As I say that, I realize there’s no way in hell Camilla will ever thank me for any of this.
"Boss? What if they don't pay? What if we actually end up with buyers here expecting to purchase her? What will you do then?"
The big fucking question I've been avoiding.
"Then we compensate them for their time and inconvenience, blame it on the families, and move on. But it won't come to that. Someone will pay."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
But as I head upstairs to Camilla's room, I'm not sure at all. I'm gambling that fear will force the families to act, that the threat of trafficking will be enough to make them find money they claim not to have.
And if I'm wrong?
If the buyers actually show up expecting a purchase?
I'll deal with that problem when it arrives.
For now, I just need to make this threat convincing enough to work.
Even if it means lying to everyone—including myself—about how far I'm actually willing to go.
I unlock her door and step inside. She's standing by the window, still dressed in the white cashmere and black pants from this morning. But something in her posture has changed. More alert. More calculating.
She turns when I enter, and those eyes study my face carefully. "You look like a man delivering bad news," she observes.
No tears. No hysterics. No desperate pleas for mercy. Just calm assessment of my expression and tone.
I take slow steps toward her, my shoes clicking on the floor. She doesn’t flinch.
"Your future in-laws have declined to meet my terms."
"Declined how?"
"They counter offered 2.5 million for damaged merchandise. I refused their offer."
She nods slowly, as if she'd been expecting exactly this outcome. "And my father?"
"I spoke with him earlier and he expressed his inability to pay."
"That isn’t surprising. What happens now?"
The composure with which she asks about her own fate is both impressive and disturbing. "Unfortunately, now it’s time for me to reconsider alternative arrangements to recoup their debt."
"By alternative arrangements, are you talking about selling me?"
"Yes,” I tell her bluntly.
She's quiet for a moment, processing the information. "How much time do I have?"
I sit on the edge of the bed, one leg propped. "For what?"
"To prepare. If I'm going to be sold like a used car, I assume there's a process. Buyers to contact, arrangements to make." Her voice is matter-of-fact, businesslike. "I'd like to understand the timeline."
The clinical way she discusses her own potential trafficking gives me pause. She should be begging me to reconsider, to give her family more time, to find another solution.
Instead, she's asking for a project timeline.
