My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
The noise behind the curtain swells again—louder, uglier, like whatever’s happening on the other side is a joke everyone has been waiting to hear.
The woman guides me farther into the staging room, and the heavy curtain becomes the only thing between me and the men I’m about to be displayed for. Between me and the clearly full room, even if I can only sense it at this point.
A small podium sits off to the side, and near it, a narrow table with a stack of cards and a sleek black device that looks like a remote control. A man in a suit stands there. Clipboard. Earpiece. Neutral expression like he’s clocking inventory.
He glances at me, then at the woman, then back down at his clipboard.
No one asks my name because it doesn’t matter.
The woman’s hand drops from my back. I miss the pressure immediately, even though I hated it. It was something solid in a room that makes me feel like I’m going to drown.
She looks me over again.
“Stand there,” she says, pointing to a spot near the curtain. “When I tell you to move, you move.”
My throat tightens. “Do I—do I say anything?”
“No,” she answers instantly. “Smile. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”
I nod, because nodding is all I can manage.
I step where she points and clasp my hands in front of me so she won’t see them shaking. My fingers feel too cold. My palms are damp. The silk of the dress slides under my grip like it’s alive, and I hate how little control I have over it. Over any of this.
The curtain ripples slightly as something brushes it from the other side. A shadow shifts across the fabric.
A laugh bursts out beyond it. A deeper voice follows; words lost under the noise.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep my breathing quiet. In through my nose. Out. Slowly.
The staging room is too warm. Or I’m too warm. Heat crawls under my skin while my stomach keeps rolling like there’s a tide in there. I taste acid at the back of my throat.
Twenty thousand dollars.
I say it in my head like a spell.
Twenty thousand.
A shot.
A man steps into the staging room from a side door. Security, maybe. He doesn’t look at me as a person either. He looks at me the way the woman did—as if he’s checking that I’m still here, still compliant, still ready to be delivered, like a piece of live merchandise.
He speaks into the mic clipped to his collar. Murmurs a response. Nods once.
Then he moves away again and stands with his back to the door, arms folded.
My pulse climbs.
There’s no exit.
I know it intellectually, but standing here makes it feel physical. Bolted windows upstairs. Guards at doors. Men in suits who don’t smile.
Discretion is guaranteed.
Security is present.
I repeat it again, trying to make it matter.
