Torretti doesn't bother with pleasantries. He simply nods. "The photographs don't do you justice."
"Thank you," I say quietly, remembering Renato's profile:Professional. No emotion, no personal interest. Views this purely as a transaction.
Kozlov approaches with his champagne glass, that same hungry look in his winter-ice eyes I remember from the viewing. "Miss Colombo. Lovely to see you again under more... conversational circumstances."
This is different from last time. Then, I was forbidden to speak. Now they want to hear me, evaluate my mind along with my body.
Al-Rashid maintains his polite distance, just as before. "Miss Colombo." A respectful nod, nothing more.Traditional values. Expects deference, modesty, respect for his authority.
"Champagne?" Renato offers, and I accept a glass gratefully. I'm going to need alcohol for what comes next.
The conversation resumes—art, politics, business deals that skirt the edge of legality. Unlike the viewing two days ago where I stood silent like a statue, tonight I'm expected to participate. I do so carefully, showing just enough intelligence to intrigue Kozlov without threatening his ego, enough deference to please Al-Rashid, enough poise to satisfy Torretti's professional standards.
I'm performing. Playing the role of sophisticated merchandise that can also hold a conversation.
And I'm watching. Learning. Planning.
Kozlov gestures with his hands when he talks, leaving his throat exposed. Al-Rashid stands close to walls, always maintaining escape routes—the same positioning I noticed during the viewing. Torretti checks his phone constantly, impatient and distracted.
Weaknesses. Opportunities.
When dinner is announced, Renato offers me his arm like we're attending a charity gala instead of my own auction. I smile and accept, playing my part perfectly.
But I catch the way he avoids my eyes. Whatever's happening here tonight, it's destroying him.
Not enough to stop it, though.
The dining room is elegant tonight with crystal, silver, candlelight. My place setting is between Kozlov and Al-Rashid, with Torretti across from me. Strategic positioning for evaluation purposes.
During the first course, Kozlov tests my mind with questions about literature and philosophy. I answer thoughtfully but not too brilliantly. Intelligent enough to interest him, not so clever as to threaten his ego. These men would never want a woman who might be smarter than they are.
Al-Rashid asks about my family, my upbringing, my views on traditional values. I give him the modest, respectful responses he wants to hear.
Torretti barely speaks to me at all. He's here for the physical evaluation.
By the main course, the wine has relaxed everyone except Renato, who's barely touched his food. The conversation becomes more explicit, more honest about what comes next.
"She's lovely, Renato," Kozlov says, as if I'm not sitting right here. "Excellent bone structure, clear skin, obvious intelligence. My collection would benefit from such quality."
"Her bloodline is impeccable," Al-Rashid adds. "Good breeding shows in the features, the posture. Very suitable for traditional arrangements."
Torretti cuts his meat and barely looks at me. "Physical evaluation will tell us more. Appearance can be deceiving."
They're discussing me like I'm a stolen piece of art they're considering purchasing and locking away where no one will ever see it. Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am to them.
Renato raises his wine glass with what looks like tremendous effort. "To discerning taste and... profitable arrangements."
The toast makes me hate him even more, but I smile and sip my champagne. I notice Renato barely touches his glass to his lips.
"Now then," Kozlov says as the dessert plates are cleared, "shall we proceed to the more... detailed evaluation?"
This is it.
The moment when they all stop pretending I'm a dinner guest and start treating me like what I am to them.
A woman they’re hoping to rape.
I stand gracefully, every inch the cooperative product.
