"About the terms of the arrangement. I'd like to understand what's expected."
He looks confused, then intrigued. "What would you like to know?"
"Healthcare access. Would I have access to private medical care as part of the arrangement?"
"I... yes, of course. Standard provisions."
"Living arrangements. Would I maintain any degree of personal autonomy, or am I expected to be confined to a household?"
"That's rather a strong word. You'd live with your husband, naturally."
"And children. What are the expectations regarding timing?"
Emil shifts his weight. He's uncomfortable. Men at these dinners are accustomed to being pursued, charmed, performed for. They’re not accustomed to being interviewed.
"These are unusual questions for an auction dinner," he says.
"These are practical questions for a woman considering a permanent arrangement with a stranger. If the men at this dinner want wives rather than decorations, they should expect their potential wives to negotiate terms."
I say it calmly, in the even voice I’ve built up over years of fighting my own corner in doctors’ offices and benefits appointments and every other room where a woman in pain has to stay polite while she explains, for the hundredth time, that she isn’t making it up.
Emil excuses himself shortly afterward. The heavyset Petrov takes his place, and I ask him the same questions. He answers with more confidence and less discomfort, because he’s older and understands that pragmatism is its own kind of attraction. But I can tell he isn't the one. His eyes don't settle on me with any particular interest, and he moves on to the blonde beside the window after ten minutes.
I stand alone by the fireplace while the pain pulses and I press my hand against my side, quickly, two seconds of pressure before I release it and smooth my expression.
"You're asking the wrong questions."
The voice comes from my left, and I turn to find Akyl Mostovoi standing six feet away. He has approached without making a sound, which should be impossible for a man of his size, but he moves the way a predator would.
Up close, he’s sharper than his photographs. Hard angles, dark eyes under heavy brows, a jaw that looks built to intimidate. The navy suit fits him too well, the way good tailoring sits on a man when you can tell exactly what it’s covering.
"I'm asking exactly the right questions," I say. "I'm the only woman in this room asking any questions at all."
"You're asking about terms and provisions. Healthcare. Autonomy. Living arrangements." He tilts his head. "Those are contract questions. You're negotiating before you've selected a counterparty."
"I'm establishing minimum requirements. The counterparty is secondary to the conditions."
Something shifts in his expression. A fractional adjustment, so small I almost miss it. "That's an unusual approach."
"I'm an unusual candidate."
"I know." He says this with a certainty that tells me he's already read whatever file the broker assembled on me. "You're here because you need medical treatment you can't afford."
He says it without judgement or pity, and without the careful sympathy I've received from every doctor, clinical assessor and well-meaning friend who has ever told me they're so sorry and then done absolutely nothing to help.
"Yes," I say, and my voice doesn't crack, because I have had years of practice at keeping my voice from cracking.
"What's the condition?"
I could deflect and give him the sanitized version, the one I've been using at this dinner, about "health concerns" and "ongoing treatment." But this man already knows, and lying to someone who already knows the truth is a waste of energy I don't have.
"Severe endometriosis with adenomyosis. It's spread through my pelvic cavity. I need excision surgery from a specialist. The surgery is sixty-five thousand dollars and saving would take years, by which time the damage will likely be irreversible."
I watch him process this. His expression doesn't change, but something behind his eyes does.
"And you came here to trade marriage for treatment."
"I came here because I would like to live," I say. "I'm not here for diamonds or status or the thrill of being chosen by a powerful man. I'm here because my body is failing and the systems designed to help me have failed me too. The only currency I have left is myself and even that will be rendered useless without this treatment."
