Page 53 of Auctioned Innocence
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.
