Gone. Just like that.
Number nine goes next.
She's composed herself.
Walks with grace despite the trembling I can see in her hands.
Her starting bid is seventy-five thousand.
She sells for two hundred thousand to a younger man—maybe forty—with dark hair and a bored expression.
Number ten. Number eleven. Number twelve.
Each one paraded.
Each one sold.
The amounts vary—some go for just over their starting bid, others spark bidding wars that drive the price into the millions.
A blonde girl with blue eyes goes for one point eight million.
The men in the audience seem especially excited about her.
I'm not paying attention to the numbers anymore.
I'm watching the men, studying their faces.
Some look bored.
Like they're at a charity auction for art they don't care about but attend because it's expected.
Others are excited.
Engaged.
Leaning forward in their seats.
A few are whispering to each other, pointing at the stage, making notes in their programs.
And some—some wear expressions I recognize from the Sanctuary.
The look of men who believe they have a God-given right to ownership.
Elder Jacob looked at me like that when he announced our engagement in front of the congregation.
Like I was already his.
Like my consent was irrelevant because he'd made the decision.
That's the look that terrifies me most.
Not the bored ones.
Not even the excited ones.
The ones who think they own you before they've even paid.
Number thirteen stumbles on her way to the stage.
