"You are tonight," the man behind me murmurs.
"Fifty thousand," someone calls from the dark.
My head snaps toward the sound.
They're actually doing this. This is real.
"Fifty?" Mick laughs like they're haggling over a painting, not a person. "Come on, boys. Look at her. Hips, ass, all that dedication to housekeeping. She's worth more than that."
"Seventy-five," a voice to the left. Russian, if the accent is anything to go by.
"One hundred," another man cuts in, clipped and annoyed.
Numbers keep climbing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sylvie being held just off-center stage by another man in a suit, her dress riding up as she struggles. She's furious.
"Thea," she hisses. "What do we do?"
I don't know.
But I know what I'm not doing. I'm not going quietly.
"Mick, you slimy bastard," I snarl. "People know where we are. Cameras exist. You are not getting away with"
"Security has the cameras," he says lightly, not even turning my way. "One twenty-five."
My blood runs cold.
"And security works for them," he adds, motioning to the men in the room.
"Two hundred," from the back.
"Two fifty."
My grip tightens on my own forearms, like I can hold myself together through sheer stubbornness.
On reflex, I scan faces in the shadows. Some are half-hidden. Some don't care if I see them. A few tables have women at them, glossy and smiling, watching like this is high-end entertainment.
Like this is normal.
I memorize what I can.
Red tie, front left. Scar over eyebrow, back table. Woman in emerald earrings, laughing like I’m the entertainment.
If I get out of here, I am taking names.
"Three hundred," someone calls.
"Three fifty."
I swallow the bile rising in my throat.
Then a chair scrapes.
A man stands.
He doesn't shout his bid. He doesn't have to. The room goes quiet on contact.
