One emergency exit sign glowing red at the far end.
One chance, maybe, if Raven’s team is on time.
The door opens ahead of us.
Warm light spills into the corridor.
Sound follows.
Low voices. Glassware. A ripple of male laughter. The contained murmur of wealthy men pretending this is a business arrangement rather than an appetite with a price tag.
My stomach turns.
That part is not performance.
I let them see only what helps.
The room is wide and dim, all amber lighting and velvet shadows, with a raised stage at one end and small round tables arranged in a loose half circle around it. There are men seated everywhere. Men in tailored suits, men with watches worth more than most cars, men with soft hands and dead eyes. Some are talking. Some are drinking. Some turn to look the moment I am brought in, and their attention moves over me in a way that makes my skin want to leave my body.
I lower my gaze.
I do not lower my awareness.
Two exits in front. One double door, one service door. Three guards at the walls. Two near the bar. One near the stage. Cameras in the corners, but not enough. The people running this place trust their guests too much or fear them too little, and either mistake can be useful.
The man behind me pushes me toward the stage.
“Please,” I say, letting the word break in the middle. “I didn’t do anything, let me go.”
“Nobody said you did.” He gives my arm another sharp pull, pointing toward the floor. “Kneel and do as you're told.”
There are already three women kneeling there.
One is crying silently, tears slipping down her face without a sound. One is staring into the middle distance, her body present, the rest of her somewhere else. The third has a smile fixed on her mouth so tightly it looks painful.
That one makes my chest ache.
I know that smile.
I have used versions of it before.
Not tonight. Tonight, my role is trembling, wide-eyed, breakable. Tonight, I am supposed to be one more frightened girl thrown into the room at the end of the evening. The final offering. The kind of prize men save their largest numbers for because they do not understand that putting a price on a person tells the world more about the buyer than the merchandise.
“On your knees,” the man says.
I look up at him, long enough to let him see the fear in my eyes. “Please. I have money. I’ll never say a thing about any of this to anyone. Just let me go.”
His expression barely changes. “I guarantee you don’t have as much money as those men out there are willing to pay for you. Now, get on your knees.”
I hesitate, then he grabs the back of my neck and forces me down hard enough for my knees to sting through the thin fabric of the dress they put me in.
Black wood beneath me. Smooth. Recently polished. No exposed nails. No loose boards. No splinters. Nothing sharp enough to cut through the zip tie that was biting into my wrists.
Damn.
My hands are bound in front of me, not behind, because these men are arrogant but not stupid. It lets them display the restraints. Lets the room see helplessness as part of the product. It also lets me keep my fingers moving if I am careful.
I am careful.
