Null and Void: A Royal States Novel: Royal States, #2

By Susan Copperfield

Born without magic, Mackenzie Little has few prospects. In a futile attempt to break her out of the null caste, her mother ropes her into participating in a charity auction, where anything can be bought with enough money. 

She never expected her ex-boss would buy her company, but for one day, she lives a fairy tale.

Nine months later, despite their precautions, Mackenzie's little miracle is born.

Armed with Texas pride and New York viciousness, Mackenzie must fight through hell or high water to protect her family of two from a society obsessed with the magic they lack.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen & Page Publishing
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386072980

Book preview

One

What use was magic if I couldn’t do something productive with it?

If I adhered to popular belief, every living thing possessed a spark of magic. The trick was discovering that spark and coaxing it to life.

I wanted to find the bastard responsible for propagating that load of drivel and knee him in the groin so hard his descendants felt it while his ancestors rolled in their graves. Giving nulls like me false hope only made life more difficult. Without magic to ease the way, I needed pointless, wishful thinking like I needed an extra hole in my head.

The extra hole would put me out of my misery, and some days, the thought of escaping the incessant prejudice appealed. I always came back to my senses, and when I did, I became even more bitter about my lot in life.

If I had possessed a spark of magic, I would’ve used it to light a fire under my boss’s ass so he’d get back to work instead of hovering over my shoulder watching me plug numbers into a spreadsheet. What use was magic if I couldn’t do something productive with it? I’d already lost three hours of my day to someone else’s accounting error, and no magic on Earth could tap into a computer and force it to spill its secrets.

Magic could work with technology, but for whatever reason I couldn’t fathom, no one had figured out how to use magic to populate spreadsheets. Sitting straighter, I kept my gaze locked on my monitor to maintain the illusion of productivity. Can I help you with something, sir?

I couldn’t help but notice you’re doing Abigail’s job, Mackenzie Little.

I twitched at the mention of the woman, who often served as my supervisor when my boss, one Dylan Mason, didn’t feel like dealing with me. I really wanted to know why he always insisted on calling me by my full name. One day, when I tired of having a job, I’d tell him exactly what I thought of him and his obnoxious ways. I’d also give him an earful about the failings of his precious executive secretary.

I kept working and forced a smile. She asked for help with a report as she has a very busy day today.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. By help, I meant fix. By asked, I meant demanded. Abigail thanked no one, especially not a worthless null like me, even when I busted my ass making sure she didn’t lose her job. If I had had a single spark of magic, I would’ve started fires to watch them burn.

Most people didn’t want fire as their element; firebugs were as common as dirt, ranked low on the talent totem, and had a reputation of being dangerous without true benefit.

If it meant being something other than a null, I would’ve embraced even the weakest flame.

To cover my growing agitation over my lot in life, I hunted for the nefarious errors in Abigail’s formulas, making my boss cool his heels.

His impatient sigh pleased me.

I see, he muttered, hovering over my shoulder and watching me do his secretary’s work.

If I had possessed the power, I would’ve considered damning Dylan to the darkest corner of hell I could find. Ignoring his presence tested my patience, but unlike him, I showed no sign of my annoyance.

Within a few minutes, I found the problem: Abigail liked taking shortcuts and often forgot—or refused—to double-check her work. One corrected formula later, I emailed her the report.

I returned to the daily grind, checking the output of scripts for the marketing department so they could build the reports people like Dylan would use to make deals with other companies—or swindle clients out of their money. My boss continued to hover, leaning forward until I caught glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye.

Were all men such children? Why did such a handsome man have to be so insufferable?

For the sake of my peace of mind, it was a good thing Dylan irritated me so much, else I’d spend every night fantasizing about stripping him out of his shirt. He took good care of himself, he knew it, and he wore clothes designed to cling to him and highlight his best assets.

I wasn’t the only woman in the office with a hobby of watching him leave the room.

Forcing a smile, I asked, Did you need something, sir?

Actually, yes. I don’t suppose Abigail told you what she’s so busy doing today that prevented her from sending me that report I expected first thing this morning? I really could’ve used those figures at ten. It’s now eleven. Since you seem to have taken over her responsibilities, will there be any more delays? There’s another report I need for my one o’clock.

With a sinking feeling, I checked my email for additional messages from Abigail. Sure enough, there was another demand for a fixed report. Opening the file revealed a slew of errors. My head ached just thinking about unraveling the disaster and correcting the damned thing. Two hours might give me enough time to restore it to order if I worked hard and skipped lunch.

For someone in my position, there was only one answer I could give to my boss. I’ll make sure this is ready for your one o’clock, sir.

Thanks, Abigail. My boss straightened, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched him brush invisible dirt from his perfect suit, which clung to his chest and did unfair things to me. He inclined his head in the barest of nods, something he shouldn’t have done for a null like me, and marched to his office.

Maybe Dylan lived to piss me off, but he wasn’t a slouch, and as I had since the day I’d started working for him at Riverway Enterprises, I wished I’d been born with a spark of magic. When I wasn’t busy resenting him for what I couldn’t have, he had every last quality I’d ever wanted in a man.

I demonized him because I hated longing for what I couldn’t have, including a smart man like him, a man who noticed those beneath him, even when society told him we should be ignored.

Some things never changed. I had no idea how I’d finish my work and hers, too, but while I’d miss lunch, I’d earn a nice paycheck thanks to the overtime I’d have to log to keep from getting fired. Maybe if the stars aligned, I’d get a bonus for doing what my boss’s executive secretary hadn’t.

I snorted at my misplaced optimism, shook my head, and got to work.

Fifteen minutes before one, I emailed the report to Abigail, and because I’d trust a cobra long before her, I also sent it to my boss. I’d pay hell for it in one form or another later; if I let her send it, she’d be late, which would put me in the line of fire. Sending it to Dylan directly would land me in a steaming pile of crap with her, but she couldn’t fire me.

He could.

Aware of his meeting, I skipped out of the office to grab a bite to eat, hoping no one noticed me leaving outside normal lunch hours.

I ran into Abigail in the lobby, and she was on her way out of the office. Considering I hadn’t seen her upstairs since she’d dumped the first report on my lap, I wondered what she’d been doing with her day. Abigail?

I’m busy, Mackenzie, the woman snapped, flipping her hand at me. Later.

I fantasized about wrapping my hands around her pretty neck. Have you forgotten I work in the marketing department? I’m not Mr. Mason’s secretary. You are.

Later, Mackenzie. Abigail swept through the doors and took the steps two at a time. It was a good thing I lacked magic, as I would’ve used it to snap her needle-thin stilettos—or her neck.

Sometimes, I wasn’t a nice person, and I found it difficult to care. Instead of screaming profanities and yanking out my hair, I followed. In the time it took me to shove through the front doors out of the building, flinching at the cooler air outside, Dylan’s secretary had climbed into a sports car that was pulling away from the curb with a squeal of tires, getting nowhere in a hurry and burning rubber.

The chill didn’t bother me much, although my chest felt a little tighter than I liked, forcing me to retreat back into building.

Damn it. Was she really screwing me over again? My vantage gave me a good look at the car, and I memorized the license plate so I could snoop later. To make certain I wouldn’t forget, I pulled my phone out of my purse and emailed the number to myself. The next time she hung me out to dry, I’d remember her outing when she should’ve been doing her job and mention it to the wrong people.

I didn’t need magic to make her life miserable, and I needed a new job anyway. It’d been a miracle I’d stayed at Riverway Enterprises for as long as I had anyway.

Nulls like me tended to have a year-long shelf life before we became too expensive to keep around. Why waste good money on someone without a talent?

Life would be a lot easier when I accepted what I couldn’t change.

Most people ate out at our office, a badge of pride among the employees privileged to work for a corporation run by platinums, the higher-ranked elite. I hiked the ten minutes home, swearing to submit my resume to any company needing a gopher capable of generating reports, operating computers without breaking them, and putting up with pain in the ass CEOs. My lack of magic wouldn’t endear me to many employers, but with four years under my belt at Riverway Enterprises and a business degree, I’d get interviews.

While I should’ve dug something out of my refrigerator, I wasn’t up for the hassle of dealing with its chill. The last thing I needed was to return to the office wheezing because I’d flirted with disaster. A can of soup made with warm tap water would do, and while I ate, I submitted my resume to several companies and eyeballed my savings account, calculating how long I’d last if I snapped and quit before I could be fired.

A smart null always quit; being fired served as a big black mark for future employment, and I’d reached the highest pay bracket I could without magic. I wouldn’t lose it being an idiot.

The laws didn’t protect me from being fired without reason, but those same laws didn’t prevent me from quitting without notice. I had options. They weren’t pleasant ones, but if someone crossed my last line, I’d do what I should’ve done years ago.

Fifty-five minutes after leaving, I slipped into the cubicle farm which served as an office for me and six other support staff for the real marketers. No one paid any attention to me, which I expected.

No one wanted to lose the little magic they had, and they all feared exposure to me might infect them and transform them into a null and void existence, too. My nearest neighbor, Marco, flinched whenever I got within five feet of him, something I found amusing considering he could barely light a candle with his talent. Firebugs incapable of controlling their abilities also got short-shafted.

Of all my co-workers, he should’ve understood what it was like to walk in my shoes.

Sitting down and leaning back in my chair, I checked the reception area adjacent to Dylan’s office; Abigail hadn’t returned yet.

Boss was asking about you, Marco barked, and his nasally rasp made my skin crawl. Finally going to get fired for slacking off?

You’re in a bad mood today, I muttered, shaking my head and settling in to start my day rather than pretend my name was Abigail. Given a few minutes, I’d be in a bad mood, too. I could do her job better than she could, and we both knew it. If you must know, maybe I’m looking for a new job so I can work with people who have balls. If I’m going to get fired anyway, I guess I don’t have to worry about your delicate little feelings anymore, do I?

Stunned silence spread through the cubicle farm, and heads popped up over the dividers, my co-workers eager for a show to break the daily monotony, perfectly imitating curious gophers.

Mackenzie Little, my office. Now! Dylan barked.

I hadn’t noticed him lurking in his reception, and I grimaced. Marco smirked at me and waggled his fingers in a mocking wave.

Of the men to occupy the role of Chief Marketing Officer, Dylan had lasted the longest, having joined the office at my one-year anniversary. Five others had preceded him, earning the position due to their platinum rank rather than their skills. His spacious office felt like a tomb to me, with the worn oak desk serving as the sarcophagus where my career would rot. During my boss’s tenure with Riverway Enterprises, no one had witnessed him using magic. Every office gossip believed his talent was linked to his temper, and no one was brave enough to test him.

Whatever his power was, it was strong enough to grant him the right to wear a platinum pentagram tie clip, proclaiming his status as a member of a strong bloodline. As far as I knew, the pentagram served as a warning: if anyone touched Dylan, retribution would be swift and lethal. If he didn’t kill his attackers, his family would, and the sigil declared he possessed a lethal power and had royal blessing to use it.

Dylan circled his desk and sat, crossing his arms and drumming his fingers against the perfect sleeves of his suit. Care to explain what that was about?

I took a moment to think. If I quit or got fired, I’d have one month, two weeks, and three days to find a new job, accounting for the two weeks it would take to receive my first paycheck. If asked, I could easily claim discrimination as the cause of my departure from the company.

No matter how I looked at it, I had nothing to gain or lose. If I stayed, I faced legalized harassment from Marco and his posse of petty friends. If I left, I’d be challenged to find new work, but I might be able to salvage something of my career.

I drew a deep breath and lifted my chin. Didn’t you know lacking magic’s a contagious disease? I regret to inform you Mr. Farren’s balls haven’t dropped yet. I’m sure it’ll happen eventually. Did Abigail forward the report she couldn’t be bothered to finish without me fixing it for her, as she can’t count to five without stuttering? Oh, right. She was too busy going to lunch to do her job for a change. Without referencing my phone, I described the car she’d left in, gave Dylan the license plate number, and held my hands up in helpless surrender. Quitting would put me ahead of the game, and I wouldn’t need to explain why I’d gotten fired. I quit, Mr. Mason. I’m sure you can locate someone from a useful bloodline to cover your secretary’s pretty ass, since she can’t seem to keep it covered herself.

My ex-boss’s eyebrows rose. He opened his mouth to say something, but I spun and marched out of his office, closing the door behind me with a gentle click.

Despite the rage seething under my skin, slamming doors was just rude.

Everything I needed to take home fit in my purse, requiring only a few moments to grab on my way out the door. Marco laughed. The rest of my co-workers pretended to work rather than openly mock my misfortune.

They likely believed I’d been fired, and I was in no hurry to correct them. Unless my luck continued to sour, I’d never see them again.

There’d be talk, but I didn’t care. Other jobs waited, and they’d become murky waters within a week, too. I dumped my badge at the security desk in the lobby without saying a word and didn’t look back. While I walked home, I regretted every last decision I’d made in my adult life. What sort of idiot paid for a general major in business to work as a desk monkey helping other people with the same degree make twice as much money?

If I’d been wise, I would’ve put in extra overtime before quitting. Then again, I would’ve talked myself out of leaving like I had every time before. Who quit without three months of income to ease the transition? Who quit without having already arranged a new job?

Me, that’s who.

Digging out my phone, I dialed my mother’s number, and she answered on the third ring. Hello?

I don’t suppose you or Dad happened to ditch the whole null and void deal today, did you? I may have quit my job today and could use a miracle.

Sorry, baby girl. No such luck. What happened?

I told a co-worker he lacked balls and informed my boss his secretary couldn’t cover her ass without help. I got tired of being the office scapegoat, so I figured I’d quit before I got fired.

I’ve done that a few times. My mother sighed. Let me guess. You walked out without giving them two weeks’ notice.

Why should I give them the courtesy? Anyway, it’s legal. They don’t have to give me notice, and I don’t have to give them notice, either.

Arguing with my mother was similar to beating my head into a brick wall; I wouldn’t get anywhere in the discussion, I’d develop a headache within minutes, and she wouldn’t quit until she won.

My mother always won.

It doesn’t hurt to be courteous, she scolded.

That’s ridiculous, Mom.

Being courteous is never ridiculous.

Why don’t we forget about it? We’re never going to agree.

Will you leave the kingdom?

I staggered to a halt, my eyes widening as my mother, for the first time in my adult life, changed the subject rather than pick a fight with me over my latest poor life choice. Why would I leave the kingdom?

There are better places for people like us, Mackenzie. You know that. If we could move out of New York, we would. We’re too old.

My mother was lying; she’d never leave New York as long as the royals insisted patriots remain in their birth kingdoms—which hadn’t even been kingdoms until twenty years ago. Generations before then, the United States of America had been a global power to be feared, but following the outbreak, the country had fragmented, teetered on complete destruction, and would’ve fallen without the intervention of sixteen royal families.

It had taken decades for the continent to recover. The Royal States of America, officially founded when I had been a child, made me a New Yorker despite living in Annapolis, Maryland. I still didn’t understand why Maryland hadn’t won the pissing contest for naming the kingdom.

According to my parents, Maryland was the true center of the universe.

I sighed, forced my feet back into motion, and trudged towards my apartment. I’m not sure. It depends on what I find for work. Maybe I’ll head to Canada if I can; they aren’t quite as prejudiced about us nulls. I could claim refugee status.

Canada had been hit hard during the outbreak, too, losing a lot of land to the American royals, although what remained of the country, now turned into a kingdom like everywhere else in the world, had become powerful.

Canada’s king could, if he desired, flatten mountains with a thought, and everyone was grateful he kept his talent in check.

My mother huffed. You’re being a child about this, Mackenzie.

Next time, I needed to remember my mother’s sense of right and wrong aligned with the royals and their latest vision of a perfect society. At the moment, that meant no one left the wonderful kingdom of New York, not ever, for no reason, not even to visit family or friends.

No wonder she’d asked; she wanted reassurance I was doing what I was supposed to, being properly subservient to the elites who hated us for lacking magic. Tired of being treated like the child she claimed I was, I snapped, Tough shit.

I hung up.

No wonder magic had fled from my bloodline. Never had I met a less ambitious collection of people in my life. It hadn’t done me any good during my childhood, but I’d try to find my spark of magic. I had nothing else to do while I waited, and come hell or high water, I’d find it.

Two

Since killing someone was illegal but discrimination wasn’t, I ended up with the short end of the stick.

Two weeks after I quit my job, I concluded either no company needed a washed-out marketing gopher or word of my departure from Riverway Enterprises had spread. Out of two hundred applications, I received fifty-three form letters, most of which declared the company required all new employees to have fully documented bloodlines.

Without a known talent, the government wouldn’t subsidize the costs to officiate my bloodline, and I didn’t have the twenty thousand required to pay for the testing myself. A few replies praised my resume, but they wouldn’t be able to interview me, wishing me the best of luck with my job search.

One company had gone so far as to suggest I should enroll in a professional evaluation program and undergo heritage testing covering three generations, which would cost me twice as much as the standard testing.

Since killing someone was illegal but discrimination wasn’t, I ended up with the short end of the stick. Claiming refugee status in Canada seemed wise compared to a hopeless job search on limited time. If I wanted to lower myself to manual labor like my parents, I could find a job easily enough.

I hadn’t struggled through four years of college to work with my muscles instead of my brain.

I also hadn’t busted my ass to lose it all on a suicide mission to transform myself from a null into a progenitor, the origin of a new bloodline. Every year, a few tried, and they all failed, dying as the magic they desired turned on them and tore them apart.

Making the attempt sometimes appealed to me, but I knew better. All I’d do was kill myself trying to force a spark of magic to appear. No one had succeeded in twenty years, and I wasn’t delusional enough to believe I stood a chance.

Of all my options, leaving New York made the most sense. If I went to Canada, I’d sacrifice the next ten years of my life, forced to obey the government’s every demand. They could force me to marry into an established bloodline for the sake of any children I might have. They’d pick my home. They’d choose my job. My salary would be dictated by some bureaucrat. If they wanted me to return to school, I would be forced to.

The same applied to most North American kingdoms, although few were as welcoming. I scratched Texas off the list; they hated nulls because, in their twisted logic, they loved families, and null parents weren’t worthy of having children. Their obsession with children led to the depths of hell for women who didn’t want kids, although Texas had the best women’s healthcare in the world.

I had no desire to undergo frequent pregnancy tests and ultrasounds to check my reproductive health.

Their obsession and my utter lack of romantic prospects didn’t mesh well, no matter how much I wanted children of my own one day.

The west coast held interesting prospects; education trumped magic there, and some companies even preferred nulls for certain positions. Unfortunately, my degree wouldn’t get me far in kingdoms with a preference for doctorates.

I weighed the pros and cons of a cross-continent move. With the money I had, how far could I hitchhike before I starved to death?

My phone rang before I delved too deep into the various ways I could die trying to traverse North America on foot. Snatching the device, I tapped the screen and answered, Hello?

Mackenzie, do you have a boyfriend? my mother demanded.

What? No. Why?

Want one?

A headache developed behind my eyes. In reality, I wanted a husband and a family, but I wanted them in a world they’d be valued, which meant I’d have to lie. No, Mom.

You want a boyfriend. There’s a gala, and several princes will be bidding on girlfriends. It’s for charity. You’ll get a chance to date a real prince for a night, and it’s for a good cause. You love charities, Mackenzie. A prince would ensure my grandchildren come from a good bloodline.

My mother wanted grandchildren? Was she serious? Had she started taking drugs after I’d moved out? In case you haven’t forgotten, we’re part of a dud bloodline, Mom. No one in their right mind will let me breathe the same air as a prince. Forget it. Anyway, what would I do with a prince?

Marry him.

My mother had lost her mind. There was no other explanation for her behavior. You’re insane.

But Mackenzie, I already bought your ticket.

My mother had purchased a ticket for me for a charity gala? To be auctioned off to royalty? My mouth dropped open, and I considered opening my freezer, sticking my head inside, and letting my allergy to all things below room temperature finish me off. Mom!

It’s tomorrow night. You’re going, and that’s final. My mother hung up.

I missed my life before I’d quit Riverway Enterprises. Dealing with Dylan Mason every day beat tolerating my mother when she went on the warpath.

It hurt to admit it, but I actually missed my boss, even when he was hovering over my shoulder sticking his nose in my business. Of all the men I’d met, he was the only one who’d never cared I lacked talent.

All he had cared about was what I did with what I had.

I couldn’t tell whether my mother hated me, was desperate for me to make something of myself, or simply believed I needed an intervention to find a man. She had spent a thousand dollars for the privilege of parading me in front of a bunch of men who had more magic in their toenail clippings than I had in my entire body.

The fiasco wasn’t going to end well for anyone. While I accepted my mother’s meddling and took the damned ticket, I refused to play the part of Cinderella. The only use I had for a glass slipper was to kick it up a prince’s ass. I’d go, but I’d be comfortable in my best jeans, my favorite pair of boots, and a blouse that toed the line between casual and business appropriate. To ensure no sane man would take a second look at me, I shrugged into my scuffed, black leather jacket.

If my fears proved true, the pampered princes would run the air conditioning to better admire the wares. Between my bra and jacket, no one would be getting a free show or risk having their eyes poked out.

I regretted my decision to cooperate with my mother ten minutes into the four-hour drive to New York City. The rental cut into my savings, adding to my worries I’d be working the shipyard in a few weeks. I cursed my mother the entire drive, suspecting she’d cut into her retirement to ensure I couldn’t afford to leave the kingdom or get the sort of job I wanted.

She wanted to make me in her image, and she didn’t mind wasting a thousand dollars she couldn’t afford on a non-refundable ticket if it meant she won the war.

Fortunately for my dwindling finances, the ticket price included a room for the night and free parking at the hotel. Losing money on the rental annoyed me, but I’d manage. I always found a way. Often, I hated the solution to my problems, but I wouldn’t be brought down by my mother’s scheming.

No matter how much I disliked it, she did it out of love and a desire to obtain what was denied to her. I never would’ve considered going to a charity auction to find someone. Guilt forced my hand; my mother shouldn’t have wasted so much money on me.

The truth hurt. Guilt drove me into doing far too much.

My mother knew me well.

I left home six hours before the ticket claimed I needed to arrive, and with the help of the car’s navigation system, I made it with twenty minutes to spare. The hotel, located in the heart of New York City, skirted the massive park eating away at the island’s limited space. The contrast of trees, grass, metal, and concrete seemed about as unnatural as the firebug showing off on the sidewalk, breathing flame for the amusement of pedestrians.

Armed with my ticket, my overnight bag, and my purse, I left the rental with the valet and braved the busy lobby, dodging men in dark suits and masquerade masks. Women in ball gowns added splash of color, stars in a sky made of the wealthy elite.

I chuckled at the disbelieving stares of the bejeweled hopefuls, sliding into the check-in line behind a man a hair taller than me despite my boots. Even with the help of their high heels, most women were a few inches shorter than me, a situation I enjoyed more often than not.

Maybe I lacked magic, but I could look down my nose like a champ, and height went a long way when it came to holding the advantage in a conversation. While I waited, I watched the crowd. Almost every man wore a feathered mask, the only color in their ensemble. To draw the attention of the men, the women postured, posing to show as much leg and cleavage as their dresses allowed.

I wondered how the men, some of whom were likely royalty of some sort, figured out who they wanted to bid on—or how to bid on a specific woman.

Five minutes of seeking answers answered none of my questions, and I turned my attention to the woman behind the counter, offering her my best smile. Taking my ticket out of my purse, I slid it across the polished wood.

She glanced at the ticket, smiled back, and turned around, picking up an envelope from the counter behind her. Welcome, Miss Little. Here’s your room key. Your suite is on the top floor. Take a right as soon as you exit the elevator. The festivities will begin in the main ballroom in thirty minutes. Please make certain you carry the silver card within the envelope at all times. It includes a chip with your registration information. There’s also a laptop in your suite. Swipe the card in the reader and answer the questionnaire before you go to the ballroom. Please enjoy your evening.

My suite was on the penthouse floor? Astonishment rooted me in place, but I gathered my wits and took the envelope, aware of people staring at me. The undisguised scrutiny bothered me, and I thanked the woman and escaped to the relative safety of the elevators, buying me a few moments of blissful silence out of view of those waiting for the gala to begin.

When the elevator arrived, a herd of elegantly dressed men and women emerged, and I was the only one to head up.

Chaos waited on the top floor, and only one out of every five or six people waiting were women. I marveled how they could look down their noses at me despite my height as I eased through the crowd, horrified over the number of diamonds encrusting cuff links, and turned right in search of my room.

Before I reached the safety of the hallway, one of masked men relieved me of my overnight bag before I comprehended he was taking it out of my hands. Allow me, miss.

I’d never be a princess, but I’d finally found a use for my mother’s stickler attitude about good manners. Thank you. I’m sorry to be a bother.

The man’s mask covered most of his face, but I caught a glimpse of a smile. My pleasure.

To my relief, my room wasn’t far from the elevators, and it wasn’t one of the double-doored monstrosities leafed with gold. A single swipe of the key card let me in, and I offered my unsolicited helper a smile. Thanks again.

Instead of allowing me to take my bag, he stepped into my room and left it where the tile entry ended and the carpeting began, dipping into a bow. My pleasure.

Bemused and baffled by his behavior, I nodded, all the while fearing I’d insult him. Was I supposed to curtsy? How did a lady curtsy? Maybe my mother believed in good manners, but she hadn’t taught me the finer points of being a lady.

I’d tried to curtsy once, out of curiosity. Bad things happened when I curtsied. The last time I’d tried, I’d landed on my ass.

I hoped no one expected me to walk with books stacked on my head.

He waited. I discovered he’d back out of my reach if I stepped closer to him, so I evicted him from my room using my body as my weapon, thanking him a second time while shutting the door. Inviting him in would’ve been polite, but I disliked the idea of a masked man in my room. Maybe he was disgustingly rich, but unless someone threw filthy amounts of money at a good charity, I wouldn’t even consider looking at any of the men.

I didn’t need some snooty elite poking his nose in my business. With the clock ticking on finding a new job, I had enough problems without adding a man to them.

My mother would have to live with her disappointment and be grateful I had attended the gala in the first place.

Drawing a deep breath, I examined the room, my mouth dropping open from its size alone. I could fit most of my apartment in the bathroom, and I wouldn’t have to work hard to fit my mattress into the tub. Taking a bath tempted me; would anyone notice or care if I didn’t show up at the gala? The novelty of a null among them might last five minutes before their prejudices emerged.

Damn it, my mother hadn’t wasted a fortune for me to soak in a sinfully large tub. I spent five minutes fluffing my hair and piling it on my head, resulting in a haphazard mess. Sighing, I parked my ass at the antique desk, opened the laptop, and swiped the card as I’d been instructed.

My personal information greeted me, including my status as a member of a null bloodline. I confirmed the accuracy with a click of a button, and read through several pages of disclaimers indemnifying the charity organizers, the Royals of New York, of anything that might happen as a result of the auction.

The real questions began with a contract, one I read through while my mouth hung open. To participate, I needed to make one of three choices, and they all sucked. The charities would enjoy the money, but I’d hate myself before the night was over.

The only good news was that there was an exclusivity option, so I’d only have to sell myself to one man for charity.

My first option sold me for a minimum bid of one million dollars, and my buyer would have me for a period of twenty-four consecutive hours, to be determined at his leisure. For that price, he could do anything he wanted with me, with one caveat: I would survive the experience.

He could break me, but if I died, my family would enjoy a very large sum of money.

Clenching my teeth, I stared at the number, wondering if my mother had read over the contracts first, hoping to sell me to someone who hated nulls enough to kill, hoping to land her and my father a nice ten million dollar payout.

The thought of spending twenty-four hours with a stranger—likely in his bed—intrigued and horrified me. If he followed the rules, there’d be no non-consensual bruising of my person, and my life and safety were supposedly guaranteed.

Would ten million deter an elite if he wanted me gone?

I already regretted agreeing to come to the gala. When I got home, I’d take my guilty conscience into the back yard, kill it, and dig it a deep hole so I could bury it. I’d also refuse to answer any calls from my mother to limit the effects of her scheming.

Option two sold me by the hour, and I got to pick my price, with a minimum bid of twenty thousand and a maximum bid of five hundred thousand. Otherwise, the rules remained the same.

Option three was identical to option two with one important difference: time was calculated in fifteen minute intervals.

If a man wanted my obedience for a day, he’d need forty-eight million. For that much going to charity, I’d do a lot, including jump in bed with a stranger.

I pitied the guy; he’d have to clear out the cobwebs and give me a refresher course, but that wasn’t my problem. I couldn’t imagine anyone paying half a million to spend fifteen minutes with me, ensuring I’d be safe for the evening. If someone did bid on me, he’d be disappointed.

Even if I had enthusiasm, I lacked experience, interest in the elite, and otherwise doubted I’d give him his money’s worth even for charity.

I set my bid at max, confident that with so many beauties in the hotel, I’d be safe. With a few clicks, I confirmed the settings and continued the questionnaire. It didn’t take long, although I disliked having to declare my allergies, particularly to gold. At first, the doctors had believed I suffered from a nickel allergy, a common occurrence. I had induced mass panic at the doctor’s office when I’d put a nickel in my mouth to prove their assumption incorrect. After my demonstration, it didn’t take long to confirm gold hated me almost as much as I hated it.

Silver and platinum didn’t bother me, but titanium gave me hives after a few minutes of direct contact.

Add in my most bothersome allergy, my cold urticaria, and my life was one frustrating problem after another. I wondered how many would bother to look up what urticaria was.

In the grand scheme of things, cold urticaria inconvenienced me a little in the summer, could kill me in the winter, and harassed me in the spring and fall. When it was really cold out, I refused to step outside without being covered head to toe. I avoided swimming and water year-round; the exposure to sudden changes of temperature in any direction could trigger it. To be safe, I carried a jacket around even during the summer so the air conditioning wouldn’t tank my blood pressure and possibly kill me.

It gave me a good reason to rock a leather coat year-round.

Once I made it past the section detailing my failure to be a healthy human being, the questionnaire asked me about my sex life, interests, and dislikes. I wasted no time describing my pet peeves with men, both sexual and otherwise. For the amount of money being paid out to charity, there wasn’t a lot I wouldn’t try once, and I made a point of mentioning that.

I blitzed through the rest of the questions and swiped the card when prompted. With only a few minutes to spare, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs to deal with the fiasco my life had become at the hands of my meddling mother.

Three

The car won’t care if you do it justice

I made it to the ballroom with less than a minute to spare. The gentleman posted at the doors gaped at me, then he straightened and asked, Card, please?

I pulled out the card and offered it to him. He checked his phone, nodded his satisfaction, and picked up the sole remaining gift bag, which he gave to me. Please enjoy your evening, Miss Little. Feel free to partake of the refreshments. Should you have any questions, please approach any of the butlers; we’re the only unmasked men in attendance.

I liked that I was the last to arrive. I wouldn’t have to compare myself to others in line. Later, I’d berate myself for my choice of attire. Clutching the bag, I bobbed my head. Thank you, sir.

As soon as I moved out of the way, the butler closed the doors. With a little creative reorganization of my wallet and keys, I crammed the bag into my purse, sneaking a few peeks at its contents. I spotted two boxes, a couple of envelopes, a handful of cards, and a few other glinting objects at the bottom.

I’d have fun going through my bounty in my hotel room, discovering what the elite thought were appropriate door gifts. The novelty amused a smile out of me, and I slinked to an out of the way corner to watch the crowd.

No one else wore jeans, and ball gowns dominated the crowd, although a few women had opted for slinky, full-length dresses. I explored, sticking to the walls when I could. Circular tables ladened with drinks and finger foods littered the floor, and the other guests mingled while I observed them posture and flirt with each other.

Along the back wall, I discovered a cordoned area, and the convertible parked among the display tables stole my breath. Instead of the stereotypical red, its silver paint exuded wealth and luxury. Three butlers stood guard, their attention focused on me.

The nearest one checked his phone before smiling, his blue eyes sweeping over me before focusing on my face. Do cars interest you, Miss Little?

I couldn’t help myself; I grinned. That one sure does.

It’s a Ferrari 488 Spider, a car for those who enjoy a little adventure when they drive. As part of their charity contribution, Ferrari is giving one lucky participant this vehicle. The winners will be randomly selected at the end of the evening, but everyone is guaranteed to leave with at least one prize.

The butler gave me a rundown on the car, weaving a fantastical tale of zipping across the countryside in one of the world’s best performance vehicles legal for street use. By the time he finished, if a miracle happened and I somehow won, the only responsible thing for me to do involved selling it so I wouldn’t crash it in a spectacular fashion.

I can drive, but I don’t think I could do that car justice, I confessed.

"I think you’ll find the experience worth the sacrifice of the car’s most delicate sensibilities. As long as you enjoy yourself, Miss Little, the car won’t care if you do it justice.

The butler needed a raise; I could almost believe he didn’t care I was a null. Maybe I’d stick to the back with him and his two friends instead of rubbing elbows with the other attendees. Do you think it takes a long time for a car’s dignity to recover? It must be hard to tell. Is it a one and done deal, or will it be restored to its full glory after a respectable driver gets behind the wheel?

Someone laughed behind me. If the front of you is anywhere near as respectable as the back, I think the poor car will require treatment for separation anxiety if you left it.

I hated