Sold to the Highest Bidder
Chapter 1: The Million-Dollar Proposal
Emma
I had been in jail for 47 days when a stranger offered to buy my freedom.
The price?
My hand in marriage.
And the worst part was, I was actually considering it.
“Boner! You’ve got a visitor.”
I looked up from the thin mattress I’d been staring at for the past three hours.
“Who?”
“Lawyer. Now get moving.”
I almost laughed.
My public defender hadn’t visited in three weeks. The last time we’d spoken, she’d told me to seriously consider pleading guilty.
To a crime I hadn’t committed.
Apparently, being innocent didn’t mean much when the police found you standing over your boss’s dead body, covered in his blood.
Never mind that I’d been the one who called 911.
Never mind that I’d tried to save his life.
And never mind that someone had sent me an anonymous text that morning telling me to come to his office immediately.
The prosecution had everything they needed.
A dead billionaire.
A broke twenty-six-year-old assistant.
And a murder weapon covered in my fingerprints.
“Boner! I said move!”
I stood, smoothing down my orange jumpsuit.
“Coming.”
The man waiting in the visitation room looked like he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to a country club.
Perfectly tailored navy suit. Silver watch. Leather briefcase.
He stood when I entered.
“Miss Boner. My name is James Whitmore.”
He extended his hand.
I stared at it.
“Are you my new lawyer?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you accept my client’s proposal.”
I sat down slowly.
“Your client?”
“Yes.”
“Who is your client?”
He smiled.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that just yet.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“Great. Another mystery. Because my life isn’t complicated enough.”
Mr. Whitmore opened his briefcase and removed a thick folder.
“I understand your bail has been set at two million dollars.”
I snorted.
“Two million dollars I don’t have.”
“And your trial is scheduled to begin in four months.”
“Assuming they don’t push it back again.”
“Precisely.”
He folded his hands on the table.
“What if I told you my client is prepared to post your entire bail?”
I stared at him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Two million dollars. Paid in full. You could be released within days, subject to the court’s approval.”
My heart started pounding.
For 47 days, I’d dreamed about walking out of this place.
About sleeping in a real bed.
About taking a shower without someone watching me.
About eating something that didn’t look like it had been scraped off a cafeteria floor.
But nobody gives a stranger two million dollars for nothing.
“What’s the catch?”
Mr. Whitmore hesitated.
“My client has one condition.”
Of course he did.
“What condition?”
He slid the folder across the table.
I opened it.
The first page contained a single sentence.
MARRIAGE AGREEMENT
I blinked.
Then I looked up at him.
“Is this a joke?”
“No, Miss Boner.”
I looked back at the document.
“Your client wants me to... marry him?”
“Correct.”
I burst out laughing.
Not a cute laugh.
The kind of hysterical laugh you make when you’ve spent 47 days in jail for a murder you didn’t commit and someone offers to solve your problems with a wedding.
“You’re serious?”
“Entirely.”
“Who is this guy? Some eighty-year-old creep who can’t get a date?”
“My client is thirty-four.”
“Okay. A thirty-four-year-old creep.”
Mr. Whitmore didn’t smile.
“He is an extremely successful businessman.”
“How successful?”
“A billionaire.”
I stopped laughing.
“A billionaire?”
“Yes.”
“And he wants to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Emma Boner? Currently wearing a prison jumpsuit? Facing twenty-five years to life?”
“That is correct.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“I’m not authorized to discuss his motivations.”
“Then I’m not interested.”
I pushed the folder back toward him.
Mr. Whitmore didn’t move.
“Miss Boner, I would encourage you to consider your circumstances.”
“My circumstances?”
“You’re facing a murder charge. Your bail is two million dollars. Your public defender has advised you to accept a plea agreement.”
My throat tightened.
“How do you know that?”
“My client has done his research.”
“Well, tell your client he can take his research and shove it.”
I stood.
“Thank you for wasting my time.”
“Miss Boner.”
I turned.
“Your mother has been diagnosed with stage three cancer.”
The room went silent.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What?”
Mr. Whitmore’s expression softened.
“She received the diagnosis last Tuesday.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“No, she would have told me.”
“She didn’t want to worry you.”
My knees nearly buckled.
Mom.
My beautiful, stubborn mother, who worked two jobs to put me through college.
Who’d cried when I got my first real job.
Who’d visited me every Sunday until two weeks ago.
I’d thought she stopped coming because she couldn’t bear to see me like this.
“Is she okay?” I whispered.
“She needs treatment.”
I sank back into my chair.
“How much?”
“More than she can afford.”
Tears blurred my vision.
Mr. Whitmore slid the folder toward me again.
“My client is prepared to cover all of her medical expenses. The best doctors. The best hospitals. Whatever she needs.”
I stared at the papers.
“And all I have to do is marry him?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“One year.”
My eyes snapped up.
“One year?”
“After twelve months, you may file for divorce. You will receive a settlement of five million dollars.”
I blinked.
“Five million?”
“Tax implications and the final terms would be addressed in the agreement.”
My mind spun.
Two million dollars in bail.
My mother’s medical bills.
Five million dollars after a year.
It sounded too good to be true.
Which meant it probably was.
“What does he get out of this?”
Mr. Whitmore adjusted his cuffs.
“A wife.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I can give you.”
I stared at the contract.
“And what exactly would being his wife involve?”
“You would live in his home. Accompany him to public events. Present yourselves as a married couple.”
“And sleep with him?”
Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat.
“Intimacy is not a contractual requirement.”
I exhaled.
At least there was that.
“Would I be allowed to see my mother?”
“Of course.”
“Would I be allowed to work?”
“That can be negotiated.”
“What about my murder trial?”
“Your criminal case would proceed independently. My client will also fund an experienced defense team, but he cannot guarantee an acquittal.”
I looked down at my hands.
Forty-seven days.
Forty-seven days of being treated like an animal.
Forty-seven days of wondering whether I’d ever see the ocean again.
And now some mystery billionaire wanted to hand me my freedom on a silver platter.
All I had to do was become his wife.
“Can I at least see a picture of him?”
Mr. Whitmore hesitated.
“I’m afraid my client prefers to remain anonymous until you agree.”
I laughed bitterly.
“So I’m supposed to marry a man I’ve never met, whose name I don’t know, for reasons you won’t explain?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Perhaps.”
He closed his briefcase.
“But I suspect spending the next twenty-five years in prison for a crime you didn’t commit would be considerably worse.”
I hated that he was right.
“How long do I have to decide?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
My head shot up.
“Twenty-four hours?”
“My client is a busy man.”
“Well, I’m a little busy being in jail!”
For the first time, Mr. Whitmore smiled.
“Then perhaps you should consider his offer.”
He stood and buttoned his jacket.
“I’ll return tomorrow morning.”
He started toward the door.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
I looked at the folder.
There was one question I hadn’t asked.
“Does your client know I’m innocent?”
Mr. Whitmore went very still.
For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
Then he turned toward me.
“Miss Boner, my client knows exactly who killed your boss.”
My breath caught.
“What?”
“He knows you didn’t do it.”
I jumped to my feet.
“Then why hasn’t he told the police?!”
Mr. Whitmore’s expression changed.
The polite smile disappeared.
In its place was something almost like pity.
“Because, Miss Boner...”
He paused.
“...the man who murdered your boss is the same man my client is trying to protect you from.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood frozen.
My heart hammered.
Someone knew I was innocent.
Someone knew who the real killer was.
And that someone wanted to marry me.
I looked down at the folder he’d left behind.
With trembling hands, I opened it again.
This time, I flipped past the first page.
Past the financial terms.
Past the confidentiality agreement.
Until I reached the final page.
There, beneath the words PROSPECTIVE HUSBAND, was a signature.
I stared at the name.
Then I read it again.
My stomach dropped.
Alexander Blackwood.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Because Alexander Blackwood wasn’t just a billionaire.
He was the son of the man I was accused of murdering.
And according to the police, he’d been the last person to see his father alive.
