Chapter 3 - THE WING OF THE OBSIDIAN
Backstage, the air was thick with the scent of hairspray and nervous sweat.
Maria stood trembling against the brick wall of the corridor, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as if trying to hold her skeleton together. The auction had ended three minutes ago, but the adrenaline was still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Who was that?" she demanded the moment Catherine bustled past with her clipboard. Maria grabbed the older woman’s arm, her fingers digging into the gray wool sleeve. "Catherine. Who was that man?"
Catherine stopped, her professional demeanor slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of genuine unease. She glanced down at Maria’s hand, then slowly looked up into her face.
"Sebastian Blackwood," Catherine whispered, as if speaking the name too loudly might summon a ghost.
Maria frowned, the name sliding off her consciousness without leaving a mark. "Blackwood? Is he a board member? A regular?"
Catherine let out a dry, humorless huff of laughter. "Regular? Maria, the man doesn't do auctions. He doesn't do galas. He doesn't even do interviews with the financial press unless he's buying out their parent company."
"Then why tonight?" Maria’s voice rose, a sharp edge of panic cutting through her exhaustion. "Why would someone like that drop half a million dollars on an introductory tier companion? What kind of game is he playing?"
Catherine’s eyes drifted past Maria, toward the heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the corridor—the private VIP holding suite reserved exclusively for the evening's highest bidder.
"I don't know," Catherine murmured, gently pulling her arm free from Maria's grip and smoothing her jacket. "He's never bid here before. Not once in the eight years I've run this floor."
"And?" Maria pressed, her heart thumping against her ribs. "And what?"
Catherine looked back at her, her expression grim. "When he walked in, he didn't look at the catalog. He didn't look at the other women. From the moment he stepped through those doors..." She paused, swallowing hard. "I think he came for you."
Before Maria could process the terrifying implications of the statement, one of the mahogany doors swung open.
A tall man in a crisp white shirt and a black vest stepped out into the corridor. He looked at Maria with a neutral, expressionless face that brooked no argument.
"Ms. Santos," he said, his voice clipped and formal. "Mr. Blackwood will see you now."
Maria didn't move for three seconds. Her feet felt welded to the floorboards. Every instinct she possessed—every survival reflex honed over twelve years of poverty and quiet desperation—screamed at her to turn around, kick off her heels, and run out the back exit into the rain.
May you like
Diego, she reminded herself. Two hundred thousand. His surgery.
She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin with the stiff, brittle pride of a soldier marching toward a firing squad, and walked past the guard into the private room.
