Everyone straightens. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The hum of anticipation sharpens to a blade.
We’re already in the grand hall, an opulent monstrosity built for ballroom dancing and corruption. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, but the gold doesn’t shine. It suffocates. The air is thick, heavy with perfume, power, and the sickly sweet scent of fear. Even the walls seem to hold their breath.
A quiet melody slips from my lips before I even realize I’m humming. It threads beneath the noise of the auction, low and instinctive, something old and unfinished. Malachi’s hand shifts against my spine; a subtle pressure. Not a warning, but a reminder that we’re not alone. I catch myself and stop, breath catching as I swallow it down. The silence that follows feels heavier. But not because I regret it. Because part of me wishes I didn’t have to.
We’re already seated near the back of the room, tucked into shadows just far enough from the spotlight to stay out of focus but close enough to strike if needed. My mask is black, a buyer’s mask, meant to keep suspicion low. It’s my shield tonight, though it still feels untrue against my skin, as if I’m wearing someone else’s face.
The auctioneer appears with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are twenty-five people up for sale tonight. Eighteen women and seven men.”
The bile rises in my throat. Sold. Treated as fucking cattle.
The click of Olivia’s jaw tightening is nearly imperceptible, but I feel it hit wrong. It’s a sharp discordant note in the air. Olivia stiffens beside Victor, and I feel Malachi shift beside me at the same time, subtly, but protective. His thigh brushes against mine, a silent reminder that I’m not alone. That I’m not getting pulled into this hell without backup.
I don’t look at Olivia. Because I can’t. I can barely look at the stage. Every person they bring out wears a different expression, some blank, some broken, some still clinging to the hope someone decent is here to buy them out of this nightmare.
Malachi’s hand, now resting against the small of my back, anchors me to the moment, grounding me when I want to float away. I close my eyes for a beat, mouthing the silent lyrics of a song I wrote years ago, one I never finished. Something about bruises that hum louder than screams. The words are gone now. Just rhythm remains.
Then they bring out a girl with silver hair, maybe in her early twenties. She’s trembling, but standing tall. That strength guts me.
Victor’s arm tenses as he clocks the shift in Olivia. I see her reach for him. Quiet, but firm. Malachi shifts beside me too, his hand pressing just a little more firmly against my back. Always alert. Always ready.
He leans toward her, whispering low. “Is this the one, treasure?” She nods.
“The next person up for auction is McKenzie Knight. She’s twenty-three years old, recently graduated from NYU, and is an excellent baker.” The auctioneer’s voice is bright, presenting this horror with the cheer of a dating show instead of a sale. McKenzie Knight. That name lands as a dropped stone in my chest.
The starting bid is seven-fifty.
A man at the front raises his hand without hesitation. Sleek suit, bald head, no emotion in his eyes. Something about him makes my skin crawl. The kind of man who buys women the way others collect rare art.
To our left, Sloane glances at Knox, a question in her eyes. Are we bidding? But when Victor raises his hand, Knox gives her the faintest shake of his head. They’ll wait. Let him take the lead.
Victor ups the bid to one million. Just like that, it begins.
The man at the front doesn’t even blink. “One and a quarter.”
Numbers rise fast. Too fast.
“One and a half,” Victor bites out.
Another buyer jumps in. Four million. Four and a quarter.
Victor hesitates, glancing at Olivia. Her face is tight, unreadable.
I want to scream. To do something. But I don’t know who this girl is, I just know that man can’t have her. It’s a gut feeling. A deep, sour coil that keeps tightening in my stomach. The kind that doesn’t need proof. Then a new voice cuts through the room, clean and cold.
“Four and a half.” Smooth. Calm. Distant.
I shift, eyes searching the crowd. The man is seated near the aisle. Black mask, black suit. Expensive. His posture is relaxed, almost lazy, but the air around him feels... different. Charged.
He doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t need to. His presence speaks louder than the rest of the room combined. Even with the mask, something about him feels... familiar.
I narrow my eyes. There’s a flash of something, his jaw, the way he tilts his head, almost listening for something no one else can hear.Do I know him?
Victor goes to raise his hand again, over budget, but Olivia stops him with a look that begs him to trust her gut. Sloane glances back, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the silent exchange, realizing something is happening, something unspoken but powerful. Her gaze sharpens with understanding, and she turns forward again, tension radiating from her shoulders.
The bidding continues. Five million. Five and a half.
Clearly not used to losing, the bald man scowls. He tries one last time. Six million hovers unspoken in the air, but he doesn’t say it.
