chapter 4
My fingertips trembling as they brushed the velvet petals—white roses interspersed with eucalyptus and sprays of delicate purple blooms.
Something caught my eye, a small card nestled among the blooms.
My heart stuttered as I unfolded it, the handwriting strong and deliberate across the cream-colored paper.
“A belated gift. Happy birthday, Mikaela. I hope this year brings you happiness on your own terms.” — Caleb O’Brien.
Heat bloomed beneath my skin, a flush that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the dangerous thrill of being truly seen.
On your own terms.
Four simple words that acknowledged what so few in my life ever had. That I might have terms of my own at all.
I tucked the note into my desk drawer, sliding it beneath a stack of papers like a secret too precious to risk exposure.
A smile played at my lips as I prepared for the day, choosing my own outfit without consulting my mother’s prescribed wardrobe guidelines.
The café hit me with a wall of normality—laptops, laughter, and people whose lives weren’t being auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Josie had colonized the best table by the window, two scones and a mug of something that probably contained enough caffeine to power Manhattan waiting for me.
“You’re late, but you’re smiling,” she announced, sliding a matching mug toward me. “Either something good happened, or you’ve finally cracked and we’re witnessing the calm before the full psychotic break.”
I wrapped my fingers around the ceramic lifeline. “No breakdown yet. Though I’ve penciled one in between ‘pretend to care about wedding venues’ and ‘contemplating witness protection.'”
“So what’s with the glow? Yesterday you were basically livestock at auction, and today you look like someone snuck batteries into your vibrator.”
I choked on my first sip. My fingers itched to tell her about the flowers, about Caleb’s note. On your own terms. Four words that hit like tequila—burning, disorienting, and making everything seem slightly possible.
But something stopped me. The note felt like a secret spell that might dissolve if spoken aloud.
“Just enjoying this brief moment of not being micromanaged,” I deflected. “Normal people doing normal things.”
“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of your arranged matrimony to Random Finance Bro #17, how are you— Wait, what happened to your face?”
My hand flew to my cheek where Mother’s handprint had bloomed last night.
“Minor disagreement with Mother. She made her point. Quite literally.”
“She hit you?” Josie’s voice dropped an octave.
“It’s fine. Besides, Caleb helped with ice afterward, so—”
“Caleb?” The name shot from her mouth like a bullet. “Mysterious silver-fox Caleb who couldn’t stop eye-fucking you at dinner?”
Oh fuck. I’d stepped right into that trap.
“He was just being nice,” I muttered, feeling heat crawl up my neck.
“So are we going to talk about how you practically melted every time he looked at you, or are we still pretending that’s not a thing?”
My heart performed Olympic-level gymnastics. “What? Josie, he’s my father’s friend.”
“And hot. Don’t forget hot,” she added with delight. “The kind of hot that makes you wonder if he throws actual gold bars around for exercise.”
“He’s sixteen years older than me,” I countered, as if age were the issue and not the fact that my body had apparently developed its own electrical system whenever he was near.
“Which only makes it hotter. Nothing says ‘fuck you, Dad’ quite like fucking Dad’s friend.” Her grin was positively feline.
“It doesn’t matter.” I stared at my latte—easier than meeting Josie’s eyes while lying. “I don’t feel anything for him.”
The lie tasted bitter. The truth—that his mere existence had awakened parts of me I’d spent years pretending were decorative—felt too dangerous.
“Liar,” Josie said, softening. “I saw how he looked at you when your dad dropped that engagement bomb. His whole face changed. Like someone had punched him in the solar plexus.”
I remembered with high-definition clarity: his jaw clenched tight, knuckles white around his glass, that flash of something primal in his eyes.
“That’s your imagination running a marathon,” I muttered.
Josie leaned across the table. “It’s not. And honestly, if he had looked at me like that, I’d have jumped him in the wine cellar between the Bordeaux and the Burgundy.”
“Josie!” Half-scandalized, half-delighted.
She laughed that uninhibited laugh I’d always envied. “Come on, you can’t tell me you didn’t notice that body under the suit. That man is packing more than investment portfolios.”
My mind instantly conjured Caleb in the kitchen—sweatpants riding low, t-shirt clinging to a chest that definitely didn’t come from corporate lunches.
Heat rushed between my legs so suddenly I had to shift in my seat.
And suddenly last night’s dream returned: Caleb’s hands mapping territories my own fingers had barely explored, his mouth leaving evidence across my skin.
“It doesn’t matter,” I repeated. “Even if I wanted to… which I don’t… he wouldn’t be interested in someone like me.”
Josie’s eyebrow arched. “Someone like you?”
“I mean someone who’s never even kissed a guy. A virgin. The daughter of a friend. Practically property now that I’m engaged off like some corporate merger. Men like Caleb don’t want… that.”
The pity in Josie’s eyes was worse than any slap.
“Mika… you’re not some boring little statue your parents carved. You’re allowed to want.”
I looked away. “Even if I did want something, it wouldn’t change anything. My dad made it crystal clear—refuse the marriage, get cut off. No trust fund. No cards. Nothing.”
“Then you’d need a plan,” she finally said. “A way to support yourself, get out on your own. Something big.”
I stared into my coffee, suddenly dizzy with the simple math: freedom required money, money required work, and work required skills I’d never been allowed to develop.
The circular trap made my stomach drop—like standing at the edge of a skyscraper and realizing the only way down was to jump.
We parted with hollow promises to meet again soon, but Josie’s words clung to me like a second skin, raw and chafing against every certainty I’d ever known.
Later that night, I sat at my desk staring at my laptop screen.
Four months to secure my freedom. Four months to find a way to exist outside the suffocating safety of my father’s world.
I scrolled through job listings, freelance opportunities, anything that might offer a path to independence.
But everything required experience I didn’t have, skills I’d never been allowed to develop.
Every option left me dependent, controlled, at someone else’s mercy.
‘I hope this year brings you happiness on your own terms.’
Caleb’s words echoed in my head, bitter and sweet at the same time. His voice had been warm that night, protective almost, but the truth underneath was cold as fuck.
If the game was rigged, maybe it was time to flip the board entirely.
My father’s voice crept in: ‘A prudent bride-to-be focuses on cultivating virtue, not chasing careers.’
Virtue. Right.
Like I was some fucking houseplant he’d been watering for over a twenty years, waiting for the perfect buyer.
That’s when I saw it.
A sponsored ad tucked between a dog-walking gig and a tutoring position:
‘Virtue Exchange: Secure. Confidential. One-time bidding for first-time experience.’
I clicked before my brain could catch up.
Holy shit.
The website that loaded was sleek, discreet, professional. Nothing like the seedy corners of the internet I’d imagined. Clean white background, tasteful fonts, testimonials that read like luxury hotel reviews.
It was a marketplace. A bidding platform where women could auction the one thing they could never sell twice—their virginity.
To wealthy, vetted clients. For sums that could change lives.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a violent rhythm of fear and something darker, more primal.
The one thing my father valued about me. The one asset I possessed that he considered marketable was the very thing I could leverage to buy my freedom.
A laugh bubbled up from my chest, sharp and slightly unhinged.
A prudent bride-to-be? Well, okay, Daddy. I’ll show you.
You raised me like a fucking ficus in a gilded pot, never letting me develop real roots, real skills, real anything.
But you know what? Maybe that was your mistake.
Because the one thing you’ve been protecting, the one thing you’ve been saving like some precious family heirloom—that’s my ticket out.
My virtue. My body. My purity.
If I get rid of my virginity in such an undignified way for a young lady and take the money, would that be enough?
My finger hovered over the “Create Profile” button, trembling with possibility and terror in equal measure.
Time to find out what this treasured houseplant was really capable of.
