Lot twelve walks on stage.
She's lovely. Poised. Sells for one point two million to a tech billionaire I recognize from industry conferences.
I glance at my program.
Four more before I need to make a decision.
Lot thirteen stumbles onto the stage and immediately starts sobbing.
The room shifts uncomfortably.
She sells low—one hundred and fifty thousand—to a man who doesn't even look at her.
Poor girl. She won't last long.
"Lot fourteen."
I glance at the program.
Gold tier acquisition. Age 23. Extensive domestic training. Virgin. No living family ties. Compliant temperament.
Standard description. Nothing noteworthy.
I look up.
And everything stops.
She's walking toward center stage, and I can't breathe.
White dress.
Long blonde hair falling in waves past her waist.
She's small—five-four, maybe—but there's something about the way she holds herself.
Like she's trying to make herself smaller but can't quite manage it.
She reaches the podium and stops.
The lights hit her face and I see her properly for the first time.
Hazel eyes.
Gold-green in the stage lights.
High cheekbones.
Full lips pressed into a tight line.
There's a fragility to her features that makes something in my chest tighten.
But it's not her beauty that arrests me.
It's the fear.
Not the vacant fear of lot thirteen.
Not the resigned fear of the others.
