Page 25 of Auctioned Innocence
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 apattern 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.
