Chapter 1

The Crystal Ballroom smelled like lilies, expensive champagne, and tax evasion. I stood near the back, clutching my knock-off clutch so hard the sequins were digging into my palm. I didn't belong here. My dress was a rental, my shoes were pinching, and my bank account balance was a tragedy.

But none of that mattered. Because *he* was walking onto the stage.

"Lot Number 4," the auctioneer announced, his voice booming over the polite murmur of the crowd. "A private dinner with His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian of Vylaria."

Sebastian didn't walk; he stalked. He moved to the center of the stage like a panther that had been forced into a tuxedo against its will. He was devastating. Black hair, sharp jawline, and eyes that looked like they could start a war.

He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He looked out at the sea of donors with an expression of pure, unadulterated loathing.

My heart fluttered. *He’s so tortured,* I thought. *He hates the superficiality of this world. He’s lonely. He needs someone real.*

He needed me.

I had read enough dark romance novels to know the signs. The sneer wasn't meanness; it was a defense mechanism. The coldness was just a wall waiting for a spunky, broke girl to smash through it with the power of love. This was the inciting incident. This was Chapter One.

"Bidding starts at one thousand dollars," the auctioneer chirped.

"One thousand!" I shouted, my hand shooting up before my brain could calculate my rent.

Heads turned. A few socialites raised their eyebrows at my polyester blend.

"Two thousand," a voice croaked from the front row. It was a Dowager in enough diamonds to sink the Titanic.

"Three thousand!" I countered.

Sebastian shifted his weight on stage. He looked at his watch, then rolled his eyes.

*Oh my god,* I thought, my pulse racing. *He’s impatient. He wants this to be over so he can meet the winner. He’s looking for me.*

"Four thousand," the Dowager said, sounding bored.

"Five thousand!" I yelled.

That was my emergency fund. The money for when my transmission finally died. But what was a transmission compared to a soulmate? If I won, he’d probably buy me a new car. That’s what billionaire princes did in the books. They bought you cars and intimidated your enemies.

"Six thousand."

"Seven!" I screamed.

Sebastian looked in my direction. He narrowed his eyes. It was a glare that could wither a houseplant.

*The intensity,* I swooned internally. *The passion. He sees me. He’s locking eyes with me across the crowded room.*

"Eight thousand," the Dowager rasped.

My chest tightened. I had a credit card. A shiny Visa with a ten-thousand-dollar limit that I had been saving for a medical emergency.

This was a medical emergency. My heart was at stake.

"Nine thousand!" I cried out.

The room went silent. The Dowager lowered her paddle, sipping her drink. She had evidently decided a dinner with a moody royal wasn't worth the price of a handbag.

"Going once," the auctioneer said. "Going twice..."

"Ten thousand dollars!" I shrieked, just to be safe. To show commitment.

"Sold! To the lady in the red dress!"

The gavel banged.

I collapsed slightly in relief. I had done it. I had bought the inciting incident. I had secured the date with the Evil Prince. My life was about to change. I imagined the dinner—he would be distant at first, insulting my table manners, but then I would say something witty and he would chuckle darkly and confess that he’d never met anyone like me.

Sebastian descended the stairs from the stage.

He was coming toward me.

The crowd parted. He moved with a lethal grace, his face set in stone. He was taller up close. He smelled like cedarwood and money.

I stepped forward, my heart hammering against my ribs. I prepared my opening line. Something sassy. Something memorable.

"Your Highness," I breathed, reaching out to touch his arm. "I knew you were waiting for—"

Sebastian didn't slow down. He didn't even blink.

When my fingers grazed the fabric of his jacket, he stopped. He looked down at my hand like it was a cockroach that had crawled out of a sewer.

"Do not touch me," he said.

His voice wasn't smoky or seductive. It was just mean.

"I... I won," I stammered, my smile faltering. "The auction. I'm Chloe."

He looked at my face. There was no recognition. No spark. No hidden depths of longing. There was just the cold, dead look of a man who viewed people as obstacles.

"You bought a tax write-off," he said flatly. "Not a conversation. My assistant will send you the receipt for the donation. Do not expect the dinner to actually happen. I'm busy until next year."

"But..." I felt the blood drain from my face. "It was ten thousand dollars."

"Then you should have spent it on a better dress," he sneered.

He brushed past me without looking back.

I turned, stunned, watching my romantic hero walk toward the exit. A six-foot-tall supermodel in gold lamé was waiting for him by the door. He took her arm, whispered something that made her laugh, and they disappeared into the night.

"Miss?"

I looked to my left. A gala organizer was standing there, holding a portable credit card machine.

"Congratulations on your winning bid," she smiled thinly. "Debit or credit?"

I looked at the machine. I looked at the empty door where the Prince had vanished.

The fantasy dissolved, leaving me standing in a rented dress with a maxed-out credit card and the crushing realization that sometimes, the villain isn't misunderstood. Sometimes, he's just a jerk.

"Credit," I whispered, handing over my future. "It's all on credit."