As the doors slid shut, I saw the reception woman look back down at her tablet.
The elevator rose.
No music played. No numbers lit above the door. The faint pull in my stomach sharpened as the floor climbed, and the woman’s reflection stood beside mine, calm as a locked drawer.
“What happens upstairs?” I asked.
“Intake. Preparation. Waiting. Presentation.”
“You say that like I’m a dessert tray.”
Her gaze flicked to me in the mirror. “It’s better if you listen the first time.”
“I’m listening.”
“Then don’t make them repeat anything.”
The elevator stopped.
The doors opened onto a hallway washed in pearl light. Thick carpet swallowed our footsteps. Tall arrangements of white lilies stood on black pedestals between smoked mirrors. Somewhere beyond the walls, men laughed softly. Glasses chimed. A pianoplayed a slow, pretty tune that made the hallway feel even colder.
The staff member led me through one locked door, then another. Each opened with her keycard. Each shut behind us.
The women’s prep suite looked like a bridal salon until I noticed the lock on the door.
Cream walls. Champagne velvet chairs. Long mirrors framed in smoked glass. Vanity stations lit by soft bulbs. Garment racks holding pale silk and satin. Black marble counters lined with brushes, powder, pins, and lipsticks in shades of pink and rose. A tray of champagne flutes sat beside a silver pitcher of water beading with condensation.
Six women were already inside.
One stood near a garment rack in a pale slip, arms wrapped around herself, her red hair falling in soft curls to her shoulders. Another sat at a vanity while an attendant painted color onto her mouth. A tall blonde stared at the floor with her jaw tight and her hands flat on her knees. Two women whispered together on a velvet couch until the door clicked shut behind me. The last looked younger than me, with dark skin, wide eyes, and a necklace she kept touching until an attendant quietly removed it and placed it into a numbered pouch.
No one reacted to me.
I tucked my empty hands against my skirt.
An older woman crossed the room toward me. She wore the same black uniform as the others, but hers fit with sharper lines. Her hair was lacquered into a smooth dark helmet, her lashes thick and false, her nails painted a deep wine red. Powder softened the lines around her mouth without hiding them.
“I’m Polina,” she said. “You’ll come with me.”
Her voice held a faint Russian edge, practical and low. Not kind. Not cruel. A voice for getting through things.
“What happens if I change my mind?” I asked.
The room went quieter around me.
Polina’s eyes stayed on mine. “Before presentation, you can ask to leave. The house may charge costs. No sale, no payment. After settlement, you leave with the buyer unless management stops transfer.”
“Management.”
“Yes.”
“And if the buyer is someone I don’t want?”
Polina’s mouth tightened by half a breath. “This isn’t the room for that question.”
“Which room is?”
“The one you should have asked before you arrived.”
