Chapter 11 "Stop fidgeting." Madame Rouge's command is punctuated by a sharp tug on my hair that sends pain shooting across my scalp. "You've already cost us one private viewing. Mr. Petrov was most displeased." I stay silent, but my mind races, replaying this morning's events like a film on loop. After Dante's visit-that electric moment when we were finally alone, when he'd whispered his plans against my ear while making it look like an intimate examination to anyone watching through the cameras-everything had gone wrong. "Tonight," he'd breathed, his hands gentle but clinical as they traced my arms, checking for injuries. To observers, it looked like a buyer evaluating his potential purchase. To me, it was salvation wrapped in careful theater. "When the lights go out, east exit. Count to ten, then run. Don't stop for anything." But then some Russian buyer had burst in, furious about his delayed viewing. Viktor something. The look on Dante's face when that door slammed open-pure rage barely contained beneath his Russian mask. The way the newcomer's eyes had narrowed, studying Dante like he was solving a puzzle. The tension was so thick it was suffocating. And now Viktor is downstairs, probably telling everyone exactly who Dante really is. "There." Madame Rouge steps back, surveying her work like an artist contemplating a masterpiece. The dress is black this time, barely there and ridiculously expensive. Silk that glides against my skin, cut to showcase every curve while maintaining an illusion of elegance. My hair falls in careful waves down my back, makeup applied to enhance my features without making me look like I'm trying too hard. A virgin sacrifice, all wrapped up in designer packaging. The irony isn't lost on me. They want me to look both innocent and seductive, pure yet available. The perfect combination to drive up bidding among men who see possession as the ultimate luxury. In the preparation room, they're working on the other girls. Maisie can barely stand, her back still raw from last night's beating, but they've covered the marks with heavy concealer and forced her into a silver gown that makes her look like a fallen angel. She catches my eye in the mirror, her reflection pale but determined. She tries to smile, and the brave attempt breaks my heart. Ava sits ramrod straight while they style her hair, her dark eyes fixed on something beyond the mirror. She's lost weight, her cheekbones sharper, her elegant gown hanging looser than it should. Jessica's hands flutter like trapped birds as they work on her makeup, her blue eyes wide with terror. She keeps looking toward the door where we can hear the auction beginning, each distant voice making her flinch. The red lipstick they're applying makes her look older, more sophisticated, but nothing can hide the child-like fear radiating from her. Natalie sits perfectly still in emerald green, but I notice her fingers tapping against her thigh in a pattern-morse code, I realize. SOS, over and over again. At least some part of her is still fighting, even if she can't speak. Zoe has been subdued with something stronger tonight. Her usual manic energy has been replaced by an eerie calm, her movements slow and deliberate. Kira applies her own lipstick with steady hands, checking her reflection with the efficiency of someone preparing for a board meeting. She's braided a small section of her hair in an intricate pattern-something that looks decorative but might be significant in her culture. A message, perhaps, or a prayer. "Time for the first lot," Madame Rouge announces, her voice carrying the cheerful efficiency of a hostess at a dinner party rather than someone orchestrating the sale of human beings. They lead out Jessica first. My heart clenches as she stumbles slightly, legs unsteady with fear. I hear the bidding start through the doors-clinical, detached numbers that make me physically sick. Millions of dollars being thrown around like pocket change, buying and selling a girl's entire future with the casual ease of a stock transaction. When Jessica returns twenty minutes later, her face is blank, eyes empty. The spark that made her human has been extinguished. Someone bought her. Someone now owns her. "Sold for 3.2 million," one of the handlers announces with satisfaction, as if he's discussing livestock prices at market. Maisie is next. I grab her hand as she passes, squeezing once. Stay strong. She nods, straightening her shoulders despite the pain. Beautiful, brave Maisie who has forgiven me for last night's disastrous escape attempt. The bidding for her is faster, more aggressive. Through the walls, I can hear voices growing heated, competitive. When she comes back, mascara tracks down her cheeks, but her spine is still straight. "4.7 million." Almost five million dollars for my friend. The obscene amounts make me want to scream, to tear at my hair, to demand that someone explain how human lives can be reduced to numbers on a bid sheet. One by one, the girls are led out. One by one, they return with that same hollow look, like something essential has been carved out of them. Natalie: 6.2 million. She doesn't even react when they announce her sale, just stares at the wall. Ava: 5.1 million. She returns with fresh bruises where someone grabbed her too hard during "inspection." Zoe: 3.8 million, sold at a discount because of her "condition." She's laughing when they bring her back, high-pitched and broken. Kira: 7.5 million. She returns with the same cool expression, as if she's just completed a mildly interesting business meeting. Finally, only I'm left. The preparation room feels cavernous without the others. Empty chairs and abandoned makeup bottles scattered across vanity surfaces like evidence of lives interrupted. I sit alone, hands folded in my lap, trying to control my breathing as footsteps approach. "And now," Madame Rouge's voice drifts through the doors, amplified and honeyed for her audience, "our premier offering." My legs feel like lead as they guide me toward the stage entrance. Each step echoes in the hallway, the sound of my high heels on marble counting down to my fate. The lights are blinding as we approach-stage lighting designed to showcase the "merchandise" to best advantage. The crowd beyond is a dark mass of faces, suits, and money. Predators gathering for the final course. Classical music plays softly through hidden speakers-Wagner, I realize with a twist of nausea. The Ride of the Valkyries. How perfectly appropriate for my own personal apocalypse. "From one of Italy's most influential families..." Madame Rouge's voice fades to white noise as I'm guided onto the platform. The lights are even brighter here, hot against my skin, making it impossible to see individual faces in the audience. I scan the crowd desperately, looking for familiar gray eyes. Where is he? Then I see him. Dante. Still in his Russian disguise, the gray at his temples catching the light. The promise of freedom steadies me. It's so close I can almost taste it. But something's wrong. Terribly wrong. The man sitting next to him-the angry Russian from this morning's interrupted viewing-is watching Dante too closely. Leaning over to whisper to his neighbors. Pointing subtly. More heads turn toward Dante, conversations starting and stopping as information spreads through the room like poison. Dante's jaw is tight, his hand white-knuckled around his auction paddle. Even from here, I can see the tension thrumming through him, the careful control threatening to crack. They know. Or they suspect. Either way, his cover is blown. "The bidding will begin at eight million," Madame Rouge announces, her voice professionally cheerful despite the undercurrent of danger I can feel building. Eight million dollars. For me. For the right to own me like a piece of furniture or a work of art. Paddles shoot up around the room like flowers blooming in a garden of greed. Eight million. Nine million. Ten. Twelve. The numbers climb with obscene speed, each bid representing years of my life, everything I am and ever could be. "Do I hear thirteen?" Madame Rouge calls out, and immediately three paddles rise. These men aren't just willing to pay millions for a human being-they're competing for the privilege. Fighting over who gets to own me. "Thirteen million! Excellent!" Her voice takes on the enthusiasm of a livestock auctioneer. "Note the excellent muscle tone, gentlemen. Daily exercise regimen maintained throughout her stay. And may I remind you, full medical documentation is included with purchase-blood work, genetic screening, fertility assessments." My face burns with humiliation. They're discussing my body like I'm a broodmare. "Fourteen million from the gentleman in the blue tie," she continues, gesturing toward a silver-haired man who's studying me through small binoculars-binoculars-like I'm a fucking bird he's considering for his collection. "But I want to inspect the teeth first," he calls out. Inspect the teeth. Like I'm a horse at market. "All dental records are available," Madame Rouge purrs. "Perfect orthodontic work, no cavities. And might I remind everyone, she speaks three languages fluently. Quite useful for certain...international arrangements." Someone in the front row-a man old enough to be my grandfather, his wedding ring glinting in the lights-raises his paddle. "Fourteen million. And I'll need confirmation of...purity." "Medical documentation confirms virginity, yes," Madame Rouge responds matter-of-factly, as if discussing the provenance of a painting. "Quite rare in today's market." I want to die. Want to disappear. Want to scream that I'm a person, not livestock, not property to be evaluated and sold. I force myself to breathe. To stay still on this platform like a good piece of merchandise. To remember Dante's whispered instructions: When the lights go out, run for the east exit. Don't stop for anything. But will the lights go out? Can his plan still work if they've identified him? "Fifteen million," the Russian-Viktor-calls out, his voice carrying clearly through the room. He's smirking at Dante, playing some game I don't understand but can feel the malice of. "Eighteen," Dante counters, his accent still perfect despite the tension I can see in every line of his body. The room stirs, sensing drama. Money is always entertaining, but conflict between bidders? That's theater. Madame Rouge's smile widens like a shark scenting blood in the water. "Twenty million." Viktor again, leaning back in his chair with false casualness. "Twenty-five." Dante's voice is steady, giving nothing away, but I can see his free hand clenched into a fist beneath the table. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure everyone in the room must hear it, the sound echoing in my ears like thunder. Twenty-five million dollars. More money than most people see in a lifetime, being casually tossed around to determine who owns me. Viktor is still whispering to his neighbors, his voice too low for me to hear but his intent clear. Whatever he's saying is spreading through the room like wildfire, no longer the slow poison from earlier. More people turning to stare at Dante. Security guards shifting position. "Thirty million," the Russian says silkily. "And a question for my fellow bidder-how long did you really serve in St. Petersburg, Dmitri?" The room goes very still. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...