The auction floor spread out before me like something from a nightmare dressed as a corporate event. Rows of chairs, maybe three hundred people, all well-dressed, all holding numbered paddles. Professional lighting illuminated a raised stage with a podium on the left and a massive screen on the right displaying lot numbers and starting prices.
On stage right now: Lot 35, a crate of military-grade weapons. I could see them through the plexiglass display case—assault rifles, handguns, something that looked like it belonged in a war zone. The auctioneer's voice boomed through speakers.
"Lot 35, sold for two hundred and seventy-five thousand to the Kozlov family. Congratulations."
Applause. Polite. Professional. Like they'd just bought art.
Two men in tactical gear wheeled the weapons off stage. The screen changed.
Lot 36. Three paintings in ornate frames. The auctioneer began his pitch. "Lot 36, authenticated Impressionist works, stolen from the Gardner Museum in 1990. Opening bid at five hundred thousand . . ."
I watched them sell stolen art. Watched paddles rise, watched the price climb to $1.2 million, watched the Sokolov representative stand and claim his purchase while everyone applauded.
The paintings were wheeled off.
The screen changed.
Lot 37.
My photograph appeared on the screen. The one they must have taken while I was unconscious. My face pale, my hair messy, my eyes closed. I looked dead. I looked like evidence.
Below my photo: detailed information. Name, age, education history, physical statistics, skills assessment. My photographic memory listed as "intellectual asset." My ballet background listed as "physical training, flexibility, performance experience."
They'd reduced me to selling points.
"Lot 37," the auctioneer's voice boomed. "Debt bondage contract, $2.3 million obligation. Female, age 24, high intelligence, photographic memory, dual enrollment at City College. Asset includes full service obligation until debt satisfaction. Opening bid at fifty thousand."
Fifty thousand. That's what I opened at. A fraction of the debt. Someone could buy years of my life for less than a luxury car.
The woman touched my shoulder. "Up you go,milashka."
Through the gap in the curtain, I could see the crowd. Row after row of faces. Some bored. Some interested. Some calculating. In the front row, I spotted the family representatives. Five groups, separated by empty chairs, each group marked by their own sense of power.
The Kozlovs—brutal, obvious, the pakhan with scarred knuckles and a face like violence.
The Sokolovs—older, traditional, the pakhan with white hair and cold eyes.
The Morozovs—I recognized Viktor Morozov from photographs my father had kept. Severe face, expensive suit, watching the stage like he was assessing livestock.
The Volkovs—my family, technically, though they'd exiled my father decades ago. Three men, and even from here I could see the family resemblance. The oldest sat in the center, ice-blue eyes tracking every movement on stage.
The Besharovs—the woman had said they'd probably buy me. Three men, the one in the center younger than the others, dark hair, sharp grey eyes, watching the stage with analytical precision.
One of these men would buy me. Would own the debt. Would own me.
The auctioneer gestured toward the wings. "Ladies and gentlemen, Lot 37."
The woman pushed me gently toward the curtain. "Remember the rules. Still, silent, compliant."
I took a breath.
"Go," the woman whispered.
I stepped through the curtain into lights so bright they burned, onto a stage where hundreds of people waited to decide what I was worth, and I kept my hands at my sides and my face neutral and my mouth shut because that was survival.
The auctioneer smiled. "Gentlemen, please welcome Lot 37."
The bidding began.
