The door opens with a click, and Madame Veronique appears, gliding in like a model. Her dress is black, slinky, minimal. She’s put her hair up and lined her lips in a color just a shade too dark for comfort, like she wants to remind everyone she’s in charge.
She surveys me for a second—just a second—then nods to Sophia, businesslike.
“Thank you, Sophia,” she says. “Please make sure the lot numbers are ready.”
Sophia nods and disappears, leaving me alone with Veronique and her calculating eyes.
“Daisy,” Veronique says, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “do you understand how the evening will proceed?”
I nod. “Sophia explained it. I walk, then the bidding starts, then I?—”
She holds up a hand, silencing me. “No. You do not merely walk. Youdisplay. You become desire. You control the room with your presence, and you show the buyers you are worth every penny.” Her eyes narrow. “If you let the nerves get you, they will sense it. And the price will drop.”
Her words are calm, almost gentle, but each one lands with a thud.
“Confidence, poise, compliance,” she continues, ticking each word off on slim fingers. “The men are paying for a fantasy, Daisy. Give them one.”
I stare at her, not trusting my voice.
She steps closer, arranges a strand of my hair, then tugs the neckline of my gown down a millimeter so the top curves just above my nipple. The gesture is oddly maternal and clinical at once.
“Do you remember your walk?” she asks.
I nod, then stand, knees weak, and show her. I move in a straight line across the little room, trying to channel Sophia’s lessons—hips loose, chin up, eyes locked on a point beyond the world. I pause at the end, then turn, arms at my side like I’m holding secrets.
Veronique watches, silent and predatory, then smiles.
“You will do perfectly,” she says. “Just one more thing.” She presses something cold and metal into my hand: a small, silver necklace with my auction number engraved in script on a pendant the shape of an auction paddle.
“If you feel overwhelmed,” she whispers, “breathe and think of the future you want. Picture it as you walk.”
I nod, clutching the necklace so hard my fingers cramp.
Sophia returns, glowing, her own dress skintight and midnight blue. “They’re almost ready for you,” she says, bouncing on her toes. She comes over, squeezes my hand, and takes the necklace from me, helping me put it on.
“You’ve got this, girlfriend,” she whispers encouragingly. “Just do it like we practiced. You’re going to knock them dead.”
I want to hug her, or laugh, or faint. Instead, I nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
The next moments pass in a blur. A staff girl with a headset ushers us to a backstage corridor, and I follow in a daze, my heels clicking on the marble, my gown floating behind me. The air is electric here, thick with anticipation and the scent of too many flowers.
We stop at the edge of a velvet curtain, where the music pulses louder, and I hear an MC warming up the crowd, his voice smooth as velvet.
Sophia gives my arm a quick squeeze and then lets go.
“You’re next,” she mouths.
I wait in the dark, my body a live wire, every muscle trembling.
I should run, I think. I should turn and run and never look back. But I don’t. I stay rooted, knowing I asked for this, and that if I hesitate, everything will fall apart.
Behind me, Veronique says, “Now.”
The spotlight snaps on. My name booms from the speakers.
“Gentlemen, please welcome the night’s final lot: Daisy.”
I step forward.
