Page 64 of Auctioned Innocence
I hear the bidding start through the doors—clinical, detached numbers that make me physically sick.
Millions of dollars being thrown around like pocket change, buying and selling a girl’s entire future with the casual ease of a stock transaction.
When Jessica returns twenty minutes later, her face is blank, eyes empty.
The spark that made her human has been extinguished.
Someoneboughther. Someone nowownsher.
“Sold for 3.2 million,” one of the handlers announces with satisfaction, as if he’s discussing livestock prices at market.
Maisie is next.
I grab her hand as she passes, squeezing once.
Stay strong.
She nods, straightening her shoulders despite the pain.
Beautiful, brave Maisie who has forgiven me for last night’s disastrous escape attempt.
The bidding for her is faster, more aggressive.
Through the walls, I can hear voices growing heated, competitive.
When she comes back, mascara tracks down her cheeks, but her spine is still straight.
“4.7 million.”
Almost five million dollars for my friend.
The obscene amounts make me want to scream, to tear at my hair, to demand that someone explain how human lives can be reduced to numbers on a bid sheet.
One by one, the girls are led out.
One by one, they return with that same hollow look, like something essential has been carved out of them.
Natalie: 6.2 million. She doesn’t even react when they announce her sale, just stares at the wall.
Ava: 5.1 million. She returns with fresh bruises where someone grabbed her too hard during “inspection.”
Zoe: 3.8 million, sold at a discount because of her “condition.” She’s laughing when they bring her back, high-pitched and broken.
Kira: 7.5 million. She returns with the same cool expression, as if she’s just completed a mildly interesting business meeting.
Finally, only I’m left.
The preparation room feels cavernous without the others.
Empty chairs and abandoned makeup bottles scattered across vanity surfaces like evidence of lives interrupted. I sit alone, hands folded in my lap, trying to control my breathing as footsteps approach.
“And now,” Madame Rouge’s voice drifts through the doors, amplified and honeyed for her audience, “our premier offering.”
My legs feel like lead as they guide me toward the stage entrance.
Each step echoes in the hallway, the sound of my high heels on marble counting down to my fate.
The lights are blinding as we approach—stage lighting designed to showcase the “merchandise” to best advantage.
