Page 24 of Auctioned Innocence
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.
