Page 55 of Auctioned Innocence
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.
