My father stands by the edge of the room, half in shadow, watching like a man inspecting livestock. His expression is flat, cold, utterly detached. Not a flicker of guilt, not even recognition that I’m his child.
Something inside me fractures. Rage floods my veins, white-hot and shaking.
“Bring her over here,” he says casually, like he’s ordering wine instead of his own daughter. “Let the men have a closer look.”
The crowd murmurs in anticipation. One of the guards yanks my arm, dragging me toward the front tables where the buyers sit, their hungry eyes following me like I’m prey.
I twist, shouting, “You’re a monster! You’re not my father!” but he doesn’t even flinch.
Someone laughs. Another man reaches out to touch my arm, and I jerk away violently, my skin crawling.
My father just lifts a glass, sips his drink, and says, “Careful. She bites.”
I go feral.
I shove the nearest table with everything on it—platters, silver, a crystal decanter—and the whole damn thing collapses with a shower of glass and food. Wine spills warm across my hand; olives scatter like cannon fire. Men shout. Laughter ripples through the room, high and bright and sickening.
“You’re entertaining,” one of them calls, clapping slowly as if I’m a performing animal. “Such spirit.”
I scream so loud my ribs ache. “I will never belong to you,” I shout, voice raw. “I will kill the first man who touches me.”
A hand—broad, smelling of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne—reaches for my arm as if to steady me. My reaction is pure instinct: I yank away and swing, nails raking across his face. He howls, more from surprise than pain, and the crowd whoops like it’s sport. One of the buyers laughs until wine sprays from his mouth. Another man leans forward, eyes glittering, and for a second, I think he’s going to come at me.
Then a flat slap cracks across my cheek so hard my head spins. The sound is obscene in the hush that follows. The man who struck me hasn’t softened his expression; he merely regards me like a child who’s been corrected. My cheek flames; blood beads at the corner of my lip. The room smells of oranges and fear and old money.
I spit straight into his face. The glob lands just below his eye, sliding down his cheek. For a heartbeat, silence—the kind that crackles before a storm. Then he lunges.
Two men grab him, their laughter rough and mean.
“Easy, Viktor,” one jeers. “She’s not yours yet. Don’t ruin the merchandise before the deal is done.”
The man wipes his cheek, eyes blazing, teeth bared like an animal. “When she’s mine,” he growls, “I’ll teach her how to be silent like a lady.”
“Fuck you, piece of shit,” I snap, my voice shaking but fierce. The words taste strange in my mouth; I don’t swear like this, not usually. But it’s worth it—the way his jaw tightens, the way rage flickers behind his eyes.
Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by coarse laughter and clinking glasses. One of the buyers whistles, saying, “She’s got spirit. I’ll pay extra for that.”
“Enough,” my father’s voice cuts through, sharp and commanding. He stands, straightening his suit jacket with the ease of a man in complete control. “She’s made her little scene.”
He nods to the auctioneer. “Start the ceremony.”
My stomach twists. The lights shift, dimming over the tables and focusing on me. The guards tighten their grip on my arms. My father steps back, a satisfied gleam in his eyes—as if this is nothing but business.
I want to scream. I want to bite. I want to burn this entire room down.
Humiliation burns through me like acid, hot and relentless, but beneath it something colder and harder takes root—defiance. I press my jaw until it hurts and force myself to breathe slow, steady. If I give them the satisfaction of panic, they’ll wear it like a prize. I will not be their prize.
The auctioneer’s voice slides over everything—velvet and knife. “We’ll open at five million,” he says, and the numbers pile up like stones thrown at a glass house.
Men clap, raise cards, leer. They argue about provenance, condition, rarity—as if I’m an object on a ledger and not a body with a name. My father watches from the shadows, that smug half-smile carved into his face. He’s a butcher in a suit, and this room is his market.
I thrust my gaze toward the crowd, searching for any crack in their armor. I drag my mind back to the terrace, to the way Roman stood under the city lights, to the fierceness that seemed to carve the air around him. I hold that image so tight it hurts. He promised me. He promised he’d burn the world before he let my father take me. I repeat it like a prayer:He’s coming. He’s coming.
Around me, the prices soar—numbers tossed around like they’re bidding on wine, not flesh. My stomach twists. I lift my head, refusing to look away, and that’s when I see him—the paleman who slapped me. His grin cuts through the noise, irritating and smug. He raises a velvet box in the air, flashes it like a trophy. Inside, a ring glints beneath the light.
A promise.
A threat.
