Chapter 1: Auctioned for Ninety Cents

To save my dad—dying, desperate for hope—I went all-in at a charity auction in Maple Heights. I was frantic, my heart pounding, bidding against my own wife’s assistant for a drug that might be the only thing to keep Dad alive. I kept thinking, If I lose this, Dad’s gone. Every time Brett raised his paddle, I wanted to scream. I couldn’t lose. I wouldn’t.

The auction was in the old community center, that faded place with scuffed wood floors and the bitter smell of church coffee lingering in the air. The crowd’s chatter buzzed in my ears. God, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I lifted my paddle. Each dollar felt like it might buy Dad another day. I caught Lauren’s eyes across the room—locked on Brett, as if he was the only person that mattered. The tension pressed down, metallic on my tongue, making it hard to breathe.

Lauren always favored Brett. She saw me bidding and decided I was out to get him. She didn’t even blink. Just bought out the whole auction—every last item. Then, as punishment, she put me up for sale. Ninety cents. That’s what I was worth. “Who wants Ethan for ninety cents?” she joked, offering me up as the night’s stress relief, like I was some kind of punching bag.

She did it with a wicked smirk, her voice crackling over the cheap speakers. “Ninety cents for Ethan! Who wants a little stress relief tonight?” The crowd howled, thinking it was a joke, but I saw the icy edge in her eyes. She meant every word. For a second, I felt like a circus animal, paraded out for the town’s amusement. My cheeks burned. Nobody questioned her—Lauren could make anything seem normal, no matter how twisted.

When the auction ended, she walked out arm-in-arm with Brett, never once glancing back at me.

I watched them disappear into the dark, her laughter echoing behind like a slap. I stood there, invisible to everyone, just the ninety-cent man. Someone gave me a shove, and just like that—yeah. It got worse.

I was auctioned off as the fall guy—forced to fight a dog for scraps, used as a human target. They worked me over until my skin was shredded, then locked me in a cage to fight for food. I missed my father’s last moments. Meanwhile, Lauren was off on a world tour, all smiles with Brett and his family.

It wasn’t just a bad dream—it was hell, and I was wide awake for every second. I drifted through those days in a fog of pain and hunger, stripped of every last scrap of dignity. The bruises, the bites—those were nothing compared to the ache of knowing Dad was dying, and I wasn’t there. Every night, I’d hear Lauren’s laugh in my head, see her Instagram stories—white beaches, cocktails, her beaming with Brett. I wondered if I’d ever cross her mind.

Seven days later, it was over. My father was gone. I wrapped up what was left of his affairs and took up my old mentor’s offer to join an Antarctic research team. It sounded like mercy.

The funeral was tiny—just me, the pastor, and a couple of Dad’s old VFW buddies. I can’t even remember the eulogy; it’s all a blur. Afterward, I sat on the porch with a mug of black coffee, staring up at the empty sky. That’s when Professor Reeves from Ohio State emailed me—he had a spot on his Antarctic team, asked if I wanted to escape for a while. I didn’t hesitate. The idea of cold, endless white felt like a blessing.

After the funeral, I went to get my passport renewed. That’s when I ran into Lauren—fresh from her trip with Brett’s family.

The passport office was packed—fluorescent lights, the heavy scent of old paper, everyone in a bad mood. I’d just grabbed my number when I spotted Lauren by the counter, designer shades perched on her head, chatting with Brett and his parents like they were her real family. My stomach dropped. I tried to look away, but she saw me.

She tossed out, “Don’t look so sour. Worst case, I’ll take you and your dad on a trip—maybe even give you a baby, a big healthy boy for your dad to brag about.”

Her voice was light, almost sing-song, like we were still a normal couple and my father wasn’t already gone. The words hit like a punch. She had no clue—or maybe just didn’t care—that what Dad wanted most was already lost to both of us.

She didn’t know, but the moment Dad died, I’d already made up my mind. We were done. From here on out, we’d go our separate ways. No looking back.

I stared at her, feeling something snap inside—like the last thread holding me together was gone. There was nothing left to fight for. The man I’d been—husband, son—didn’t exist anymore. All that was left was cold resolve.