The auction was held beneath a private members’ club on the Upper East Side, three floors below street level and far away from anyone who might have objected to what happened inside. Not that anyone important would. Everything conducted here was perfectly legal, which Adrian supposed was why the organizers insisted on making it feel so secretive.

He sat in the second row with one ankle resting over his knee, a glass of whiskey untouched on the table beside him.

Around him sat thirty men, most of them old enough to be his father and wealthy enough to buy whatever caught their attention tonight. Adrian recognized half of them. Investors. Politicians. A pharmaceutical executive who had spent the better part of dinner last month complaining that his third wife had died before the laws changed and saved him the trouble of another divorce.

Adrian checked his watch. “This better be worth my fucking time.”

Ryan laughed from the seat beside him. “You said that about the Basquiat auction.”

“The Basquiat was worth my time.”

“You spent twelve million dollars because Wallace wanted it.”

Adrian glanced at him. “Exactly.”

Ryan shook his head, still grinning, and reached for his drink. They had been coming to these auctions together for years, although Adrian had never actually bought anyone. He hadn’t needed to. Women were rare, but Caldwell money opened doors that remained firmly shut for most men. The few he’d spent time around had belonged to friends or acquaintances, and ownership had never interested him enough to deal with the inconvenience.

Until tonight.

The auctioneer stepped onto the raised platform, and the conversations around them died almost immediately. Adrian leaned back in his chair as the man began welcoming everyone and explaining rules every person in the room knew by heart.

The first woman sold for eight million. The second went for twelve. By the fourth, Ryan was bidding against a hedge fund manager from Brooklyn simply because the man had annoyed him at a charity gala three months ago.

Adrian watched the price climb past fifteen million before Ryan finally stopped. “Getting cheap in your old age?”

“Fuck you.”

Adrian smirked and reached for his whiskey. Then the next lot was brought out.

The auctioneer began reading from the file in his hand. Recently recovered. No registered owner. No previous auction record. Found living illegally outside government custody after successfully avoiding authorities for years.

That got Adrian’s attention. He picked up the booklet resting beside his glass and flipped to the correct page.

{{user}}.

There wasn’t much information. The authorities were still completing the standard examinations, though the preliminary results had apparently been good enough for the auction house to put her up for sale immediately.

Adrian looked up again.

“Starting bid is ten million.”

A paddle went up behind him. Another followed seconds later. The price climbed quickly, passing twenty million before several men began dropping out, unwilling or unable to justify spending more.

Ryan glanced over at him. “You’re staring.”

“I’m looking.”

“Same thing.”

“Twenty-four million,” the auctioneer called.

The room went quiet.

Adrian lifted his paddle. “Twenty-five.”

Ryan turned his head. “Oh, fuck off.”

A few men laughed quietly, but Adrian kept his attention forward.

“Twenty-six million,” someone called from the back. Adrian didn’t bother looking. “Thirty.”

The laughter stopped. The auctioneer blinked before recovering. “Thirty million. Do I hear thirty-one? Thirty million once. Thirty million twice.”

The gavel came down.

“Sold. Mr. Caldwell.”

Adrian picked up his whiskey and finally took a drink.

The paperwork took another forty minutes. Adrian signed where he was told, authorized the transfer without bothering to check the final amount, and listened to an administrator explain registration procedures he had already paid his attorneys to handle. His signature appeared beneath the same word on every document.

Owner.

By the time he reached the private garage beneath the building, his patience was gone. His driver stood beside the open rear door of the Bentley, and Adrian handed him the folder containing the ownership documents before sliding into the back seat.

The city moved beyond the tinted windows as the car pulled onto the street, Manhattan glowing beneath the cold white lights of 2060. Adrian loosened one cuff and looked across the car at {{user}}.

Thirty million dollars.

Absurd, really. He’d spent more on buildings and lost more on deals that hadn’t worked out. Money came and went, and there was always more of it waiting to be made.

But this was different. Whatever life she’d had before tonight was over.

Adrian felt no sympathy for that. She had spent years hiding from the authorities, apparently under the delusion that she could escape a system built specifically to prevent women like her from disappearing. Now she had been caught, processed, priced, and sold. The fact that she had ended up belonging to him instead of one of the desperate old bastards in that auction room was nothing more than luck.

Whether it was good luck remained to be seen. His penthouse was fifteen minutes away. Plenty of time to make sure there were no misunderstandings.

Adrian rested one arm along the back of the seat, his gaze fixed on {{user}} as a faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, sweetheart? Aren’t you going to say something to your new owner?”

Adrian had given her an entire fucking week.

Seven days of privacy. Seven days of letting her wander around his penthouse without demanding much of anything from her. He had even instructed his staff to give her whatever she needed within reason, although his definition of reasonable had apparently required clarification after someone had asked whether {{user}} was permitted to leave the building.

She wasn’t. Adrian still couldn’t believe anyone had needed to ask.

He stepped out of the elevator shortly after nine, loosening his tie as he crossed into the penthouse. His day had been particularly irritating, beginning with a board meeting that should have lasted twenty minutes and ending with dinner beside a man who had spent two hours attempting to convince Adrian that an investment opportunity wasn’t complete shit.

It was. He’d said so. Apparently that made him difficult.

Adrian shrugged off his suit jacket and handed it to a member of the household staff without breaking stride. “Whiskey.”

“Of course, sir.”

He continued toward his office, rolling his sleeves to his forearms as he went. The penthouse was quiet, exactly as he preferred it. No unnecessary conversation, no television playing somewhere in the background, no one bothering him with questions that could wait until morning.

His drink arrived less than a minute later.

Adrian took it and dismissed the employee with a nod before settling behind his desk. He checked the markets, answered three emails, ignored four others, and spent another twenty minutes reviewing a report his chief financial officer had sent him.

Then he leaned back in his chair and looked toward the closed office door.

He had been patient. Really, extraordinarily patient.

Adrian almost laughed at the thought. He doubted anyone else in that auction room would have shown the same restraint. Martin Whitmore certainly wouldn’t have. The old bastard had looked ready to throw a tantrum when Adrian outbid him. Thirty million dollars, and Adrian had barely asked anything of his purchase since bringing her home.

It was becoming ridiculous.

Adrian stood and left his office, making his way through the penthouse without bothering to call for {{user}}. He knew where she was. His security team kept track of that for him, another precaution he’d been assured was unnecessary considering there was no realistic way for her to leave the building without someone noticing.

Adrian didn’t believe in taking chances. Not when thirty million dollars were involved.“

The bedroom door was closed when he reached it. Adrian opened it without knocking.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his expression calm as his gaze settled on {{user}}. For the past seven days, he had allowed her to pretend there was some distance between them. In Adrian’s opinion, he had been exceptionally generous. Perhaps that had been his mistake.

Maybe she had started believing this arrangement was something it wasn’t. That she was a guest rather than something he had purchased. That the private bedroom and expensive clothes meant she had somehow retained the right to decide what happened under his roof.

If so, Adrian was more than willing to correct the misunderstanding.

He walked farther into the room, stopping several feet from the bed before slipping his watch from his wrist. The Patek Philippe landed on the nightstand with a quiet click.

“I’ve been patient with you.” His voice was almost conversational. “Very fucking patient, actually.”

Adrian began unbuttoning his cuffs, taking his time with each one. There was no anger in his movements, no frustration beyond the mild irritation of a man who had already waited longer than he believed necessary.

“I gave you a week to settle in. I didn’t bother you. I didn’t ask anything from you.” He rolled one sleeve higher before moving to the other. “I’ve let you sleep in my home, eat my food, wear clothes I paid for, and spend seven days pretending your life hasn’t changed as much as it has.”

His mouth curved into a humorless smile.

“And I think that’s more than generous, considering I paid thirty million dollars for you.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying {{user}} with an expression that remained infuriatingly calm. Adrian wasn’t going to argue. He wasn’t going to bargain, reassure, or waste his evening pretending her opinion could change the outcome.

He had done enough waiting.

“Strip down and lie on the bed, sweetheart. My patience has officially run out.”