Page 5 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

TABITHA

Every nerve in my body vibrates like I’ve stuck my tongue in an electrical socket.

I’m in the dressing room of The Armory, the hush and hum of auction chaos swirling around me.

Rows of mirrors line the walls, their glowing bulbs illuminating a motley crew of wide-eyed women…

and a few men too, which is a twist I didn’t see coming.

Not that I gave much thought to the possibility of male virgins being here, but apparently, it’s a thing.

We’re all in this big backstage area that smells faintly of hairspray, vanilla body lotion, and a distinct tang. Someone definitely threw up not long ago.

Actually, I see a girl slumped against a trash can, pale and trembling, while a staff member rubs her back.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to join her in retching.

This entire situation feels so surreal, I keep expecting to wake up.

But I’m wide awake. My hands are trembling, and my reflection in the mirror shows huge, terrified eyes beneath the smoky eyeshadow they insisted on giving me.

I usually don’t wear much makeup, so seeing myself all dolled up and sexualized is jarring.

It doesn’t help that I’m wearing an outfit that borders on lingerie—a white satin slip that skims mid-thigh, spaghetti straps too flimsy to provide any real coverage.

The staff offered a range of styles for the virgins, from a sweet lace babydoll to a more punk-rock leather harness.

All in white. The virginal theme, I guess.

I chose the slip because it felt the least foreign to me, but it’s still miles outside my comfort zone.

My legs are bare except for the strappy heels that pinch my toes.

If Grandma Judy could see me now, she’d gasp so loudly the walls might shake.

I can’t think about her right now, or I’ll lose my nerve.

Closing my eyes, I try to recall the advice I always give Erin when she’s anxious about her treatments.

Name something in the room for every letter of the alphabet.

It’s silly, but it usually distracts us from the swirling panic.

So I mentally start: A… almond-colored walls.

Though, if I’m honest, they’re more beige than almond.

The overhead lighting is tinted pink, so everything looks slightly off anyway.

But for the sake of the exercise, I’ll call them almond.

B… black spots in my vision? I blink rapidly, focusing on a patch of floor so I don’t pass out.

C… candy. I see an open wrapper on one of the tables, probably left behind by a staff member who needed a sugar fix.

D… dressing tables. They’re everywhere, each station cluttered with brushes, makeup palettes, and curling irons. Some are still hot, waiting to turn the next virgin’s hair into the perfect vision of seduction.

I inhale, slow and measured, and push on to E, then F, then G.

Each letter anchors me a bit more, like stepping stones across a rushing river.

I get stuck at X, but eventually land on X-Acto knife peeking out from a half-open drawer.

No idea what it’s there for. My heart isn’t pounding quite as violently as I stumble through Y— yellow bow in a girl’s hair , and Z— the zipper on a staffer’s pants .

I’m still on the verge of a meltdown, but at least the alphabet trick has blunted the edge of panic.

Right on cue, Pietro glides into the dressing room, scanning the mirrors and the clusters of people.

He’s the man who interviewed me for this “gig,” though it feels weird to call it that.

He’s tall and elegant in an expensive suit, with dark hair combed neatly back.

The first time I met him, I half expected a sleazy vibe—some pushy type who’d treat us like commodities.

But Pietro is more like a meticulous caretaker. Mother hen, actually.

“How are we holding up?” he asks, voice low yet clear enough to draw attention.

A few of the girls nod shyly. One boy—seriously, he can’t be older than twenty—sinks deeper into his seat, avoiding eye contact.

Pietro doesn’t miss a beat. He kneels beside the boy, murmuring reassurances I can’t quite catch.

Then he circles around, checking in with each of us.

One of the staffers dashes over to the girl who’s still hunched by the trash can, offering her a mint and a glass of water.

I exhale when Pietro’s focus slides my way. I didn’t realize how much I’ve been longing for his calm presence. “Tabitha,” he says, just softly enough for me to lean in. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

I shake my head. “I’m…okay,” I say, voice a bit higher than usual. “Thanks, though.”

“Remember, if you need a moment alone, just tell one of the attendants, and they’ll escort you to a private area. And you have your necklace, yes?”

I lift my hand to touch the string of pearls around my neck.

It’s dainty and pretty, something that might belong in a grandmother’s jewelry box.

If I yank it hard, it’ll snap at a hidden magnetic point.

Security will rush in, and the bidder who caused me to panic will face severe penalties—breach of contract, or worse.

It’s an odd comfort, but still a comfort.

I cradle the pearls lightly, letting their smooth texture remind me I have a safety net if everything goes wrong.

“Got it,” I whisper. “Thank you, Pietro.”

He touches my shoulder in a fatherly gesture and moves on to the next person.

Maybe he senses the restless energy rippling through the group.

The staff has tried to keep us separate from the larger crowd—everyone out there will be masked, from what I’ve heard, while we remain unmasked for the actual auction.

No one wants to bid on an invisible face.

I catch my own reflection again and notice the tension carved into my features. Just behind me, a petite brunette meets my gaze in the mirror. We share a fleeting, sympathetic look, both of us acknowledging the swirl of fear in our eyes. Then she turns, rummaging for something in a makeup bag.

A gentle tap on my shoulder makes me jump. I spin around to see a young woman with dyed-pink hair and a bright, adventurous grin. “Hey,” she says, holding out a tube of lipstick. “Wanna try my color? I feel like you and I have the same complexion.”

I blink, then realize she’s trying to be friendly. “Oh, that’s sweet of you, but they already caked me in something.” I gesture at my rose-tinted lips in the mirror.

She shrugs, sliding the lipstick into her bag. “No problem. I’m Samantha, by the way. Sam.” She has a piercing in her nose and a carefree vibe that I’m envious of, but I notice a tremor in her hand as she zips the bag. She’s not as calm as she pretends.

“Tabitha,” I say, forcing a smile. “Or Tabi. Take your pick.”

Sam nods, glancing over her shoulder. “This is nuts, right? I mean, one minute I’m finishing my community college finals, the next I’m signing a contract to sell my virginity. I keep asking myself if I’m insane.”

A small, wry laugh escapes me. “I’m asking myself the same. I…I didn’t realize there’d be other people my age. I sort of expected…I don’t know, something else.”

Sam snorts. “You mean old men chasing teenage girls? Honestly, same. But I guess the laws are strict—everyone’s over eighteen, and there are older participants too.

Look over there.” She gestures subtly to the other side of the dressing room, where a graceful woman in her mid-thirties is adjusting her hairpins.

“I guess there’s no upper limit on when you can do this. ”

I nod, staring at the older woman, who carries herself with a quiet dignity that reminds me of a ballet dancer. Then I notice a tall, lanky guy pacing near the wall, probably no older than nineteen, a swirl of anxiety on his face. The range of participants is broader than I anticipated.

Sam picks at the hem of her silky robe. “I’m here because I want to transfer to a four-year college, but it’s expensive as hell.

Figured this was a faster route than waiting tables for the next five years.

And maybe I’ll even have money left over.

” She forces a grin, but her eyes reveal a thread of fear.

My throat tightens. I don’t want to think about why I’m here, because it’s all too overwhelming. “College is a good reason,” I manage softly. She must sense I’m not ready to share, because she tilts her head, waiting.

I sigh, giving in a little. “It’s a life-or-death situation for me,” I say quietly. “Not me, but someone close to me. This…might save them. So…yeah.” I close my mouth before I reveal too much. The less said, the better. I can’t afford to break down now.

“Got it. Don’t worry, I won’t pry.”

“Thanks,” I whisper. Somehow, her acceptance soothes me. Maybe it’s easier to face this insane reality knowing I’m not the only one with major stakes.

Before we can say more, Pietro appears at the doorway, clapping lightly to get our attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, time to move backstage. The auction is about to begin. Remember to keep your composure, stand tall, and rely on our staff if you need anything. You’ve all done wonderfully so far.”

A ripple of panic flits through the room.

A few people scramble for final touches—hair smoothing, lipstick reapplication, a last gulp of water, a moment to panic before the big show.

I grip Sam’s hand impulsively, and she squeezes back, eyes wide.

Then we let go and file toward the corridor.

My heels click on the polished floor, each step echoing my nerves.

The backstage area is dim, lit mainly by the glow seeping through the heavy velvet curtains.

There’s a wide platform that extends in front, presumably the stage.

I can hear a low murmur of voices from the main hall.

The hum is occasionally punctuated by laughter, glass clinks, and the hush that suggests a large crowd is waiting.

I exhale shakily. Breathe, Tabi, breathe. A…armory. B…backstage. C…curtains. D…

Out of nowhere, a wave of applause rises from beyond the curtain. A man’s voice resonates across the backstage area. “Our first participant is…Celine.”

A slender, nervous girl near the front flinches at the sound of her name. One of the staff members gently guides her onto the stage. My heart clenches in sympathy.

The rest of us shuffle closer, trying to watch from the wings without being seen. I manage a glimpse of a grand ballroom filled with masked figures in tuxedos and elegant dresses. A spotlight shines on Celine as she steps to the center, face pale under the bright glare.

The auctioneer’s voice carries back to us. “Shall we start the bidding at ten thousand dollars?”

My jaw nearly drops. Ten thousand is an opening bid?

The crowd rustles, then someone calls out a bid. A woman. I hadn’t considered whether a woman would bid on me, but Pietro said I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. The truth is, I’m not sure. A woman for my first time doesn’t sound so bad. She’d probably be gentler than a man, right?

The number climbs. Fifteen, twenty, thirty thousand.

The higher it goes, the more the tension in my stomach morphs into a strange mix of relief and determination.

I need that kind of money. Possibly way more.

And if these people are truly prepared to drop tens of thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands—on a single night or a short-term arrangement…

I can’t let my fear sabotage this. Erin’s life depends on it.

That was another thing Pietro told us. We could do one night or a whole month.

The people who do a whole month make a lot more money—obviously—but the idea of being away from my real life for a month feels monumental.

When he told me those virgins usually make upwards of five years’ salary or more, I signed up for that without a second thought.

Behind me, a girl curses softly in disbelief as the final bid for Celine hits an eye-watering figure. Celine stammers a “thank you,” guided offstage by the staff. She vanishes into a side corridor, presumably to finalize paperwork or something. I can hardly blame her for looking so awestruck.

It was one thing to hear about the money. It’s another to know it’s for real.

Pietro’s calm presence reappears among us.

He gestures for the next person, a young man this time.

He steps forward, shoulders trembling. The auctioneer repeats the process, though I hear fewer bids for him initially.

Then someone calls out a higher number, and the pace picks up.

This is insane—a bizarre marketplace hidden behind the veneer of masked civility.

Participant after participant goes out. Some do well, some exceptionally well. There’s applause, an occasional whoop from the crowd. My nerves remain taut, but I cling to the knowledge that the payoff could be huge. My entire reason for being here is to secure that money for Erin’s surgery.

I can’t back out. I won’t.

Through the curtains, I catch a glimpse of someone near the front—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black half-mask.

There’s something arresting about his posture, but I can’t tell if he’s bidding.

Then, further back, another masked figure lifts a phone.

A hush ripples through the crowd as the auctioneer announces a new, significantly higher offer. My cheeks flush hot.

Despite the roiling fear, I feel a strange spark of power. If these individuals are willing to pay so much, it means I am worth something beyond my day-to-day drudgery. I know that’s twisted, but in this moment, I’ll take any glimmer of strength I can get.

Anxiety and hope wage war inside me, but I square my shoulders. My entire world is about to change. But at least, for the first time, it feels like change for the better.

I take a deep breath, letting the crisp backstage air fill my lungs. They might be buying my virginity, but I am taking them for a ride.