Page 63 of Auctioned Innocence
The tension was so thick it was suffocating.
And now Viktor is downstairs, probably telling everyone exactly who Dante really is.
“There.” Madame Rouge steps back, surveying her work like an artist contemplating a masterpiece.
The dress is black this time, barely there and ridiculously expensive.
Silk that glides against my skin, cut to showcase every curve while maintaining an illusion of elegance.
My hair falls in careful waves down my back, makeup applied to enhance my features without making me look like I’m trying too hard.
A virgin sacrifice, all wrapped up in designer packaging.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
They want me to look both innocent and seductive, pure yet available.
The perfect combination to drive up bidding among men who see possession as the ultimate luxury.
In the preparation room, they’re working on the other girls.
Maisie can barely stand, her back still raw from last night’s beating, but they’ve covered the marks with heavy concealer and forced her into a silver gown that makes her look like a fallen angel.
She catches my eye in the mirror, her reflection pale but determined.
She tries to smile, and the brave attempt breaks my heart.
Ava sits ramrod straight while they style her hair, her dark eyes fixed on something beyond the mirror.
She’s lost weight, her cheekbones sharper, her elegant gown hanging looser than it should.
Jessica’s hands flutter like trapped birds as they work on her makeup, her blue eyes wide with terror.
She keeps looking toward the door where we can hear the auction beginning, each distant voice making her flinch.
The red lipstick they’re applying makes her look older, more sophisticated, but nothing can hide the child-like fear radiating from her.
Natalie sits perfectly still in emerald green, but I notice her fingers tapping against her thigh in a pattern—morse code, I realize.
SOS, over and over again.
At least some part of her is still fighting, even if she can’t speak.
Zoe has been subdued with something stronger tonight.
Her usual manic energy has been replaced by an eerie calm, her movements slow and deliberate.
Kira applies her own lipstick with steady hands, checking her reflection with the efficiency of someone preparing for a board meeting.
She’s braided a small section of her hair in an intricate pattern—something that looks decorative but might be significant in her culture.
A message, perhaps, or a prayer.
“Time for the first lot,” Madame Rouge announces, her voice carrying the cheerful efficiency of a hostess at a dinner party rather than someone orchestrating the sale of human beings.
They lead out Jessica first.
My heart clenches as she stumbles slightly, legs unsteady with fear.
