Warm air rolls over me as I cross the threshold—cologne layered over cigar smoke, expensive liquor, polished wood.
The elevator is waiting. This building is all corridors that don’t exist on any public map, doors that open for the right people, and silence that costs more than most families make in a year.
I tap the keycard I was given against the panel. No buttons. The doors slide shut, sealing me in with my own thoughts.
This isn’t a scene I usually find myself in.
I don’t need to pay for women. The women who end up in my orbit don’t ask for permission to want what they want—and they don’t make it complicated by pretending it’s about the money.
And a virgin?
That’s not even a fantasy for me. I like women who know what they’re doing. I like confidence. I like skill. I like it when someone meets my gaze and doesn’t flinch. Innocence isn’t interesting. It’s inconvenient.
So the fact that I’m here at all is already irritating me.
The doors open on the private level. The lighting is lower, the carpet darker, the hallway quiet in a way that muffles every footstep. There’s security posted at intervals—men in suits with earpieces, not the sort of guards you see in front of jewelry stores.
These men look like they’ve broken bones for a living and never once thought about it afterward.
I move toward the lounge where the main crowd gathers. I can already hear them: laughter that’s too sharp, voices pitched low as if they don’t want their words to carry outside these walls.
People who think money makes them untouchable always talk like they’re getting away with something.
And sometimes they are.
Then again, sometimes they forget there are different kinds of power in the world.
The door opens and sound spills out.
Amber lamps. Dark wood. Candlelight that throws warm flickers across glassware. Small clusters of men sitting around tables loaded with drinks. A few women, but not many.
Some buyers, some partners, some entertainment.
At the front of the room is the stage with a podium and microphone off to the side.
And beyond the stage, darkness.
They keep the crowd in shadow on purpose. The lights angle down so whoever is up there can’t see faces, can’t lock eyes, can’t read intentions. It makes the people bidding feel anonymous. It makes the product feel… managed.
It’s efficient.
It’s also cowardly.
I scan for the man who messaged me.
Friend of the family. That’s what you call someone who works around us long enough to learn the rules and live through it. Not blood. Not made. But reliable in the way that matters.
He’d kept it short.
There’s a girl on tonight’s list you’ll be interested in.
At first, I dismissed him. Why would I be interested in some woman auctioning herself off?
Then he gave me a name, and I had to come.
A leak. A problem. A loose thread that becomes a noose if left unattended.
I spot him near the bar—leaning, casually, drink in hand as if he belongs here. He meets my eyes, lifts his glass in the smallest possible greeting, then looks away like we’re strangers.
