"Ahmed Al-Rashid. Saudi prince, traditional values, prefers submissive women. He'll expect deference, modesty, respect for his authority."
"How will he examine me?"
"More conservatively than Kozlov. He'll want to see your body, but he values purity. He'll probably limit his touching."
"If I play modest and submissive, he might handle me less aggressively."
"Maybe." But I don't sound convinced.
"And the third man?"
"Franco Torretti. Italian, mid-forties, represents multiple clients across Europe. He's a professional. He'll evaluate you with no emotion, no personal interest, just business."
"Which makes him the most dangerous."
I look at her, surprised. "Why?"
"Because he won't hesitate to hurt me if it serves his evaluation. The others might have... preferences... about condition. He just wants to verify the product meets specifications."
I process this, realizing she's strategically planning how to handle each man.
"Camilla—" I stop myself, running a hand through my hair. "This isn't what I wanted."
"From where I'm standing, it looks like you got exactly what you wanted. You get to watch three men evaluate your play toy, then take the highest offer."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what this is." She cuts me off. "You made your choice. You arranged this dinner party, you invited these men, you're going to sell me to one of them. Don't you dare start pretending you’re having second thoughts now."
I stare at her, and something breaks inside me. "You hate me."
Hate I can handle. It’s the quiet in her voice that breaks me—the absence of heat, the certainty.
"I hate what you're doing,” she says. “There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Ask me again tomorrow. If I'm still alive." She moves toward the door. "Anything else I need to know?"
"They're expecting cooperation. Resistance will..." I trail off, feeling uneasy. "Be careful tonight."
The words surprise me as much as they surprise her.
"Careful of what? The men who want to rape me, or the man who's selling me to them?"
She leaves before I can answer, and I'm left staring at the closed door.
I pour another scotch to settle my thoughts.
"Just be careful tonight,” I’d told her.
What the fuck did I think that would accomplish? A warning? Concern? As if I'm not the one who arranged every moment of what's about to happen to her. As if I’m not the one in control here, not her.
What can she possibly do at this point?
I sit in my study, surrounded by final preparations for tonight’s charade. Menus arranged, security protocols established. Everything perfectly orchestrated for an auction that will never be completed.
Alessandro Rossi won't let his family's reputation be destroyed by scandal. Colombo won't let his daughter disappear without a fight. They'll find the money, swallow their pride, pay what they owe plus interest for the inconvenience.
