The auctioneer's smile widened. "One million dollars from the Besharov representative. Do I hear—"
"Kolya." Kostya's hand gripped my shoulder. Hard. "What are you doing?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. My entire focus was on Anton Belyaev as he stood slowly, deliberately, and turned.
Those shark eyes found me across three rows and twenty feet of space. Recognition flickered. Then calculation. Then something colder—challenge.
He knew who I was. New Pakhan of the Besharov family, elevated six months ago when Mikhail stepped down. Young. Untested. Trying to prove I deserved the position.
This was a test. He was testing me. Publicly. Seeing if I'd back down.
I held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't look away.
His smile was thin. Predatory. "One point two million."
The room's attention swung back to me. Waiting. This wasn't about the woman anymore—if it ever had been. This was about power. Territory. Who would yield.
On stage, Sophie's eyes found mine for the first time.
Grey-green. Terrified. Furious. Searching.
The impact of that eye contact hit me like a physical blow. Something passed between us in that moment—recognition, maybe, or understanding, or just the acknowledgment that we were both trapped in this nightmare but at least we could see each other clearly.
She saw me. Really saw me. Not the Pakhan or the strategist or the carefully constructed armor. Saw the man underneath who was counting to four over and over again to keep from losing control completely.
And I saw her. The fighter underneath the fear. The intelligence behind the dancer's grace. The Little she was trying so hard to hide.
"One point five million," I said.
My voice was steady. My hands were shaking. I clasped them together. Forced them still.
Kostya swore quietly in Russian. Something creative involving my intelligence and my sanity and whether I possessed either.
The auctioneer beamed. "One point five million dollars. Do I hear—"
"Turn for us, Miss Andreeva." Anton's voice carried across the room. Not a request. An order. "Let us see what we're buying."
The auctioneer gestured enthusiastically. "Of course. Miss Andreeva, please turn slowly so our guests can assess the merchandise."
Merchandise. He called her merchandise.
On stage, Sophie's jaw clenched hard enough I could see the muscle jump. But she turned. Slowly. Mechanically. The grey dress shifting around her legs.
That's when I saw the limp.
Slight. Almost imperceptible. Her left leg bearing weight differently than the right, a tiny hitch in her movement. Old injury. Probably the one that ended her ballet career.
My analytical mind catalogued details without permission. The way she compensated for the weak knee by shifting weight to her right side. The way her posture stayed perfect despite the injury—years of training overriding pain. The way she moved with a dancer's grace even now, even here, even while being displayed like livestock.
She completed the turn. Faced forward again. Her hands were still fisted at her sides, knuckles white, thumbs still tapping that four-count rhythm.
The auctioneer continued like nothing was wrong. Like this was normal. Like selling human beings was just another Thursday night.
"As you can see, Lot 37 is in excellent physical condition. Nothing that would impact household duties or other service obligations."
Service obligations. Code for whatever the buyer wanted to use her for.
My stomach turned. I'd been uncomfortable with debt bondage lots before. Now I wanted to burn this entire building down.
