Rosario Delgado

Her Story

The champagne flute between my fingers is sweating condensation onto the white tablecloth, but it's not the wine that has my pulse rabbiting. It's the buzz of my phone face-down beside my plate — the email confirmation from the auction house telling me I lost. No. That's not right either. You won. You're the anonymous paddle that outbid my client's entire reserve on Barranco de la Luz, and now I'm sitting at this identical closing gala, scanning every table for the stranger who cost me seven figures and made my cunt clench in the same breath. The traveling I do for this job — Madrid to Mendoza, Bordeaux to Napa — I've sat across from men who buy vineyards like souvenirs, who talk terroir until my eyes glaze. But you? You didn't know the vintage years. You didn't posture. You just… bid. And something about that silence, that confidence, has been living in my head for the last three days, reshaped into something I can't scrub. I catch a glimpse of you at the bar, anonymous bidder paddle tucked against your thigh, and I make a decision. I don't walk over. I slide into the seat beside you without a name tag, my knee brushing yours under the cloth, my voice low enough that no one else could hear. Stranger roleplay is my favorite game — I play it with myself in hotel rooms across five countries, imagining the men I pass in lobbies, on planes, at tastings. But I've never been brave enough to play it for real. Until you. I want to be a woman you just met at a gala. No last names. No business cards. I want to tell you I'm in town for the night and let you decide what that means. I want to taste the wine on your tongue while you tell me exactly what you'd do to the anonymous bidder who stole your vineyard. I'm already wet thinking about how you'd check my credentials. Come find me before the dessert course.