"Height of five feet three inches," the auctioneer went on. "Weight approximately one hundred and ten pounds. Medical examination confirms excellent health. No chronic conditions, no dependencies, no complications."
He was reading her like a spec sheet. Like she was a car or a computer or any other object being sold.
On stage, Sophie's breathing was too controlled. That four-count pattern. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The same technique I used. The same desperate attempt to manage panic through structure.
"One point eight million." Anton's voice. Calm. Certain. Challenging me to continue this insanity.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had kept me alive through five years of strategic planning and territorial negotiations—was screaming. This was irrational. Wasteful. Emotional decision-making that would cost me more than money. It would cost me reputation. Respect. The appearance of control that kept people from testing me.
Buying a debt bondage contract for more than the actual debt was stupid. Buying one because of an irrational protective instinct toward a woman I didn't know was stupider.
Doing it in a bidding war with Anton Belyaev was strategic suicide.
"Two point two million," I said.
Kostya's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Brother. Stop. This is—"
"Not now."
"You're paying almost a million dollars more than her actual debt," he hissed. "For what? You don't need—"
"I said not now."
I didn't look at him. Couldn't look away from the stage. From her.
Sophie's eyes had found mine again. Held. There was something in her expression—confusion, maybe, or hope, or just exhausted resignation. She didn't understand why I was bidding. Neither did I.
I just knew I couldn't let Anton Belyaev have her. Couldn't let that shark-eyed predator own a woman who counted to four when she was scared. Who fought regression because she thought being Little was weakness. Who was so obviously alone and terrified and trying so hard to be strong.
The auctioneer's voice rose with excitement. "Two point two million dollars from the Besharov representative. An excellent bid. Do I hear—"
Anton stood again. That thin smile still in place. He buttoned his suit jacket with deliberate precision. A man who knew he had time, knew he had resources, knew he could outlast me.
"Two point five million dollars," he said clearly.
The room reacted. Murmurs, whispers, heads turning. Two point five million was more than the debt by two hundred thousand. That was pride money. Fuck-you money. The amount you paid when it stopped being about the asset and became about the win.
My mind raced. Calculated. Two point five million. I could justify three million if I had to—barely, with creative accounting. But anything over that would require explanation. Would require admitting I'd made an emotional decision. Would show weakness.
The strategic choice was to let it go. Let Anton have her. There were other ways to counter the Belyaevs' preparations. Other ways to demonstrate Besharov strength.
On stage, Sophie's shoulders dropped slightly. Defeat. She thought it was over. Thought she knew where this ended.
And maybe she was right. Maybe I should let it go. Should make the smart choice. Should—
The north entrance exploded.
The blast wave hit before the sound did. Physics working backward—pressure slamming into my chest, stealing air from my lungs, then the noise catching up. Deafening. The kind of sound you felt in your bones.
The north entrance doors—reinforced steel, three inches thick, designed to withstand battering rams—flew off their hinges like playing cards. They spun into the auction hall, one slamming into the back row of chairs, crushing velvet and wood. The other skidded across the polished concrete, coming to rest against the stage.
Commercial-grade explosives. C4, probably. Enough to blow reinforced doors into shrapnel. Enough to announce that someone had stopped playing by rules.
Smoke billowed through the destroyed entrance. Grey-black, chemical-smelling, filling the space.
Then gunfire.
Automatic weapons. Multiple shooters. The sound was distinctive—short controlled bursts, professional, military-trained. This wasn't spray-and-pray. This was execution.
