"You're remarkably calm about this."
"If I panicked, would you change your mind?" She meets my eyes directly.
I blow out a long breath. "No."
"Then I need to focus on what comes next. And how I present myself?” She turns to face me directly. "Tell me about these buyers. What are they looking for? What increases value? What should I know if I'm going to be evaluated like a piece of meat?"
The word hangs between us, and I see her choose it deliberately. Not sold, not trafficked, not destroyed. Evaluated. Like this is a business assessment rather than a life-or-death situation.
"You want to understand the market?"
"I don’t give a shit about the market. I want to maximize my chances of survival. Which means understanding what these men value, what they're willing to pay for, how to present myself in the most appealing way. How to stay alive. That’s what I’m interested in." She reaches back and tugs her ponytail loose, letting her full hair fall free around her shoulders. "In your experience, would you say willing merchandise is worth more than reluctant merchandise?”
The word she uses —merchandise— lodges in my throat. I tell myself this is a bluff, pure leverage. Still, the thought of other men looking at her the way I study ledgers makes something cold and possessive stir under my ribs.
“In most markets, yes.”
“In that case, I'm prepared to be very willing. Under the right circumstances."
Her words make my hands clench. I move to the window without thinking, putting space between us to avoid looking at her face.
She's not just accepting her fate, she's strategizing to optimize it. Planning to cooperate with her own sale to improve her odds of survival.
"What circumstances would those be?"
"Information. Choice. Some degree of input into the process." Her voice is calm, controlled. "I'm not asking to escape this situation. I'm asking to have some say in how it unfolds."
I turn back to her, studying her face, looking for deception or manipulation. Finding only cold intelligence and strategic thinking.
"You want to choose your buyer? That’s impossible."
"I want to understand my options. Make informed decisions. Influence the outcome in ways that benefit both of us." She tilts her head slightly. "After all, we both want the same thing, don't we?"
"Which is?" I ask.
"Maximum return on your investment. And maximum chance of my survival." She gives me a smile that tries to hide her fear. "Those goals aren't mutually exclusive."
The logic is sound. Disturbingly sound. She's not just surviving this impossible situation—she's finding ways to exert control, to turn her cooperation into leverage.
"You'd help facilitate your own sale?"
Jesus Christ, this is going too far, too fast.
"I'd help facilitate the best possible outcome for everyone involved. The question is, are you smart enough to see the opportunity?"
The challenge in her voice wrecks me. She's offering to partner with me in her own trafficking, and somehow making it sound like a privilege.
"What kind of partnership are you proposing?"
"The kind where I don't end up dead or worse." She returns to her chair, settling in like we're about to negotiate a business deal. "Now tell me about these buyers. What they value, what they expect, how this process actually works. If I'm going to survive this, I need to understand what I'm facing."
Chapter 9: Camilla
After Renato leaves, I sit perfectly still, letting the reality of my situation crystallize into something manageable. The leather chair creaks beneath me, and I notice how the afternoon light catches particles of dust suspended in the air, each one floating aimlessly like my scattered thoughts.
It's real.
An auction. International buyers. One to two weeks to prepare.
