The name hits harder than any plan. I close my eyes and picture her face—pale, terrified, the way she wrapped herself around my chest after the raid. She needs me to be something more than a promise.
I sigh and reach for the paper bag. “This doesn’t look like it tastes good,” I mutter.
Luka laughs, a short, rough sound. “Downstairs. Real food. Hot. With knives, forks, and vodka.”
I shake my head. “This will do.”
Chapter 25 – Elara
They dress me like a doll.
The silk gown slips over my body, soft and cold, mocking the fear beneath my skin. The women who do it wear masks—expressionless, mechanical. They don’t speak, not even when the rope around my wrists scrapes my skin raw. One of them slides a pair of heels onto my feet, buckling the straps as if she’s preparing me for a party.
No makeup. Just a tight bun that pulls at my scalp and stings when I try to move my head.
When they’re done, they step back and study me. I can feel their eyes, even through the masks—checking if I’m presentable, if the merchandise is ready.
I look away.
The air smells faintly of roses and dust, expensive perfume masking rot. I’m still in one of my father’s off-grid establishments, and these women are preparing me to be sold off like an item.
I test the ropes again, digging my nails into the knot, but it’s useless. My wrists burn. I can feel panic clawing its way up my throat, but I force it down. I need to think.
“You look beautiful, miss,” one of the women says, and I almost spit in her face too. I don’t respond, and she simply bows her head and leaves the room with the others, leaving me alone.
The tears come hot, blurring the edges of my reflection until I can’t tell where I end and the stranger in the mirror begins. The black dress clings to me like a threat—silk over steel cuffs. I look like a woman ready for a gala, not a prisoner being sold.
My father had them dress me this way—to make me more appealing, he said. The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
I hate him. I hate the way his greed touches everything it comes into contact with. I hate that somewhere in his mind, I stopped being his daughter and became inventory.
I drag in a shaky breath and look at myself again. My eyes are swollen, red. My lip is split from when that man slapped me earlier. But under all that, there’s still a flicker of something. Anger. Defiance.
If I’m going to die here, I’ll do it on my terms.
I square my shoulders, even though the ropes bite deep. “You will not break me,” I whisper to the mirror.
For a second, I almost believe it.
The door slams open, and before I can even turn, hands are on me—rough, merciless. Six men, all masked, all silent. I kick, twist, scream until my throat tears, but it doesn’t matter. They drag me like I weigh nothing, my heels scraping the floor, the silk gown tearing at the seams.
“No! Let me go! Let me go!”
The hallway feels endless, echoing with my screams and their boots. The smell of smoke, perfume, and sweat grows stronger as we near a set of double doors. I already know where they’re taking me. The auction room.
The doors swing open, and the laughter hits me like a slap.
I see them—men in suits, drinking, eating, grinning. Their eyes find me, and I feel stripped bare. Someone claps. Someone whistles. My skin crawls.
They drag me onto the small stage under a chandelier that glitters like mockery. I thrash, kick, but two of them hold my arms while another grips my chin, forcing my face up to the crowd.
I can’t breathe.
A man with a microphone announces my name like a prize, his voice oily and triumphant. “Gentlemen, the daughterof David Chang. A rare treasure—once promised to the infamous Roman Rusnak himself.”
Laughter ripples through the room.
I want to scream, to vanish, to fight. But the hands holding me are iron, and all I can do is stare down at the crowd of monsters waiting to buy me.
