The moment has come, every inch of my body screaming to run, but where? Offstage? Back to prison? Into a crowd full of wolves? The time has come. Asset #19 is being shoved into a cage. Like inventory.
The spotlight is burning into my skin. As I am just a fancy decoration piece on a display.
"Asset nineteen," The announcer says smoothly about me as if I am not even a living human. "She is unmarked. No prior ownership. Exotic features, premium health. A recent and fine addition to our collection."
Rage courses through my veins. My nails are digging into my palms. The word ownership buzzes in my mind like a jolt of electricity. I ain't nobody's pet. I just can't handle the idea of being someone's slave, or worse, a sex slave.
I made it through heartbreak.
I made it through the backstabbing.
I made it through the quiet of an old buddy.
I made it through the messed-up system.
I made it through that tough prison.
My heart feels tight, and I find myself thinking. God, please just open up the ground and take me down, because I see no way to survive this slavery.
My bid starts at seventy-five thousand dollars.
"Eighty."
"Ninety."
The voices are echoing, smooth and inhuman, like they have done this many times before. I am sure they all have. Each tone is rich, evil, and clipped. Like they aren't bidding on a human being. Like, I am just another toy for their twisted games.
My breathing is shallow. I am trying...God... I am trying not to look into the eyes of the crowd. Every face blurs into the other, like an oil painting melting in the dark. I am focusing on the chandelier above, on its dripping crystal drops. Anything to not look at them.
A man in a navy suit with greasy hair raises his number paddle. "One hundred."
I flinch. My heartbeat jerks in my chest, punching the inside of my ribs.
"One-twenty," comes another voice. Eager.
I can feel the crowd raising my number like I am meat on a damn cutting board.
"One-fifty."
"One-seventy-five."
"Two hundred."
Each number is dropping like a hammer in my gut. Don't cry. Don't blink. Don't give them anything. My throat is tightening, and my knees are wobbling.
"Two-fifty."
"Three-fifty."
The numbers are rising quicker now. The crowd is getting excited now.
"She has got that melancholy thing going on. Like a fallen princess."
Another joins in. "She is poetically beautiful. Look at her gray eyes."
I want to scream. Instead, I grit my teeth. You bastards don't know me. You don't know a damn thing about me.
"Four-fifty."
"Half a million."
They are bidding half a million dollars like it's a damn poker game.
My stomach rolls when I hear a first female murmur. "I think it's her. The scandal girl."
My head turns subtly.
"You mean the million-dollar fraud girl?" Someone whispers, audible to everybody. "No shit, I thought she was in prison."
"Guess this is where you end up when you screw up big time."
I clench my jaw. I stare ahead, past the smoke curling from cigars, past the glitter of gold chandeliers. I am feeling naked. Not because of the gown they made me wear clinging to me like a sin, but because of the eyes. The knowing eyes.
"One million."
"Two million."
"Three million."
Please let it stop. I am howling inside.
All of a sudden, there is a thick, choking silence in a crowd. I think someone has arrived at the farthest corner of the room. The dark balcony towers over the crowd. I feel the presence of someone in the shadows, untouched by the shimmering gold lights.
"Four million," someone barked, slicing an eerie silence.
My breath hitches. My knees nearly buckle. I don't even realize I have been holding my breath until my chest screams for air.
A slow, cruel laugh comes from somewhere to my right. "The girl has stories in her eyes. She's lived."
I can feel the silhouette, barely visible. The moment his hand rises, the room falls quiet. He doesn't need to shout over the others. He doesn't need to posture or flash his wealth.
"Ten million," his voice low but lethal.
The silence that follows is heavy.
A beat.
Eleven.
The announcer smiles like a cat who has swallowed a shard of glass. "Ten million from Mr. Lucien Moretti. Do I hear more?"
No one speaks. Once again, my breath hitches. I don't know who Lucien Moretti is exactly, not yet. But judging from the way the whole room folds around him, it's like he owns it. I know he is not just rich. He is dangerous as hell.
"Sold," The gravel cracks through the room. "To Mr. Lucien Moretti."
Just like that, I have been sold to a man sitting in the shadows at 4:15 am.
The cage door clangs open with a sharp snap that jolts me upright. The same mean-as-hell-looking man is standing right in front of me. He doesn't say a word. Just jerk his chin. Grab my arm and start walking.
"Walk," his eyes seem to say.
My voice cracks as I am tired. "Where are you taking me?"
No response. The man is not even looking at me.
I scowl. "Hey, I am talking to you."
nothing. Not even a grunt.
Two guards follow behind, making sure I don't have a choice. They are taking me through a corridor, exiting through a side loading dock where a black Chevrolet Suburban is waiting like a damn tank. It is screaming money and menace.
The mean-looking man opens the back door and motions. I hesitate and shake my head. "I am not stepping in until you tell me where—"
He puts a hand on my head, firm but not rough, and ducks me inside like I am some bratty toddler.
The drive is long and silent. I start fidgeting and once again try to make conversation. "So...you got a name, or are you just gonna keep glaring at me like you wanna eat my liver?"
He stares straight ahead. Every time we hit a checkpoint or pass someone in black suits, he gives curt nods or shorthand gestures. Sometimes he types on a sleek tablet.
Maybe he can only listen. Can't talk.
Eventually, the Suburban rolls through a massive iron gate that creaks open like it belongs in a gothic horror flick. The driveway is long, ending at a stone mansion with more windows than a department store.
The mean-looking man gets out first, opens the door, and waits for me to come out. Again, no words. Just a look.
He walks me up the front steps, boots heavy on the marble, then down a hallway that smells like cedarwood and money.
Finally, he stops at a door. It is slightly ajar. He gestures again. In.
I look at him. "Wait. Seriously, you are not gonna tell me anything? Not even a hint? Like, am I being locked in, killed, or what?"
No nod. No blink. He turns and walks away.