His eyes, dark enough to be almost black in this light, flicker with something that might be amusement. A corner of his mouth twitches but doesn't quite smile. "No. Your choice."
Your choice.
Interesting phrase from a man who's removed all my choices.
The photographs are exactly what I expected, yet somehow worse for being real. Expensive settings, marble floors, crystal chandeliers, walls covered in priceless art. Beautiful women in elegant clothes, their smiles bright and hollow. Men in tailored suits examining them like they’re studying a piece of art, hands clasped behind their backs or stroking their chins thoughtfully. All very tasteful, very high-end. Nothing that would photograph badly in society magazines if you didn't know the context.
I pick up the first photograph, holding it delicately by the edges to avoid leaving fingerprints. The paper is glossy, expensive. "Who are these people?"
"Viktor Kozlov." Renato leans in, pointing to a silver-haired man in one photo. His sleeve brushes against my arm, and I resist the urge to flinch away. "Russian oil and aluminum. Appreciates intellectual conversation and classical music. Tends to collect women who can hold their own in Moscow society."
He reaches for the next photo, his fingers briefly overlapping mine on the glossy surface. His skin is warm, dry. There's a scar across his knuckles I haven't noticed before. "Ahmed Al-Rashid. Saudi construction and technology. Traditional values but treats his acquisitions very well. Full household staff, unlimited shopping, beautiful homes in three countries."
The third photo shows a younger man with Italian features, sharp cheekbones, calculating eyes. "Franco Torretti. He's a broker, not a buyer. Represents clients across Europe and Asia. Professional, discreet, works with people who prefer anonymity."
I study each photograph carefully, holding them up to the light, turning them at angles. I'm noting details about their clothing. The cut of their suits, the expensive watches on their wrists. Their expressions are confident and entitled.
"What are you doing?" Renato asks. His voice is closer than I expected; he's moved to stand directly behind me.
"I'm learning about my potential future." I set down the photographs in a precise line across the desk, fingers lingering on each one. "Seems like a smart thing to do."
I turn to face him, forcing him to either step back or maintain the intimate proximity. He chooses to hold his ground, and suddenly we're standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. I can see the individual lashes framing them, the slight crease between his brows, a tiny spot on his jaw he missed while shaving.
"These men," I say, keeping my voice low and steady despite my racing heart, "they'll expect me to be grateful. Submissive. Perhaps a little broken by the experience."
"Yes." The word is almost a breath, barely vocalized.
"And if I'm not? If I'm too composed, too confident? Does that hurt my value?"
The question catches him off guard. I see it in the slight widening of his pupils, the way his throat moves as he swallows. He's processing the implications, that I'm already thinking abouthow to present myself, how to optimize my appeal to potential buyers.
"Some prefer spirit. At least in the beginning." He takes a small step back, creating breathing room. "Others prefer compliance. It depends on the buyer."
"Then I need to understand what each buyer prefers." I pivot away from him, reaching for the portfolio he brought. The leather is supple under my fingers, warm from being pressed against his body. "You need to give me everything you can find on these men. And I need to practice." I flip open the portfolio. "What's in here?"
"Preparation materials." He's moved to lean against the desk now, one hip resting on the edge, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The posture should be casual, but I sense the tension in his shoulders. "What's expected, how these events typically unfold, protocols you'll need to understand."
I spread the documents across the desk with both hands, creating a fan of papers. Guidelines for behavior, dress requirements, conversation topics to avoid. The text is professionally printed, the language clinical. Like a training manual for expensive high-end prostitutes. My fingers trace the words without really reading them.
"This is quite thorough. How long do I have to study this?"
"That depends on how quickly you learn. And how quickly I can arrange the auction." He shifts his weight, making the desk creak slightly. "What's going on here? Why aren't you fighting this, Camilla?"
I realize this is a test. Not of my compliance, but of my reasoning.
I close the portfolio slowly, letting the leather covers meet with a soft thud. Then I turn to face him fully, lifting my chin.
"Because fighting would accomplish nothing except making my situation worse." I hold his gaze, not blinking, not looking away. "Better to understand the game and play it well than to exhaust myself fighting rules I can't change. I don't want to go into this blind."
"And you think you can play it well?"
"I think I can play it better than anyone expects." I take a step closer to him, then another, watching his eyes track my movement. "The question is whether you're smart enough to help me."
"How?"
"Help me use my advantages." I gesture toward the photographs with one hand, a sweeping motion that encompasses all of them. "These men might expect a broken Italian princess who'll be grateful for rescue. Instead, they'll get someone who can discuss art, speak four languages, and make them feel like the most fascinating men in the world." I tilt my head slightly. "Which version do you think commands a higher price? Which would be worth more to you? If you were buying women instead of selling?"
I see understanding dawn in his expression. He hadn't considered that my composure might be an asset rather than a problem.
