have a competing bid? The bid is here at two million dollars with the gentleman on Table 12."

When his would-be competitor gave a shake of his head, Jensen didn't waste another second of his time on the man.

"The gentleman on Table 14 is out," the host's voice came. "At two million dollars with the gentleman on Table 12, going once, going twice, sold."