I don't move. Not yet. Let them think they have a chance. Let them drive each other higher, burning through their budgets on a prize they'll never claim.
Bianca stands frozen on her mark, watching her life reduced to numbers. I see her chest rising and falling too fast—tachycardia, she'd call it. Her medical mind probably cataloging her own symptoms, using clinical detachment to survive the unsurvivable.
"One point two million."
"One point five."
"Two million."
The bidding slows. Paddles hesitate. Two million is steep, even for a Benedetti virgin. I see buyers doing mental calculations, weighing their options, wondering if they should save their money for later lots.
Now.
"Two million going once," the announcer says. "Going twice—"
"Five million."
My voice cuts through the room like a blade. Every head turns. I feel the weight of their stares—confusion, outrage, calculation. Five million. More than double the current bid. Enough to signal that I will not be outbid, that any attempt to compete is futile.
On stage, Bianca squints against the lights, trying to see who has spoken. She can't make me out yet. Good. I need a moment to prepare myself for what comes next.
"Five million dollars," the announcer repeats, his professional composure cracking slightly. "Do I hear five point five?"
Silence.
Paddle twelve glares at me from across the room. Forty-two shakes his head in disgust. Others whisper among themselves, trying to identify the madman who just paid five million dollars for a medical student.
"Five million going once."
I start walking toward the stage. Slow, deliberate steps. Let them see me. Let them understand that this woman belongsto me now, and that challenging my claim would be the last mistake they ever make.
"Going twice."
Bianca's eyes find me as I emerge from the shadows into the pool of light surrounding the stage. I watch recognition dawn—the widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips. For one moment, one heartbeat, I see hope flash across her face.
Then she remembers how I left her. What I did. The hope curdles into something else entirely.
"Sold. To buyer forty-six."
I stop at the edge of the stage, looking up at her. She's shaking—fine tremors running through her body that she's trying desperately to hide. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, but her jaw is set. Furious. Defiant.
My Bianca. Still fighting.
"Hello, Bianca," I say.
Her voice comes out hoarse. "You."
Not his name. Not Misha. Justyou—like a curse, like an accusation. Fair enough. I've earned her hatred.
I extend my hand. "Come with me."
"Go to hell."
A ripple of interest from the crowd. They're watching us like we're the evening's entertainment—and I suppose we are. The mysterious buyer and his defiant purchase. How amusing. How titillating.
I lean closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear. "There are sixty men in this room who would have bought you tonight. Some of them are still here, still watching, still wondering if they might get a second chance." I hold her gaze."I'm the only one who's going to let you walk out of here alive. So take my hand, Bianca, and save your anger for when we're alone."
She stares at me. I see the calculation behind her eyes—weighing her options, assessing threats, doing exactly what I taught her to do without ever meaning to.
