Cocktail hour is held in what the estate calls the Grand Salon.
It's massive—probably seats two hundred people comfortably.
Tonight it holds maybe sixty, leaving plenty of space for circulation.
The room is decorated in shades of cream and gold.
More chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in silk. Antique furniture arranged in conversation groupings.
Waitstaff circulating with champagne and hors d'oeuvres that probably cost fifty dollars per bite.
And everywhere—acquisitions.
Some are dressed like Eden, in elegant evening wear that could pass at any upscale event.
Others are in clothing designed purely for display.
Sheer fabrics. Strategic cutouts. Leather and lace and barely-there silk.
Some stand beside their owners, hands folded, eyes downcast, the picture of submission.
Others kneel. Literally kneel at their owners' feet while the men talk business and sip champagne and occasionally reach down to pet their acquisitions like dogs.
One woman—I can't call her a girl, she's probably thirty—is wearing nothing but strategically placed jewelry.
Literally naked except for diamonds at her throat and wrists. Her owner has her posed like a statue in the corner.
She doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stands there while people admire her like she's art.
I feel sick.
This is what I was going to be part of.
This is the world I wanted to join.
This grotesque display of wealth and control and reducing people to objects.
"Vaughn." Eden's voice is small. "That woman in the corner. Is she?—"
"Yes."
"Oh God."
"Don't look at her. Don't?—"
"How can I not look? How can anyone—" She stops. Breathes. "That could have been me."
"I would never have?—"
"Are you sure? Really sure? Because two months ago you bought me at an auction. You trained me to kneel and beg and submit. You were planning to bring me here and display me. How is what you were planning different from what he's doing?"
The question hits like a fist.
Because she's right. It's not that different. Maybe I wouldn't have made her stand naked, but I would have displayed her. Would have made her perform. Would have reduced her as proof of my control.
The only difference is I fell in love with her before that could happen.
"You're right," I say quietly. "It's not different. And that's why we're here. That's why we're going to burn this whole thing down."
