He looks genuinely uncomfortable now. I can hear it in the way his breathing has changed, see it in his reflection in the glass. "Some buyers... yes. They place value on inexperience."
"How quaint and disgusting." I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, leaving a small fog of breath. "They must all be remarkably stupid men."
"Excuse me?" There's surprise in his voice, maybe even a hint of offense.
I turn back to face him. "Any man who thinks a simple physical examination can determine whether a woman is a virgin clearlyknows nothing about female anatomy. It's medieval thinking from medieval, ignorant minds. Are they expecting to see actual drops of blood on the sheets after they rape me? If so, I'll probably need a vial of blood or at least a needle I can sneak with me to prick my own fucking finger."
Something flickers in his expression. "Maybe things won’t go that far."
"And what would make you think that, Renato? Tell me." I'm standing directly in front of him now, close enough that I have to look up to hold his gaze. Close enough to see the shadow of stubble already appearing along his jaw despite his morning shave.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, can see the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing deepens.
"You’re right. The auction will happen regardless," he says finally.
"Unless you find a better solution." I reach out and touch his arm lightly, just a brief contact through the soft fabric of his suit jacket. But I feel him inhale sharply. "And I suspect you're very good at finding creative solutions to business problems, so I hope you're looking for an alternative to the auction."
"Camilla..." There's warning in his voice.
"I'm not asking you to free me. I'm not begging for mercy I know you can't afford to show." I let my hand fall away, the absence of contact somehow more intimate than the touch itself. "I'm asking you to consider that there might be more profitable options than selling me to the highest bidder."
"Such as?" His voice is strained.
"That depends on what you value more than money."
I can see him processing the implications, his eyes searching my face as if looking for answers written in my expression.
"I should go," he says, but his feet remain planted. He doesn't move an inch.
"Yes, you should. But, admit it, Renato. You don't want to."
"This is a dangerous game you're playing." There's heat in his voice now.
I finally step back, giving him space to leave if he chooses. "Take your time with those invitations, Renato. After all, you need to make sure you're completely satisfied with the quality of the merchandise before you put it on the market."
He stares at me for another long moment, conflict playing across his features. His hand rises slightly, as if to reach for me, then falls back to his side.
"Study those materials," he says finally, moving toward the door. "We'll discuss your presentation strategy tomorrow."
"Of course." I lean back against the desk, feeling the solid wood support my weight. "I intend to be perfectly prepared for whatever you decide."
His hand is on the doorknob when he pauses. For a moment, I think he'll turn back, say something more. But he just opens the door and steps through, pulling it closed behind him with a soft click that sounds very final.
After he leaves, I remain leaning against the desk for a long moment, feeling my heart gradually slow, my breathing steady. Then I gather the portfolio and photographs and carry them to the bed, spreading the contents across the white duvet like cards in a game of solitaire.
Guidelines for behavior, dress codes, conversation protocols. A handbook for becoming the perfect commodity. The paperwhispers as I sort through it, organizing it into categories, committing key phrases to memory.
But as I read through the detailed instructions, how to stand, how to smile, how to respond to questions, I'm not thinking about compliance.
I'm thinking about the crack I just opened in Renato Vitiello's armor. That sharp intake of breath when I touched his arm. The way his pupils dilated when I stood close. The conflict in his eyes when he forced himself to leave.
He's attracted to me.
More than attracted. He's intrigued by me as a person. The question is whether that attraction is strong enough to override his business instincts.
I have maybe a week to find out.
I pick up the photograph of Viktor Kozlov and hold it to the light, studying his face. Silver hair perfectly groomed. Expensive watch. Cold eyes that probably calculate the value of everything they see. I commit these details to memory, then move to Al-Rashid. Younger, handsome in a severe way, traditional clothing mixed with Western tailoring. Then Torretti—the most dangerous because he's shopping for other men. Men I don’t know anything about.
