A murmur ripples through the crowd. Even the auctioneer pauses for a moment.
"Five hundred thousand to the gentleman in the third row," he recovers, voice climbing with excitement. "Do I hear five-fifty?"
Silence.
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.Please let it be over. Please let it be over. Please—
"Sold! To Senator Walsh for five hundred thousand dollars."
Senator.
The word registers slowly. A senator just bought me. An actual United States senator.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
A guard grabs my arm—rough fingers digging into flesh—and yanks me off the stage. My bare feet slap against cold concrete as I stumble backstage. It smells different here. Sweat. Fear. Mildew underneath the expensive perfume they sprayed on us.
There are other girls here. Waiting their turn, or already sold and waiting to be collected. Some of them are crying silently, tears streaking through carefully applied makeup. One girl, barely eighteen, is just staring at nothing. Completely blank. Her eyes are open but she's not there anymore.
I've only been here a month. She looks like she's been gone much longer.
I force myself to look away.
The guard shoves me into a small room with a mirror and a chair. Harsh fluorescent lighting. A water stain on the ceiling. "Wait here. Your buyer will collect you."
The door slams. Locks.
I sink into the chair and stare at my reflection. Green eyes too big for my face, the shadows beneath them not quite hidden by concealer. Dark hair they made me wash and curl until it shines. Pale skin with a bruise on my collarbone from when I tried to run last week—still purple at the edges, makeup barely covering it.
This is it,I think.This is your life now.
I don't know how long I wait. Minutes. Hours. Time stopped meaning anything weeks ago.
Then the door opens.
He's older than I expected. Maybe mid-fifties, with silver hair and a politician's smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Expensive suit. American flag pin on his lapel.
"Well," he says, looking me over like I'm a car he's thinking about buying. "Aren't you pretty."
I don't say anything. What's the point?
He walks closer. Reaches out and touches my hair. I flinch, and his smile widens.
"Skittish. I like that." His hand trails down to my shoulder. My collarbone. The bruise. "Someone's been rough with you already. Don't worry—I know how to handle delicate things."
Delicate things.
I want to throw up.
"Let's go," he says, grabbing my wrist. "We have somewhere to be."
The car is black. Tinted windows. A driver who doesn't look at me once.
Senator Walsh sits beside me in the backseat, his thigh pressed against mine even though there's plenty of room. He smells like whiskey and expensive cologne, and his hand keeps finding my knee.
"You're probably wondering where we're going," he says conversationally, like we're on a date instead of... this.
I stare out the window. City lights blur past. We're somewhere in Severny Harbor—I caught a glimpse of the water when they loaded me into the car. A port city, I think. I can smell salt and industry even through the closed windows.
