"Remain on stage," the auctioneer instructs me.
I stand there, rooted, while the clapping fades.
The lights are still too bright.
But I know where he is now.
Center section. Ten rows back.
Watching me.
Always watching me.
Footsteps on the stage.
Margaret appears with her tablet and a man in an expensive suit—handler for the buyer, I assume.
They exchange words I can't hear over the rushing in my ears.
The man in the suit signs something on Margaret's tablet.
She nods, smiles, and shakes his hand like they've just closed a normal business deal.
"Come," Margaret says to me, and there's something different in her voice now.
Respect? No. Deference.
To the price I just brought.
To the value I represent.
Two million dollars.
I follow her off stage, through a different door than the one I entered.
We're in another hallway now, this one quieter, less opulent.
Service corridor. Plain walls. Utilitarian lighting.
"This way," the man in the suit says. His voice is clipped. British. Professional. "Mr. Sutherland is waiting."
Sutherland. My buyer has a name.
Mr. Sutherland, who just spent two million dollars on me.
Who outbid everyone else in that room.
Who wanted me enough to pay more than most people will earn in their entire lives.
Mr. Sutherland with the ice-blue eyes.
We walk through a maze of corridors.
Turn left, then right, then left again.
I lose track.
I couldn't find my way back to the theater if I tried.
