1
Lily
The lights are too bright.
Blinding white, pointed directly at me, hot enough that sweat trickles down my spine beneath the thin silk of the dress they put me in. I can't see past the glare—just vague shapes in the darkness beyond. Rows of them. Men in expensive suits, sitting in plush chairs, sipping drinks while they decide what I'm worth.
I can hear them, though. Low murmurs. Numbers climbing. The scratch of pens on paper. Someone laughs—a low, ugly sound—and it crawls up my spine like cold fingers.
Fifty thousand.
Seventy-five.
One hundred thousand.
The platform beneath my feet is cold marble. My toes curl against it, seeking warmth that isn't there. They took my shoes. Said buyers like to see the whole package.
Package.
That's what I am now.
The slip dress is white silk, thin enough that I might as well be naked. It cost more than any foster home ever spent on me in a year—I heard one of the handlers say so. Designer. The buyers expect quality, apparently.
The air smells wrong. Expensive cologne and cigar smoke layered over something chemical. Antiseptic, maybe. Like they need to keep things clean. Sterile.
Like a hospital.
Or a slaughterhouse.
A month ago, I was still living with the Hendersons. My last foster family. They'd taken me in at sixteen, smiled at the social workers, collected their checks. I thought maybe, finally, I'd found somewhere I could stay. Somewhere I belonged.
I was supposed to turn nineteen next week.
Instead, three weeks before my birthday, two men showed up at the house. Mrs. Henderson told me to go with them.It's fine, sweetheart. They're going to help you find a job.She didn't look at me when she said it. Mr. Henderson counted the cash in the kitchen.
I still don't know how much they got for me. Enough to cover their drug debts, probably. Maybe more. I'd been with them for almost three years. I'd cooked their meals. Cleaned their house. Believed them when they said I was like a daughter to them.
Four weeks of being moved, processed, prepared. Four weeks of learning that tears don't help. Four weeks of doctors with cold hands and handlers who looked at me like livestock.
And tonight, I finally go to the highest bidder.
"Virgin," the auctioneer announces, and my stomach lurches. "Verified. Documentation available for the winning bidder."
A ripple goes through the crowd. More numbers.
One hundred thousand.
One-fifty.
Two hundred fifty thousand.
I stopped crying two weeks ago. Somewhere between the first warehouse and the doctor who examined me with clinical detachment and colder eyes. Crying doesn't help. No one's coming to save me. I've been alone since I was eight years old, bouncing through foster homes like a piece of furniture no one wanted to keep.
This is just more of the same.
Except worse. So much worse.
"Five hundred thousand," someone calls out. A different voice. Smooth. Cultured.
