It wasn’t an easy bid. It didn’t end quickly. It went on and on, the numbers stacking up so high my brain started sliding away from them. My chest was so tight I couldn’t draw a full breath.
I couldn’t see anything beyond the lights.
That was on purpose. They didn’t want me to see faces. They didn’t want me catching a glimpse of who was buying me. They didn’t want me to know if it was one man or five or a whole table quietly pushing a number up just because they could.
I didn’t even see paddles. No one lifted a sign in the air like the movies. The bids were anonymous, and the crowd was dark, and everything was controlled and hidden.
Sometimes the host couldn’t keep up. I heard it in the way his voice stumbled for a beat, like he was being fed numbers too fast. Like something in his ear was firing and firing and firing, and he was trying not to lose the room.
The room loved it.
Every time the number jumped, there was a low sound from the crowd. Approval. Hunger. Entertainment. They reacted when I stepped onto the stage. I heard it. I felt it. The air thickened, and I knew, I knew, I knew what they were thinking even if I couldn’t see them.
I told myself this was normal for them. This was just what rich people did when they wanted something. They spent money like it wasn’t real. They treated it like a game.
But even in the moment, even with the light blinding me and my hands shaking and my mouth locked into that soft, obedient smile, a part of me thought—
This is too much.
Who the hell spends that much for one night?
Who looks at a girl they can’t even see properly—because the light makes her a silhouette with highlights—and decides she’s worth a number that high? Pay off debt. Keep someone alive.
My throat burns again. I press two fingers to my neck, feeling my pulse slam under the skin.
Seventy thousand.
It’s not relief.
It should be. It should be relief so intense that I collapse with gratitude. It should be me sobbing because I can pay for thesurgery and more, my dad can get a chance, and I can breathe again.
But it’s not.
It’s horror.
Because a man doesn’t spend that much money unless he thinks he’s buying something much more than one night.
Unless he thinks he’s buying ownership.
Unless he thinks he’s buying the right to do whatever he wants.
Whenever he wants.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to inhale slowly. In. Out. Slow. The same way I told myself in the mirror earlier.
There’s a chime.
Not a knock. Not someone calling my name. A small, clear sound from somewhere in the suite that makes my head snap up.
A warning bell.
The woman who escorted me back here—still smooth, still calm, like this is an office job—told me what it meant.
Twenty minutes.
I have twenty minutes alone before the winner comes in.
My heart stutters. My mouth goes dry so fast it feels like the inside of it shrinks.
