"You want to customize your presentation for each buyer."
"I want to maximize my chances of survival." I turn back to the photographs, picking up Kozlov's image and holding it between us. "Kozlov appreciates intellectual conversation? I can discuss Russian literature and European politics." I set it downand pick up Al-Rashid's. "Al-Rashid values traditional behavior? I can be the perfect respectful wife who never questions his decisions." Finally, Torretti's photograph. "Torretti's clients prefer anonymity? I can be discreet enough to take secrets to my grave. But I don't like the idea of going to someone I haven't met."
"You'd do all that?" There's something almost like wonder in his voice. "Transform yourself to appeal to whoever bids highest?"
"I'd do whatever it takes to survive." I set down the last photograph and turn to him. "The question is whether you'll let me have the information I need to do it well."
Renato is quiet for a long moment. He's studying my face with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken, makes heat rise to my cheeks despite my efforts at control. His eyes move from my eyes to my lips, to the hollow of my throat where I know my pulse must be visible, then back to meet my gaze.
"What information do you need?"
"Everything." I count off on my fingers, touching each one as I speak. "Their backgrounds, their preferences, their psychological profiles. What they value, what they fear, what motivates them, what really turns them on. Surely, they each have their own little nasty kinks, right?" I drop my hand and move toward the other side of the room, putting distance between us because suddenly the air feels too thick, too warm. "I also need to understand the auction format. Will I be displayed? Required to demonstrate skills? Expected to answer questions?"
"Possibly all of the above."
"Then I need practice." I turn to face him again. "As I'm sure you're aware, I'm an inexperienced virgin. Anything I know about sexual things has come from the internet, if you know what I mean. And I need to understand what you're telling thesemen about me." I wrap my arms around myself, a gesture that's both defensive and emphasizing. "What's my story? Kidnapped bride? Debt collateral? Willing participant who chose this life?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Because each story suggests different expectations. Different types of behavior they'll be looking for. You're selling a fantasy, Renato. Help me understand what fantasy you're selling so I can act it out perfectly."
The admiration in his eyes is unmistakable now. He's seeing exactly what I want him to see—not a victim, but a strategic partner in this transaction.
"You're stronger than I expected," he says quietly, and the words feel like they cost him something. "You're insane, but you're tough."
"I'm practical." I pick up one of the photographs again, using it as a prop, something to focus on besides the intensity of his stare. "When will the first buyers arrive?"
"I haven't sent invitations yet. I wanted to..." He trails off.
"What?"
"Make sure you understood what was expected."
But that's not the whole truth, and we both know it.
He could have sent invitations before talking to me. Could have arranged the auction immediately after the families refused to pay.
Instead, he's giving me time. Preparation. Information I shouldn't have.
Why?
"Renato," I say his name softly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yes." The word is barely audible.
"What did Alessandro mean when he called me damaged goods?"
He hesitates, and I watch the conflict play across his face. "It's not important."
"It's very important to me. I need to understand what I'm dealing with. Stop protecting my delicate sensibilities and tell me exactly what they meant by saying I'm damaged goods."
He won’t look at me. "They believe your... purity... has been compromised by staying here with me."
"My purity." I taste the word like something bitter, letting my disgust show. "You mean my virginity."
"Yes."
"I see." I move away from him to process this new degradation. "And will your buyers expect me to prove this supposed virginity? Some sort of medieval examination by a doctor?" I keep my voice clinical, even as my stomach churns and my hands are threatening to tremble. I clench them into fists at my sides.
