Chapter 9 "Three minutes until shift change." Maisie's whisper is barely audible as we're escorted back to our rooms after the final viewing. Her lips barely move, a skill I'm guessing she perfected during her five days in this hell. "The new guard always checks his phone first. Thirty seconds of distraction." I give her the slightest nod, my face a neutral mask for the cameras. After that disaster with Reed at the third viewing, security has been heightened. More guards. More watchful eyes. But also more predictable patterns, if you know how to look. My heart pounds against my ribs, but my hands are steady. Marco's training is kicking in when I need it most. I've been planning this since the moment I saw the blind spot in the security camera network, since I noticed the guard shift change always happens at the same time, and since I realized we had one small window of opportunity. The plan is simple: create a distraction, incapacitate the guards, make it to the roof, cross to the adjacent building, and find a way down and out. Five steps to freedom. Simple doesn't mean easy. The guards separate us at the junction of two hallways. Standard procedure-they never let us travel in groups. Divide and control. But tonight, I start counting steps in my head as I'm led down the plush hallway toward my prison cell. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. I've timed this route before. Twenty-three seconds from junction to my door. Fifteen seconds from junction to Maisie's door. Forty-five seconds until the security camera above us rotates to its next viewing angle, leaving a four-second blind spot at the corridor's midpoint. I wait until we're just past the security camera's blind spot-the one I noticed during yesterday's walk to the prep room. The corridor bends slightly here, creating a natural shadow where the cameras overlap but don't quite cover. Then I stumble, letting out a small cry of pain that echoes off the marble floors. "My ankle," I gasp, grabbing the guard's arm for support. He stiffens at the unexpected contact but doesn't push me away. They've been warned about damaging the "merchandise." No bruises. No marks. Nothing to lower our value. I lean heavily against him, forcing him to adjust his stance to support my weight. "I think I twisted it." He grunts, clearly annoyed but also wary of any repercussions if I'm injured on his watch. "Can you walk?" "I think so," I whimper, playing up the helpless girl act while silently counting in my head. Twenty Mississippi. Twenty-one Mississippi. Right on cue, Maisie's scream echoes down the hallway-piercing and terrified, the kind of sound that demands immediate attention. My guard's head whips toward the sound, hand automatically reaching for his weapon. That split second of distraction is all I need. The heel of my hand drives up into his nose-the fastest way to disable someone bigger, Marco always said during our self-defense lessons. The cartilage gives with a sickening crunch. As he reels back, blood streaming between his fingers, I grab his radio and smash it against the wall. No immediate calls for backup. The first step of our plan is complete. I'm already running before he hits the ground, collecting his key card from his belt as he crumples. The hallway stretches before me, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps as I sprint toward the rendezvous point we established through whispered conversations and subtle hand signals over the past two days. My bare feet make no sound on the thick carpet-another cruel touch from Madame Rouge, keeping us shoeless to reinforce our vulnerability, our inability to escape. But tonight it works to my advantage, allowing me to move silently through the corridors. Maisie meets me at the predetermined spot-the linen closet near the service elevator-breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, stress evident in her trembling hands. "Got his keycard," she pants, holding up the stolen prize. The plastic rectangle looks so ordinary for something so valuable. "Took out my guard but he managed to hit the alarm button. We've got maybe two minutes before they realize it's not a false alarm⁠-" "This way." I grab her hand, pulling her toward the service stairs I memorized from watching the staff during my days of captivity. I've been mapping this place mentally since I arrived, marking every exit, every rotation, every potential escape route. Down is too obvious-they'll expect us to head for ground level. Up might give us options they won't anticipate. We take the stairs two at a time, the metal steps cold against our bare feet. The stairwell smells of cleaning products and cigarette smoke-the staff's secret break area, judging by the makeshift ashtray I spotted earlier. "What about the others?" Maisie asks between labored breaths as we climb. "We can't just leave them⁠-" "We're no good to anyone if we're caught," I reply, though the guilt twists in my stomach. Jessica, Natalie, Ava, Zoe, Kira are still in their rooms, unaware of our escape attempt. "We get help, then come back for them." The logic is sound, but it still feels like betrayal. We make it up three flights before the first alarm blares-a shrill, piercing sound that makes my ears ring. Red emergency lights begin to flash, casting eerie shadows on the concrete walls. "They know," Maisie gasps, fear making her voice crack. "Keep moving," I urge as she falters. The thud of boots on stairs echoes below us, growing louder. Heavy footfalls. Multiple pursuers. My mind calculates odds, distances, timing. "Almost there." The roof access door is marked with warnings: "Authorized Personnel Only" and "Emergency Exit-Alarm Will Sound." Ironic, since alarms are already blaring throughout the building. The door is locked with an electronic keypad, but the stolen keycard works-a master key, then. The light flashes green, and the lock disengages with a metallic click. Cold night air hits our faces as we burst out onto a gravel-covered rooftop. The world opens up around us after days of confinement-stars scattered across the velvet sky, city lights twinkling in the distance. We're outside the city, I realize. Somewhere in the suburbs or countryside. The edge of the roof is maybe forty feet away, a low wall marking the boundary between captivity and freedom. "There!" Maisie points to a maintenance ladder on the adjacent building. It's an older structure, possibly a converted warehouse, positioned about six feet from our current rooftop. If we can reach it, climb down, make it to the street... "We can jump it!" We're halfway across the roof, gravel crunching beneath our bare feet, when the door slams open behind us. The sound is like a gunshot in the night, stopping us mid-stride. "Ladies." Madame Rouge's voice cuts through the wind, cold and controlled despite the situation. Her red dress is vivid against the darkness, like a splash of blood against the night sky. "How disappointing." Four guards fan out behind her, guns raised and pointed at our backs. The metallic click of safeties being disengaged makes my stomach drop. My mind races. The ladder is still fifteen feet away. Too far to reach before they could fire. "It's over," Madame Rouge continues, stepping forward, her heels crunching on the gravel. Not a hair out of place, not a hint of exertion on her perfect features. As if she'd been waiting for us, expecting this move. "Though I must admire your spirit. Such...resourcefulness." "Run," I whisper to Maisie, my eyes darting to the edge of the roof, to the ladder that represents our only hope. "I'll hold them⁠-" The crack of a gun makes us both jump. Gravel sprays near our feet as the bullet impacts just inches from where we stand. "Next one won't miss," Madame Rouge says coldly, nodding to the guard who fired. He adjusts his aim, the barrel now pointed directly at my head. "On your knees. Both of you." Maisie starts to comply, her body trembling as she begins to sink down. I grab her arm, mind still spinning through options, scenarios, possibilities. Maybe if we split up, if one of us could make it to the ladder while the other creates a distraction⁠- "Sofia." Something in Madame Rouge's voice makes me look at her. The use of my name instead of "merchandise" or "product" catches my attention. Her eyes are shrewd, assessing, seeing too much. "You've already cost Mr. Reed his deposit. How many more people need to pay for your defiance?" She gestures with one red-tipped hand. Two more guards appear from the rooftop door, dragging a bloody figure between them. My heart sinks as I recognize him-Jonah from the kitchen-who's been kind to us. His face is barely recognizable beneath the blood. One eye is swollen shut, his lip split open. They've broken fingers on his right hand, the digits bent at unnatural angles. "No," Maisie whispers beside me, her voice breaking. "Choose, Sofia," Madame Rouge says, stepping closer, her perfume carrying on the night breeze-something expensive and suffocating. "Surrender now or watch what happens to those who help you." She produces a small pistol from a hidden pocket in her dress, pressing it to the boy's temple. His eyes meet mine, terrified but trying to be brave. He can't be more than sixteen. The choice isn't really a choice at all. My shoulders slump in defeat. "Let him go. We'll come quietly." "Sofia-" Maisie starts, her voice desperate. "Smart girl." Madame Rouge's smile is terrible, victorious and cruel. She lowers the gun but doesn't put it away. "Though I'm afraid someone still needs to learn a lesson about cooperation. About consequences." It happens so fast. A guard grabs Maisie, spinning her around and forcing her to her knees. The crack of his baton against her back makes me scream, the sound echoing across the rooftop. Maisie's cry is higher, sharper-pure pain as the hard plastic connects with her spine. "Stop!" I lunge forward, only to be restrained by another guard, his grip bruising on my arms. "Please! It was my idea! Punish me!" Madame Rouge watches with clinical detachment as the guard raises the baton again. "But this is your punishment, Sofia. To watch. To know that your actions have consequences for others." The baton comes down again with sickening force. "To understand that defiance costs more than just your own comfort." Maisie's second scream is weaker, the sound catching in her throat. The guard hits her again and again, each impact making a sound like a breaking branch. "Please," I beg, tears streaming down my face now. "Please stop. I'll do anything⁠-" "Yes," Madame Rouge says simply. "You will. That's exactly the point." They make me watch every stroke. Five in total, though it feels like fifty. By the end, Maisie has collapsed onto the gravel, her pink dress torn and dirty, her breathing shallow. I'm forced to walk back to my room with a guard gripping each arm. My mind feels numb, disconnected from my body, like I'm floating somewhere above the scene. Is this shock? Trauma? Some defense mechanism kicking in to protect me from what I've just witnessed? Madame Rouge walks ahead of us, her footsteps muffled on the carpet. At my door, she turns to face me. "Tomorrow is the auction," she says, her voice conversational, as if we're discussing the weather rather than the sale of human beings. "You will be perfect. You will be obedient. You will smile when appropriate and speak when spoken to." Her eyes harden. "Or next time, it won't be just Maisie who suffers. The kitchen boy has five brothers and sisters. The maid who cleans your room has elderly parents. The driver who brought you here has a pregnant wife. I know all of them, Sofia. All their weaknesses, all their vulnerabilities." She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear. "Your defiance has cost enough. Don't test me again." The door closes behind me with a final-sounding click. I stand in the center of my beautiful prison, trembling from head to toe, the enormity of my failure crushing down on me. I didn't just fail to escape-I got Maisie beaten. Got the kitchen boy tortured. Put others in danger with my recklessness. From my barred window, I can see guards dragging Maisie back to her room. Her feet leave trails in the decorative gravel of the garden path, her body limp between the two men. My fault. My fault. My fault. The emotions hit me in waves-guilt so intense it's physical, rage that burns like acid, helplessness that threatens to drown me. I've never felt so utterly powerless. Not when I was taken from my home. Not when I was drugged and transported like cargo. Not when I was displayed like livestock for wealthy monsters. This-knowing others suffered for my actions-this is a new kind of hell. I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms, focusing on that small pain to keep from screaming. I've been trained for many things-self-defense, negotiation, basic weapons handling, computer security-but nothing prepared me for this. For the weight of responsibility. For the knowledge that my actions have such direct consequences for innocent people. I've lead teams on missions, but every member had agreed to the risk before we even began. This is different. Is this what Dad feels all the time? What Marco lives with? The knowledge that every decision affects not just themselves but everyone connected to them? I sink onto the bed, my legs finally giving out. The silk sheets feel obscene against my skin after what I've just witnessed. The luxury of this prison, the careful attention to aesthetic details while human beings are treated like commodities-it makes me physically ill. Something crinkles under my pillow when I finally collapse. A small piece of paper, folded tiny and tucked where only I would find it. My hands shake as I open it in a way the camera can't see, recognizing the handwriting instantly. Bold, exact strokes. The penmanship of a man who commits fully to everything he does. Hold on, principessa. One more day. Trust me. Dante. I press the note to my chest, tears finally spilling over after being held back by shock and fear. In the distance, a clock chimes midnight, the sound carrying through the still night air. The auction is tomorrow evening. Less than twenty-four hours until I'm sold to the highest bidder. One more day, Dante said. One more day until...what? Rescue? Revenge? Both? I can survive anything for one more day. Can endure whatever humiliations tomorrow brings, knowing that Dante is out there, planning, preparing. Knowing that my family hasn't abandoned me. After the tears subside, something colder and harder settles. Something that feels like my father's rage and my brother's intelligence. Something that was always there, perhaps, but is now crystallized by trauma and fury. I wipe my face, breathe deeply, and begin to plan again. Not escape-not yet. But survival. Observation. Preparation for whatever Dante has in mind. Madame Rouge thinks she's broken me, thinks she's shown me the cost of defiance and taught me to be docile. She doesn't understand who I am. Doesn't know that Renaldis don't break-we regroup, we adapt, then we wait for the perfect moment. But the Calabreses better pray his brother's prison cell has room for two, because when this is over, I'm going to make him pay for every mark on Maisie's back. For every drop of Jonah's blood. For every tear Jessica has shed. Every. Single. One. I smooth Dante's note carefully, then tear it into tiny pieces and flush it down the toilet. No evidence. No connections. Nothing to give them leverage. Tomorrow I'll be the perfect merchandise. I'll smile. I'll speak when spoken to. I'll play the role of a defeated captive. But inside? Inside I'm my father's daughter. My brother's sister. Vengeance will be mine. 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...