Chapter 48

The moment Helen Finch's palm came whistling through the air, Susan Thompson's pupils constricted violently.

She had never imagined Simon's mother could be this vicious. The broom swung toward Bella Quinn's swollen belly with a whoosh, and Susan threw herself forward without hesitation.

A dull thud. Fire seared across Susan's back.

"Susan!" Bella's voice trembled as she reached shaking fingers toward Susan's spine. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Susan forced a smile through gritted teeth.

Helen planted her hands on her hips, chin jutting like a rooster's. "Stop faking! I'm disciplining my own daughter-in-law. Who asked you to interfere?"

Susan shielded Bella behind her. "She came to see me! What right do you have to hit her?"

"Ha!" Helen spat. "This slut cheated on her husband. I'll beat her whenever I want!"

Bella's fingers were ice-cold. She gently pushed Susan away. "I have to go back."

Susan gripped her wrist. "No!"

"Grandma is in their hands." Bella's voice was feather-light. "Susan, I have to go."

Watching Bella follow Helen into the distance, Susan dug her nails deep into her palms. She finally understood—in this city, those without money or power couldn't even protect themselves.

The neon lights of Elegant Art glared harshly against the night sky.

Susan stood before the mirror, staring at her pale reflection. Even sickly and exhausted, her beauty remained breathtaking.

"Miss, you're the most stunning woman I've ever seen," the makeup artist marveled. "You'll fetch a sky-high price tonight."

Susan's lips twisted. She remembered what that extra had said—Elegant Art's auctions sold dances on the surface, but what they really sold were women.

The stench of hospital disinfectant still clung to her nostrils. That minor procedure had left her sweating in pain, but it was necessary. The wealthy liked their purchases "clean," so she'd give them a "pure" Susan Thompson.

"Miss Thompson, you're on."

Susan took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage in her stilettos. The spotlight hit her, and the audience gasped in unison.

Her gaze swept over the sea of greedy eyes—then locked onto a familiar figure in the shadows.

Andrew Lucas.

What was he doing here?

Her heart skipped a beat before she laughed bitterly. Perfect. Let him witness firsthand how the "promiscuous" Susan Thompson sold herself.

"Starting bid—one million!"

"Two million!"

"Five million!"

"Ten million!"

The numbers climbed, but Susan only heard white noise. Then Andrew stood, raising his paddle.

"Fifty million."

The room erupted.

Susan's fingers began trembling. She'd imagined countless scenarios—except this one.

"Sold!" The auctioneer's gavel struck. "Congratulations, Mr. Lucas!"

Susan stood frozen, feeling herself shatter piece by piece. Now she understood the meaning of "hoist with one's own petard"—she'd delivered herself into the hands of the man who despised her most.

Andrew ascended the stage, his gaze fathomless.

"Susan," he gripped her chin, "you disgust me."