Chapter 5 My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, my thoughts moving slow and sticky through the fog. Something soft is beneath me-silk sheets, expensive thread count. The kind Mom insists on for the main house, imported from Italy at some ridiculous price. But this isn't my bed. Reality crashes back like a tidal wave. The intruders. The phone call to Marco. The chemical-soaked cloth over my face. I bolt upright, fighting down panic as the room spins. My stomach heaves, but I swallow hard against the nausea. Focus. Assess the situation. Plan your moves. Stay alive. Marco's voice in my head, from all those security briefings I used to roll my eyes at. Now I cling to his instructions like a lifeline. The room is beautiful in the way expensive hotel suites are beautiful-all cream and gold, abstract art on the walls, fresh flowers in crystal vases. But the windows are blocked by ornate metal grates, and the elegant double doors are reinforced steel beneath their wooden veneer. A gilded cage. I scan the room methodically, the way Dad and Marco taught me. Look for weaknesses. For opportunities. For anything that might help me understand where I am and who took me. The art is generic but high-end. The flowers are fresh orchids and lilies-expensive, requiring daily attention. The furniture is antique, European. Nothing has a manufacturer's mark or hotel logo. Nothing gives away our location. Moving makes my stomach roll, but I force myself to my feet, gripping the bedpost until the dizziness passes. The chloroform-or whatever they used-hasn't fully cleared my system. I need to be careful. Patient. Clear-headed. Designer clothes hang in the open closet, all in my size. I flip through them quickly. Valentino. Gucci. Prada. More money than most people see in a year, hanging casually in a prison cell. I check every pocket, every fold, but find nothing useful. No tags with store locations, no receipts, nothing that would give me information. The attached bathroom has high-end toiletries, fluffy towels, a rainfall shower-and no mirrors. Nothing that could be broken and used as a weapon. The soap dishes are soft silicone. The shower fixtures, while gleaming like metal, are actually some kind of reinforced plastic. Even the toilet paper holder is designed to collapse under pressure rather than become a potential weapon. These people know what they're doing. These aren't amateurs or opportunists. This is an operation refined through experience. My chest tightens as the implications hit me. How many girls have been here before me? How many rooms like this exist? A knock at the door makes me jump. Before I can decide how to respond, it opens, revealing a girl about my age. Tall, willowy, with a ballerina's grace and hollow eyes. She's beautiful in a classic, ethereal way-the kind of beauty that makes people stare. But there's something broken in her expression that makes my heart clench. "Breakfast," she says quietly, wheeling in a cart laden with food. "You should eat. Keep your strength up." "Where am I?" My voice comes out raspy, throat dry from whatever drug they used. She glances nervously at the camera I hadn't noticed in the corner. It's small, sleek, almost invisible where it's nestled in the crown molding. Professional equipment. I mentally map its field of vision, calculating the blind spots. "The Gilded Rose. That's what they call this place." Her accent is faintly British, refined. Private school education. "I'm Maisie." "Sofia." I watch her arrange plates on the small table by the window, noting the precision of her movements. She's been trained to do this. "How long have you been here?" "Five days." Her hands shake slightly as she pours coffee into a porcelain cup. Fine China, not the kind that breaks into sharp edges. Everything here has been carefully considered. "The auction's in two days. They'll start prepping us tomorrow." My blood chills. "Auction?" Maisie's eyes meet mine, full of a horrible understanding. "You really don't know? This is one of the most exclusive auction houses in the underground world. They only deal in certain...commodities." "People," I translate, bile rising in my throat. "They sell people." She nods. "Very specific people. Daughters of influence. Girls with connections. The higher the price we'll fetch, the better our accommodations." Her laugh is bitter. "Lucky us, right?" "How many others?" I force myself to sit at the table. If I'm going to find a way out, I need information. Need to keep my mind clear. Need to understand what we're facing. "Seven total, including us." Maisie perches on the edge of a chair, her movements birdlike and nervous. "They house us separately, but we'll see each other during 'preparation.' Beauty treatments, etiquette lessons, documentation of our...assets." The way she says that last word makes me want to scream. Instead, I take a sip of coffee. It's perfect-exactly how I like it, with a hint of vanilla and just enough cream. They've done their research. They know my preferences, my habits, probably my whole life. The violation of it makes my skin crawl. "Tell me about the others," I say quietly, keeping my voice casual. Just two girls chatting over breakfast. Nothing suspicious for whoever's monitoring that camera. Maisie glances at the camera again then starts arranging fruit on a plate with shaking hands. "The strawberries are lovely," she says, her voice slightly louder than necessary. "California girl, sweet but fragile. Just turned eighteen last month." She places the strawberry carefully on the plate. "Jessica cries herself to sleep every night. Her father's in tech, very powerful." I understand immediately what she's doing-using the fruit as a cover to tell me about the other girls. "The blueberries came from Maine," she continues, adding them to the plate. "Old money, political family. Natalie's been here three days, was supposed to go back for her senior year at Harvard next week." She arranges them in a pattern. "She's starting to give up hope." "And these?" I ask, pointing to the blackberries. "Local," Maisie says meaningfully. "Banking family, from right here in New York. Ava's nineteen." She leans closer, voice dropping. "Tried to run during transport. That's why she has those bruises on her arms when you see her later." My mind catalogs each detail, building profiles of potential allies or liabilities. Six young women, all valuable for their connections. All merchandise. "The raspberries," Maisie murmurs, placing them carefully on the plate, "are delicate. Need special care. Father manufactures things that go boom. Zoe needs her medication, but they're withholding it. She's becoming..." She makes a subtle circular motion near her temple. "And the pear?" I ask, noting the preciseness with which she slices it. "Imported. Russian diplomat's daughter. Kira speaks five languages and watches everything." Maisie gives me a meaningful look. "Very calculating. Like you, I think." Seven girls total. All from powerful families. All taken within the last week. All valuable for different reasons. All merchandise to these people. "The woman in charge of us, Madame Rouge?" Maisie continues, moving to the pastries. "She ensures we're properly prepared. Reviews our files. Makes notes about our...potential." The way she emphasizes certain words tells me more. Madame Rouge has files on us. Files that might have useful information. Access points. Security protocols. Maybe even the identity of whoever paid to have us taken. "When do we meet her?" I keep my voice casual, taking a bite of toast I can barely taste. "Daily inspections start at ten." Maisie's eyes hold a warning. "She's very...particular. Thirty years in this business has made her efficient. She can break a girl with just her voice." Maisie's shoulders hunch slightly. "She has this way of finding your weaknesses, your insecurities. Natalie-the senator's daughter-questioned her authority yesterday. Madame Rouge didn't raise her voice, didn't even call the guards. She just said a few words about Natalie's appearance, about how her father would probably be relieved to be rid of such a disappointment." Maisie's voice drops to a whisper. "Natalie hasn't spoken since." Psychological manipulation as the first line of control. Violence as the backup. Classic tactics, but no less effective. "The last girl who truly defied her? She wasn't treated to such nice accommodations afterward." Maisie's fingers trace a pattern on the tablecloth-three quick taps, two slow. A code? A nervous habit? "Madame has a system. Cooperate, and you stay comfortable. Fight, and you lose privileges. One girl last month-not part of our group-refused to eat. They force-fed her for three days before she broke. She was sold at a discount because of the marks on her face." Message received. Play along. Stay alert. Wait for an opening. A chime sounds through hidden speakers. Maisie stands quickly. "That's my signal. Someone will come for you at ten." She hesitates at the door. "Sofia? The ones who fight...they suffer more. Just...remember that." The door closes behind her with a heavy click. I hear the electronic lock engage-a soft, expensive sound. No cheap deadbolts here. Everything about this place speaks of money, of power, of connections that run deep. I force myself to eat mechanically, mind racing. The food is excellent-another message about what cooperation earns in this place. But my appetite is nonexistent as I process what I've learned. Two days until the auction. Marco and Dante will be looking for me. I know they will. Marco never stops once he sets his mind to something, and Dante-I push the thought of him away. I can't afford the distraction, the complicated emotions his face brings to mind. Not now. But they don't know about this place. Don't know about Madame Rouge and her files. Don't know about the other girls. I think about Jessica, crying for a father who probably doesn't yet know she's missing. About Natalie, silenced by carefully chosen words. About Ava, bruised for daring to run. About Zoe, denied medication she needs. About Kira, watching and waiting, just like me. About Maisie, delivering breakfasts and coded warnings. The camera whirrs as it tracks my movement to the bathroom. I notice it adjusts smoothly. Remotely controlled, not automated. Someone is actively watching me. I file that away-another piece of the puzzle. Turning on the shower, I let the water run hot enough to steam the air. Under the noise coverage, I whisper to myself, "I'm getting us all out of here." I just have to figure out how. The bathroom provides another opportunity to think without watchful eyes. I scan everything, looking for weaknesses in the construction, for anything I might use. The pipes under the sink are wrapped in some kind of soft, childproof covering. The shower head is fixed, impossible to remove. The toilet has no removable parts. I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of whatever drug they used. As my head clears, I start methodically breaking down the problem. First: I need to understand the layout of this place. The number of guards. The security systems. The daily routines. Second: I need allies. Maisie seems willing to help in small ways. Kira might be strategic enough to see the value in cooperation. Third: I need access. To files, to door codes, to anything that might give me leverage or a way out. Fourth: I need to understand who's behind this. Maisie mentioned the operation has been running for thirty years, but the Calabreses only started their auction house more recently. Is Dominic working with an established network or has he taken over an existing operation? I wash my hair with the expensive shampoo provided, forcing my hands not to shake. Fear won't help me now. Neither will anger, though I feel it building inside me like a storm. I need to be cold. Calculating. The kind of person who can look at human trafficking as a system to be dismantled rather than an atrocity to rage against. I need to be like Dante. The thought comes unbidden. His ability to compartmentalize, to see the chessboard while standing on it-that's what I need now. When I step out of the shower, I find clothes laid out on my bed-clearly delivered while I was in the bathroom. A delicate sundress in pale blue silk. Matching underwear with real lace. Designer sandals. All of it my size. It makes my skin crawl. But I put it on. Piece by piece, I arm myself with the costume they've chosen. The dress fits perfectly, designed to showcase my figure without being overtly sexual. Tasteful. Expensive. The kind of merchandise that commands top dollar. With each button, each clasp, I remind myself: This is temporary. This is strategy. This is survival. Let them think I'm cooperative. Let them think I'm scared. I am scared. The fear runs like ice water through my veins, threatening to paralyze me if I let it. I'm scared of what happens in two days if no one comes. Scared of who might "own" me if the auction proceeds. Scared of never seeing my family again. Never seeing Dante again. But under the fear is something harder. Something colder. Something that has faced down threats since I was old enough to understand my family name made me a target. I brush my hair with the soft-bristled brush provided, arranging it the way my mother taught me for formal occasions. I apply minimal makeup from the high-end cosmetics on the vanity. I transform myself into what they want to see: a valuable, compliant asset. Inside, I become something else. Something with steel for bones and ice for blood. I am scared. But I'm also Sofia Renaldi. I'm the girl who helped bring down Anthony Calabrese. I'm the girl who's been breaking into secure systems since I was fourteen. The girl who's always been underestimated, overlooked, protected-and who's always found a way to prove herself anyway. I can take down this operation too. I just need to stay alive long enough to do it. The camera tracks me as I move to the window, looking out through the ornate grate at manicured gardens below. I see nothing that indicates our location-no landmarks, no distinctive features. Just wealth and isolation. The electronic lock disengages, and I turn to face whoever enters with a neutral expression carefully crafted to show appropriate fear without defiance. The game begins now. And I intend to win. 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...