Valentine Morgenstern sat back in his leather chair, admiring the desk before him, splayed with every sort of document—money transfers, revenue reports, proposals, memos; you name it—and seemingly me, as I sat opposite him.

My father was studying me. I could tell. I just didn't know what he was gleaning from my face.

I wondered if he was seeing my Mom in me. Or if he was seeing the girl who'd taken so much after him—who had, without a second thought, shunned her brother, who had sabotaged a reporter's career.

"Consider it, Clarissa," he cocked his head to the side, hands steepled under his chin, still assessing me.

"It's pointless, Dad," I said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in my chair. "I understand that this auction will widely benefit the charity and provide publicity for the company, but I have no idea how that correlates to me having to participate."

"You know how the press love to see those higher up on the food chain getting down on their hands and knees for the less fortunate," he said matter-of-factly. "And not to mention, how much money you would raise for the charity."

"Fine," I nodded tersely, avoiding his gaze. I wasn't even entirely sure what he was trying to say; only that he wasn't going to relent on this matter.

Valentine smiled a humourless smile at me. "Wonderful. I'll let the organizers know."

When I stepped out onto the runway-style stage, I peered out at the crowd, searching for my Mom in the crowd, only to instead come across my father sitting as far back as he could get, in a very, very dimly lit alcove of a table. He was scowling at me.

I smirked a little triumphant smirk and put a hand on my hip, feeling particularly proud. And not just of the silk black dress that was so tight I briefly wondered how I even managed to get the thing on without tearing it—Valentine had suggested I wear "that silver dress you wore to the Mayor's."

A suggestion I'd blatantly ignored.

I simply stood there, not entirely paying attention as the bid got higher and higher until someone around the middle of the crowd shouted out "seventy-five thousand!" and no one challenged it.

I tried not to squint as I once again stared out at the crowd. I couldn't tell who it was that'd shouted out that ridiculously large bid.

"Going once! Going twice! Going three times, to the man in the white tuxedo!" The woman at the podium shouted brightly, pointing to a blond man who was looking just a little smug about his win.

"Congratulations," I said, stopping before him. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Even with the heels. I was about to continue with something witty about how he had won a date with one of New York's most eligible bachelorette and charming personality, when he looked me up and down, and I didn't care if I technically was a prize; I would not be treated like such. I was not here for his viewing pleasure.

"Yes I would say so."

"Hey," I snapped loudly, putting my hands on my hips. "My eyes are up here."

My Dad clapped a hand on my shoulder, fingers tightening ever so slightly as he gave an easy smile. "Easy, Clarissa. I'm sure the boy meant no harm."

"I don't give a fu—"

Valentine shot me a stern look, daring me to say something else crude or bold and see where that got me. He stuck out his hand, "Valentine Morgenstern."

"Yes, I'm aware," the blond smirked, shaking my father's hand. He looked too good-looking. Like, unrealistically so.

"Clarissa," Valentine glanced down at me, disapprovingly and as if he could have forgotten I was there had his hand not been on my shoulder. "Could you give us a moment? I believe your mother wanted to speak with you." I rolled my eyes. Fine. If my father was going to treat me like a bothersome child, I would act like one; I stomped away, feeling my cheeks heat in my anger.

I didn't see my mother, but then again, I wasn't really looking. The room was so big, and so filled, and just dim enough to give it a hazy glow, I didn't know if I would be able to spot her bright hair if I tried. So I didn't.

I stood there, my arms crossed over my chest, eyes boring a hole into the side of that blond's head. He and my father shook hands; I scrutinized them as they conversed, trying to read their lips. But I'd always been bad at that.

I watched closely and with my eyes narrowed as he weaved neatly through the crowd—towards me. He didn't stop in front of me, and I wasn't sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't for him to wrap his around my waist and start tugging me through the crowd, all of them beaming at me—at the image we must present: Clarissa Morgenstern, wrapped up in what could only be a model. And a popular one at that if he spent that much money for a date.

"I'm not sure if you were aware," he whispered, leaning his head in close to mine. "But your father just sold your hand in marriage."

"What are you—?"

"What I'm talking about is I thought I was just bidding on a date with the daughter of one of New York's biggest criminals."

I stared up at him, bewildered. I didn't bother to look where we were going—it was up to him to make sure we didn't walk into anything. I was a little distracted.

"Instead I bid for her hand in marriage. And won."