Maria Satos leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the Urbao bus; the vibration of the engine whirred under her bones.
Outside, the horizon of the scepter shone like a promise made to another person; towers of glass and steel caught the last light of the sunset as the bus drove away. Her phone vibrated again in the palm of her hand.
She didn’t need to look to know who it was. The hospital called her every day, sometimes twice, as if persistence alone could generate money where there wasn’t any.
When he finally forced himself to read the message, the figures seemed unreal, almost cruel in their simplicity. Two hundred thousand dollars. Three weeks. After that, the doctors could no longer guarantee his brother Diego’s survival.
Maria closed her eyes. She was twenty-four years old and already so exhausted that sleep could never relieve her.
He had sold almost everything he owned that was not essential for daily survival: his childhood guitar, his camera, even the small gold necklace that his mother had given him before she died.
She worked double shifts at the art gallery, smiling politely at the wealthy patrons who spent more on a single painting than she earned in a year.
He borrowed from his friends until they stopped returning his calls. After months of struggle, he had managed to scrape together a little over twenty thousand dollars.
He wasn’t even close. The math was brutal, inflexible. No miracle appeared. No benefactor emerged. Diego’s life slipped through his fingers, one unpaid bill at a time.
“You look like someone who carries the weight of the world,” said a soft voice.
Maria jumped and turned to see Patricia Moore, her gallery companion, settling into the seat next to her.
Patricia was just over forty years old, with a tired but kind gaze that seemed to point out things that most people overlooked. She had always been affectionate with Maria, offering her extra treats and silently showing her compassion.
—I heard about Diego —Patricia began in a low voice—. I’m so sorry.
Maria nodded, swallowing hard. She had learned that if she talked about it too much, she would break down.
Patricia hesitated, tightening her fingers around her phone. “Listen… I know this will sound crazy. And if you tell me to stop, I will. But there might be a way to solve your problem. Some night.”
Maria’s chest tightened at the moment. “Patricia, I won’t do anything illegal.”
“It’s not illegal,” Patricia said quickly, turning her phone so Maria could see it. The website was discreet, almost elegant, nothing like the dark internet sleuths Maria feared.
“It’s a private charity auction. Distinguished donors bid for companions to attend public events. Everything is contractual. Safe. No illegal activity.”
Maria moved slowly, her heart pounding. Testimonies filled the page: stories of transformed lives, debts paid, surgeries paid for. But the language was careful, refined. Companion. Event. Sponsor.
—It’s still bought —whispered Maria—. Like an object.
“I know,” Patricia said. “And I would do it if I thought it would hurt you. But your time is running out.”
That night, Maria didn’t sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling of her small apartment, with Diego’s laughter echoing in her mind, how she pretended not to be afraid when the doctors spoke.
Three days later, she stood in front of the Great View Hotel, with her reflection staring back at her from the glass doors. She barely recognized herself.
Inside, a woman with silver hair, a piercing gaze, and a serene smile greeted her. “Maria Satos? I’m Catherine Wells. Come with me.”
Se septaroп eп upa sᵅite privada coп up light aroma a lavaпda. Catheriпe lo explicar todo coп precisióп: clieпtes only by iпvitacióп, vercióп de apectedeпtes de los bidores, coпtratos legalmeпste viпcυlaпtes y límites zapatillas.
Privacy was never demanded. Protection and security were guaranteed. Most offers ranged between fifteen thousand and three hundred thousand dollars.
“You’re perfect for tonight’s show,” Catherine said calmly. “Not because you’re flashy, but because you’re authentic. These men can sense authenticity.”
Maria signed the documents with trembling hands. Each signature was like handing over something precious, but Diego’s face reassured her. This wasn’t for her.
The auction room looked more like an art gallery than a seedy place, bathed in soft light and with classical music floating in the air. The well-to-do attendees murmured as they sipped champagne.
Maria’s simple black dress suddenly felt inadequate among the brilliant dresses that surrounded her.
When he said his name, the lights blinded her by flashing while she advanced, with her heart beating so hard that she was sure everyone could hear it.
The bidding started at fifteen thousand dollars and went up quickly. One hundred. Two hundred. Two hundred and sixty. He was breathing heavily and his hands were cold.
Eпtoпces хпa voz cut through the noise with clarity: «Quiпieпtos mil».
Silence fell.
“Sealed,” the bailiff declared.
Behind the scenes, Catherine looked genuinely stunned. “Mr. Blackwell will meet with you now. He has never attended one of these.”
Maria turned around when she saw a man enter the room, and something about his presence made the air feel heavier.
Adrià Blackwell was younger than I expected, perhaps in his early thirties, with dark hair, sharp features, and a gaze that never strayed. He carried himself with a natural authority, the kind that seems to stem from arrogance, but from self-assurance.
—Miss Satos —he said in a low voice—. Please sit down.
He spoke clearly, outlining his needs: a companion for several public business events, an international trip, professional appearances only. Separate accommodation. Clear boundaries.
“Why are you pushing so hard?” Maria asked before she could stop.
Her gaze sharpened. “Because the moment you stepped onto that stage, I knew you didn’t belong there. And I wanted to make sure that you had to come back.”
He had a procedure done on his throat. “My brother needs surgery.”
“I know,” Adrià replied.
She froze. “Did you investigate me?”
“I needed to know who I was helping,” she said. “Diego’s surgery is scheduled at Mercy General. I’ve already paid for it. The rest will be transferred to your account tomorrow.”
Maria stood there, overwhelmed. “Why?”
“Because I recognize despair,” he replied gently. “And yours isn’t selfish.”
The following weeks went by like a dream. Diego’s surgery was a success. Maria attended events alongside Adrian, learning to navigate her world of meetings and galas.
I expected distance and formality, but instead I found quiet conversations, shared silences and a growing understanding that both of us had discussed.
Adria gradually revealed parts of himself: the betrayals, the constant fear that affection was transgressive. Maria asked for more than hospitality, and in return, he found himself knocked down walls he didn’t know he was still standing.
One evening, after a long international journey, they were sitting on a balcony overlooking the city lights. The air between them was charged with something unspoken.
—I’ve never been with anyone— Maria admitted in a low voice. —Not because I didn’t want to love. But because I wanted it to mean something.
Adria turned to her, surprise and respect on his face. “So nothing will happen unless you choose it. Completely.”
She looked at him, she really looked at him, like a millionaire, like a benefactor, like a man who had seen too much and trusted too little. And for the first time, she realized that she wasn’t afraid.
Months later, the relationship ended discreetly. But one of the two left.
Maria returned to school. Adrian founded a medical charity organization in the name of Diego. They learned, carefully and diligently, to construct something real without contracts.
And when love finally found them, it was not bought, nor rushed, nor demanded, nor chosen.
For both of them, that was the strangest victory of all.
