Page 31 of Auctioned Innocence
“Process is everything.” I channel the cold efficiency expected of a Russian businessman. “In my factories, in my acquisitions”—I let my gaze linger on a passing server—“in all things.”
Madame Rouge’s smile widens, genuine this time. “I think we understand each other very well, Mr. Volkov.”
The ballroom has been transformed into a showroom.
Elegant seating arranged in a semicircle faces a raised platform with strategic lighting designed to display “merchandise” to the best advantage.
My mind notes exits, security positions, camera angles—even as my gut churns at the implications.
Six guards positioned at cardinal points.
Two tech specialists manage lighting and sound from a booth to the right.
A discreet door behind the platform—likely leading to where they’re keeping the girls.
Three visible cameras.
Probably more hidden.
I make connections as instructed, moving through the room with the confident ease of a man who belongs here.
I approach Tanaka first, exchanging pleasantries in Russian that his translator renders into Japanese.
His eyes are flat and cold as he assesses me, one predator recognizing another.
“First time at Madame Rouge’s establishment?” he asks through his translator.
“Da,” I confirm. “But not first auction. St. Petersburg has similar, though less…refined.”
This earns me a thin smile. “The merchandise here is exceptional. Worth the premium.”
I move on to the Saudi prince, who speaks Russian himself—a fact I’d been briefed on.
Our conversation is a careful dance of hints and shadows, building Dmitri Volkov’s credibility with each exchange.
He mentions a particular girl from last season’s auction who proved “satisfactory,” and it takes everything in me not to break his fingers when he grips my shoulder companionably.
“You’ll find the selection process most thorough,” he tells me. “Madame Rouge vets each acquisition personally.”
“Quality control,” I say with a knowing nod. “Essential.”
“Indeed. Though I hear this season includes some unexpected acquisitions. Very high-profile families.” His eyes gleam with anticipation. “The higher the fall, the sweeter the possession, no?”
I force myself to chuckle in agreement, though the sound feels like broken glass in my throat.
When I approach Senator Williams, he nearly spills his drink. “I’m not—this isn’t—” he stammers, face paling beneath his carefully maintained tan.
“Relax,” I tell him in accented English. “Dmitri Volkov. We are all here for same purpose, yes? No judgment.”
His relief is palpable.
A weak man, I assess. One who could be leveraged later if necessary.
The lights dim.
Conversations fade.
Madame Rouge takes the small stage, the spotlight transforming her red dress into something otherworldly, as if she’s standing in a pool of blood.
