Chapter 7 "Don't flinch." Madame Rouge's perfectly manicured nails dig into my chin as she applies another coat of lip gloss. The woman hasn't stopped touching me for the past hour-adjusting my hair, smoothing my dress, treating me like a doll she's preparing for display. Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am. "Such lovely bone structure," she muses, turning my face side to side with clinical detachment. "The Renaldi genes served you well. Though we'll need to do something about that stubborn set of your jaw." I keep my expression neutral even as my skin crawls. In the mirrored wall behind her I catch sight of the others. Six other girls in various stages of preparation. Six other girls whose lives, like mine, have been reduced to price tags and selling points. Maisie is closest, being worked on by another stylist, her tall frame draped in something pink and ethereal that makes her look like a fairy tale princess. The irony isn't lost on me-the princess awaiting not a prince, but a purchaser. Jessica sits trembling while a makeup artist tries to cover the tear tracks on her cheeks. Eighteen years old. She's eerily silent, her blue eyes vacant. Breaking already. Beside her, Ava winces as a stylist covers the bruises on her shoulders with concealer. The marks from her escape attempt are still vivid against her dark skin. But there's a calculating anger in her eyes that tells me she hasn't given up. Just regrouping. She catches me watching and gives an almost imperceptible nod. Another potential ally. Natalie sits unnaturally still, back perfectly straight, eyes fixed on nothing. She hasn't spoken since Madame Rouge's psychological dismantling. The stylist working on her might as well be arranging a mannequin. In the corner, Zoe's hands won't stop shaking. Whatever medication they're withholding is clearly something she needs. She's muttering to herself, fingers twitching against the emerald green fabric of her dress. The guards watch her more closely than the others. They consider her unpredictable. Dangerous, maybe. Then there's Kira, the Russian diplomat's daughter. Unlike the rest of us, she looks almost bored. She meets my eyes in the mirror and raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. A challenge or a question? I can't quite tell, but there's intelligence in that gaze. Calculation. I avert my eyes before meeting Maisie's. Her slight nod steadies me. Seven young women trapped together. Seven stories. Seven lives intersecting in this nightmare. "There." Madame Rouge steps back, surveying her work like an artist contemplating a canvas. "Remember what we discussed. Grace. Poise. Submission." Her blood-red lips curve into what she probably thinks is an encouraging smile. "The merchandise that presents well earns the highest bids. The highest bids mean the most...comfortable futures." The threat in her voice is clear. I've seen the welts on Ava's back from her day of "rebellion." I've heard the stories Maisie whispered about girls who fought back. About their "accommodations" afterward. "Yes, Madame," I murmur, the words acid in my mouth. She pats my cheek in a grotesque parody of motherly affection. "Good girl. Five minutes until the preview begins." As soon as she sweeps from the room in a cloud of expensive perfume, I force down the urge to wipe my face clean. To tear off this wisp of blue silk they've put me in. To scream until my throat bleeds. Instead, I breathe. Focus. Assess the situation. Plan your moves. Stay alive. Not just for myself, but for the six other women trapped here with me. "You're up first," Maisie whispers, sliding closer under the pretense of borrowing a hairpin. "They always start with the most valuable." My stomach turns. "How many...viewers?" "About thirty. All men. All rich." Her hands shake slightly as she fusses with her hair. "Don't make eye contact. Don't react to anything they say. Just...float. Like none of it's real." But it is real. Horrifyingly real. The nightmare I've spent my life being protected from, only to end up here anyway. "There's a rhythm to it," Kira adds unexpectedly, her voice low and accented. She's moved closer, pretending to adjust her makeup. "They will look first at your face, then your body, then back to your face. They are assessing whether you are broken yet or if you still need breaking." Her perfect English carries no emotion. "Make them think you are exactly what they want-whatever that is." Zoe laughs suddenly, a high, unnerving sound. "We're all just paper dolls," she says, too loudly. "Dress us up. Tear us apart. It doesn't matter." A guard steps forward, a hand moving to the baton at his belt. Ava quickly intervenes, putting a steadying hand on Zoe's arm. "She's fine," she says firmly. "Just nerves." I file away this interaction. Ava is protective. Zoe is unstable but possibly useful as a distraction. Kira is observant. Natalie is completely shut down. Jessica is barely hanging on. The guard appears in the doorway. "Time." Walking to that ballroom feels like walking to my execution. Maybe it is. The marble is cold under my bare feet-no shoes allowed, another way to make us feel vulnerable. It's just another reminder that we are merchandise, not people. Music drifts through the doors, something classical and haunting. Rachmaninoff, I think. Dad's favorite. Dad. The thought of him sends a wave of emotion through me. Is he looking for me? Do they all know I'm missing by now? Of course they do. Marco would have raised the alarm instantly. The entire Renaldi network would be mobilized. They must be looking for me. Dante must be tearing apart the city. I cling to that knowledge as I approach the double doors. "Chin up," the guard growls. "Shoulders back." I obey, but not out of submission. I'm a Renaldi. If these bastards want to look at me, they'll see exactly who I am. Who they've dared to take. My fear is still there, but beneath it burns something hotter. Something that keeps me standing when my knees want to buckle. The doors open. Light hits my face, momentarily blinding me after the dimmer preparation room. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over everything, creating an atmosphere of luxury that can't disguise the fundamental ugliness of what's happening. Madame Rouge's voice cuts through the soft murmur of conversation. One woman besides Madame Rouge-severe-looking, standing near what must be a Japanese businessman based on his entourage. Madame Rouge circles me like a predator, her red dress a splash of blood against the cream and gold of the room. She describes my "attributes" like I'm a show pony. My education. My languages. My family connections. She keeps my last name unspoken but drops enough hints that anyone with connections to New York's elite would recognize the Renaldi in my bones. "A rare opportunity," she purrs to her audience. "Beauty and breeding, yes, but also exceptional intellect. Top of her class at university. Skilled with computers-something many of you might find...useful in your enterprises." The casual mention of my skills sends a chill through me. They don't just want my body. They want my mind. My abilities. Everything that makes me me. And then-there. A flash of something familiar. My eyes drop automatically to the source, and my heart stops. Because I know those eyes. Would know them anywhere, even surrounded by a stranger's face. Dante. He looks different-older, somehow, with grey at his temples and subtle changes to his features I can't quite identify. But those eyes...those storm-grey eyes that have haunted my dreams for years. I start to move, to speak, before I catch myself. No. If he's here, there's a reason. I force my gaze onward, praying I didn't give him away. But hope blooms in my chest, fierce and bright, pushing back against the fear that's been my constant companion. He came for me. They're coming for me. It takes everything I have not to keep looking at him, not to draw strength from his presence. Instead, I let my gaze drift emptily over the crowd, playing the role of the doll they expect. "Turn for us, my dear," Madame Rouge commands, her hand at the small of my back guiding me into a slow rotation. I comply, moving robotically, but as I turn, I use the opportunity to scan the room more thoroughly. To check for any missed exits, for weaknesses, for anything that might help our escape. And yes-to steal another glance at Dante. He sits among them, looking for all the world like he belongs. His posture is different-more rigid, more formal. He holds himself like European old money, not like the coiled weapon I know him to be. He's playing a role and playing it well. But I see the rage in his eyes, carefully banked but burning. There's tension in his jaw, his fingers gripping his pen too tightly as he makes notes in a leather portfolio. I endure Madame Rouge's monologue about my "potential value." Let her display me like artwork. All the while, my mind races, building a plan, coordinating with what I assume must be Dante's strategy. "The bidding will begin at five million," Madame Rouge announces, her hand possessively on my shoulder. "Though we expect the final price to be...significantly higher." Five million dollars. That's what my life is worth to these people. The knowledge should horrify me, but instead it fuels the anger building inside me. The anger that's keeping me functional, keeping me thinking instead of breaking. When they finally lead me off the platform, my legs are shaking from the effort of standing still instead of launching myself at Madame Rouge's throat. In the preparation room, I sink onto a velvet settee, fighting for composure. "You did well," Maisie whispers, squeezing my hand as she's led out for her own display. "Very...floating." I watch her go, guilt churning in my stomach. I could leave now, knowing rescue is coming. It would be easier to focus solely on my own survival, on getting back to my family. But Maisie...the others...they don't have a Dante coming for them. They don't have family mobilizing to save them. No one deserves this. Not Maisie with her quiet strength. Not Jessica with her tears. Not Ava with her bruises. Not even Kira with her cold calculations. No one. "Two more viewings tonight," the guard announces from his post by the door. "Then the individual appointments begin tomorrow." My blood runs cold. Of course. Private viewings for serious buyers. More intimate examinations. The thought makes bile rise in my throat. One by one, the others are paraded out. One by one, they return. Jessica is crying again, silently now, tears tracking through her careful makeup. Natalie still hasn't spoken, moving like a programmable doll. Kira returns looking thoughtful. Ava comes back with her jaw clenched so tight I worry for her teeth. Zoe is the last. When she returns, there's something wild in her eyes. "They're discussing me like I'm not there," she hisses, just loud enough for us to hear. "Like I'm a fucking racehorse." "Zoe," Ava warns, glancing at the guard. But Zoe isn't listening. Her hands are shaking worse now, her pupils dilated. "I can't do this again," she whispers. "I can't go back out there. They'll see. They'll know." "Know what?" I ask quietly. "That I'm broken." Her laugh is hollow. "Damaged goods." When Maisie returns, pale but unbroken, I catch her eye. Signal her to follow my lead. An idea is forming-desperate, perhaps, but I need to speak to the others without the guards overhearing. "I feel faint," I announce, swaying slightly. "Please...I need water." The guard steps closer, suspicion warring with concern. These "goods" need to remain in sellable condition, after all. Maisie immediately plays along, rushing to support me. "She's burning up," she says with convincing worry. "Is there a doctor?" In the chaos of calling Madame Rouge, fetching water, and checking me for fever, we manage to whisper quick instructions to each other. Maisie will tell Ava, who will tell Natalie. I'll speak to Jessica. Kira, watching us with knowing eyes, seems to understand without being told. Tonight. After final viewings. I know Dante's here, that help is coming. But I won't leave these other girls to suffer. Won't let them be sold like cattle to men who see them as objects to be owned. Besides, what better distraction is there for whatever rescue is planned than seven girls already fighting for their freedom? "Feeling better, my dear?" Madame Rouge appears, her voice solicitous while her eyes remain cold. "Perhaps some air?" I nod weakly, playing into the role. "Yes, please." She escorts me personally to a small balcony off the preparation room. The night air is cool against my skin, but the bars across the opening remind me that this small freedom is an illusion. Like the expensive clothes and gourmet food. Gilded bars are still bars. "You made quite an impression," she says, watching me carefully. " There a several serious inquiries already. You should be pleased." I say nothing, keeping my eyes on the distant tree line. How far are we from civilization? "Your silence is charming, but unnecessary," she continues. "We both know you're more than the pretty doll you're pretending to be." When I turn to her in surprise, she smiles. "I've been doing this a long time, Sofia Renaldi. I know when someone is playing a role." The use of my full name reminds me that this isn't random. I've been targeted specifically. "What do you want from me?" I drop the pretense of meek compliance. Her smile widens. "Nothing you aren't already providing, my dear. Your presence here has attracted exactly the attention we hoped for." She glances at her diamond watch. "Now, it's time for your second viewing. Remember-grace, poise⁠-" "Submission," I finish flatly. "I remember." "Good girl." She pats my cheek again, and it takes everything in me not to slap her hand away. "And Sofia? I'd reconsider whatever little plan you're hatching with the others. It would be a shame if young Jessica suffered for your...initiative." Fear freezes my blood. She knows. But how much? Has she overheard or is she simply anticipating rebellion? When they parade me out for the second viewing, I let myself look at Dante again. Just for a moment. Just long enough to see the rage burning behind his careful mask. His eyes meet mine, and in that brief connection, I find renewed strength. Soon, I promise silently. But first, I have work to do. Because no matter what Madame Rouge thinks she knows, she doesn't understand what it means to threaten a Renaldi. I've been trained since childhood to assess threats, find weaknesses, and exploit opportunities. I float through my second viewing, observing more details now that the initial shock has worn off. I note which men seem most interested. Which have the most security. Which ones Dante seems to be avoiding. And I note something else-a pattern to the guard rotations. A three-minute window when the hallway between our rooms is unwatched during shift change. A potential opportunity, if we're quick enough. If we're brave enough. As we wait for the third viewing, my mind races with plans and contingencies. I think of Dante, somewhere in this same building, planning his own rescue. I remember the moment our eyes met, the promise in that look. The other girls are dealing with this nightmare in their own way. How dare Madame Rouge's threaten Jessica. The casual cruelty of it disgusts me, the assumption that she can control us through fear indefinitely. She doesn't realize her mistake. Fear can paralyze, yes. But it can also galvanize. Can transform from weakness to weapon in the right hands. In my hands. My plans might get us all killed-or might just set us free. 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...