“Send Felice to me.” I say through the intercom before I pour myself a small glass of whiskey.
The fire in the great hearth crackles and spits, painting the ancient stone walls of the dining hall in a dance of shifting amber and shadow. The remains of an exquisite meal, grilled octopus, slow-roasted suckling pig, garlic-infused clams, and a fine, decade-old port, litter the massive oak table between us. The air is thick with the rich aromas of espresso, aged brandy, and expensive cigars.
My two guests, Leo and Oscar, are finally unwound. Their shoulders, which hours ago were tight with the tension of multi-billion-dollar merger talks, are now slack. Their eyes, once sharp and calculating across the conference table in my study, are now glazed with contentment and fine liquor. Business is concluded. Now, it is time for the more primal rewards.
“An exceptional vintage, Antonio,” Leo says, swirling the brandy in his snifter. He’s the older of the two, his hair a distinguished silver, his ruthlessness masked by a veneer of old-world charm. “But then, everything about your hospitality is always exceptional.”
“My home has its treasures,” I reply, my voice a low rumble that feels at home in this room. “It is my pleasure to share them.”
As if on cue, the heavy double doors at the end of the hall open. Felice, Anya, and Julie enter, a vision of curated beauty under the soft light. They are dressed in seductive dresses that highlight each of their beautiful bodies.
A soft, rhythmicfadomelody begins to play from hidden speakers, the soulful, mournful guitar notes a stark contrast to the scene about to unfold. Felice begins to sway first, her movements fluid and practiced. Anya and Juliejoin her, their dance not lewd but hypnotically sensual, a performance for an audience of three.
I watch my guests’ faces. Oscar, the younger more brutish tech titan, leans forward, his cigar forgotten. His eyes devour Julie, tracking the sway of her hips with a possessiveness that is both vulgar and predictable. Leo watches with a more detached, analytical pleasure, like a connoisseur assessing a fine piece of art he intends to acquire.
This is the currency of this kind of evening. A display of power, of possession. They have signed the papers; now they get to play with my toys before they fly home tomorrow, and I fly off to another day of relentless work.
My gaze, however, drifts past the dancers, to the figure trying to melt into the shadows by the curtained archway. Grace. She followed the others in but has positioned herself half-hidden, her head bowed, like a ghost at the feast. The pale gold of her hair is dim in the shadows, her plump frame tense even from across the room. Good. She knows her place is here, but her instinct is still to flee it. The conflict is a live wire inside her, and it fascinates me to see how her months of training rally against all that Ratcliffe stubbornness.
Oscar can contain himself no longer. He pushes back his chair with a scrape and strides to Julie, pulling her from her dance into his lap with a coarse laugh. She goes pliantly, like the well-trained doll she is. Across the table, Leo gives a low chuckle and crooks a finger at Felice. She glides over, and his hand immediately settles on her waist, then slides down to cup her rear, pulling her close against his side. He murmurs something to her and she laughs, a bright, empty sound.
This is the transaction. They complement my taste, my property, by using it.
I keep one eye on Grace. She is trying so hard to be invisible, to become part of the stonework. She watches the other women with a mixture of pity and terror, her hands clenched at her sides. She doesn’t understand that her attempt to hide only makes her more visible, a still point in the chaos, a flicker of something real in a room full of artifice.
It is Leo who sees her. His predatory eyes, sharp even through the brandy, scan the room and pause. He squints, and then a slow, recognitive smile spreads across his face.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice cutting through the music. He releases Felice and points his cigar toward the shadows. “Is that who I think it is? Grace fucking Ratcliffe in the flesh?”
My body goes still, but I keep my expression neutral. I had wondered if they would recognize her. Both were at her auction, after all.
Oscar looks up from nuzzling Julie’s neck. “What? Seriously?” He peers into the gloom. “Christ, it is her.”
Grace flinches as if struck, her eyes wide with pure panic. She looks like a rabbit frozen in the gaze of a wolf. This must be the first time in a while that anyone has spoken her name, her real name.
Leo stands, his interest fully captured by this new, unexpected prize. He takes a step toward her, his hand outstretched not with force, but with an entitled assurance that is somehow worse. “This is a rare treat. Come here, bitch. Let’s have a proper look at you.”
I move before his fingers can brush her arm. I am beside him in three swift strides, my hand closing firmly but not aggressively around his forearm, stopping its trajectory.
“No, Leo,” I say, my voice dropping, losing all its previous congeniality. It is flat, final, the tone I use in boardrooms to end discussions.
He turns to me, surprised, then mildly offended. Oscar watches, intrigued. The music plays on, but the women have stopped moving, the atmosphere snapped taut.
“No?” Leo asks, a challenge flickering in his eyes. He is not used to being denied.
“That one is not available,” I say, holding his gaze. I release his arm. I need to give him a reason he will understand, one that fits the narrative of the evening and doesn’t make this abouther, but aboutme. “She is a recent acquisition. She is not fully trained for one thing, and I have yet to fully enjoy her. I don’t want her used up by others just yet.”
I see the calculation in his eyes. He understands possessiveness. He understands viewing a woman as a commodity to be consumed. His offense meltsaway, replaced by a smirk of male camaraderie. He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Of course, of course. A man must break in his own new sports car. I understand perfectly,” he says, chuckling. He shoots a last, lingering look at Grace who is trembling visibly now, before turning back to Felice. “Plenty of other beautiful distractions here.”
The tension breaks. Oscar laughs and goes back to his entertainment. Leo reclaims his seat, pulling Felice onto his lap, his attention already diverted by her unhooking her dress and pressing her now naked breasts into his face.
But my attention is now solely on the girl in the shadows.
I close the distance between us. She doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the floor, her entire body rigid with the effort of not bolting.
“Come,” I command, my voice low enough for only her to hear.
