Good.
I don’t want anyone making note of connections.
I want to blend in just enough to do what I came to do.
A server glides past, tray balanced perfectly. I take a drink without asking what it is. Whiskey, neat. It burns on the way down, just the way I want it to.
I choose a table off-center—far enough back that I’m not making a statement by being too close, close enough that I can see the stage clearly. A good view without the attention of the front row.
Someone is already sitting there when I arrive.
A man in his late thirties, suit expensive, posture relaxed as if he thinks he owns the room. He smiles at me as I take the seat across from him.
“Conti,” he says, like he knows anything about anything.
I don’t bother smiling back. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t take the hint. Most men like him don’t. They’ve never had to read a room to survive.
“You come here often?” he asks, amused with himself.
“No.”
He laughs softly, like he thinks I’m playing. “First time for everything.”
I set my drink down. The handheld bidding paddle sits on the table near my right hand, sleek and black. The number attached to it matches a number they assigned me at the door. Efficient. Anonymous. Safe for them and for me.
Not safe for her.
I don’t look at the man anymore. I let him talk if he wants. I’m not here to make friends.
I don’t care if anyone knows I’m here. I just don’t want to be bothered.
The host steps up to the microphone, and the room quiets in the way it does when men with money are ready to spend it.
His voice is smooth, practiced. The kind of man who can sell cruelty as entertainment.
“Good evening,” he says. “Thank you for joining us.”
A low murmur of response. A few laughs. Someone clinks ice in a glass.
The host continues, speaking about discretion, exclusivity, the “quality” of what’s on offer tonight. He uses words that dress it up. Make it sound like a private club instead of a market.
But you can’t disguise what this is.
Not from me.
I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen men do worse. I’ve watched people justify their appetites with every reason under the sun.
This is just giving people an excuse to call it elegant.
“Stick around until the end. We have a very special guest for you tonight.” He says it suggestively, crudely.
The crowd eats it up. People hoot. Someone whistles sharply. The host smiles as if he’s proud of what he’s curating.
Which he is. The special guest is what a lot of people in this room are here for. Sure, these auctions happen frequently. But hearing that a new woman was up on the block… Blonde-haired, blue-eyed. Virginal.
It draws crowds.
