Page 66 of Auctioned Innocence
Eight million. Nine million. Ten. Twelve.
The numbers climb with obscene speed, each bid representing years of my life, everything I am and ever could be.
“Do I hear thirteen?” Madame Rouge calls out, and immediately three paddles rise.
These men aren’t just willing to pay millions for a human being—they’re competing for the privilege.
Fighting over who gets to own me.
“Thirteen million! Excellent!” Her voice takes on the enthusiasm of a livestock auctioneer. “Note the excellent muscle tone, gentlemen. Daily exercise regimen maintained throughout her stay. And may I remind you, full medical documentation is included with purchase—blood work, genetic screening, fertility assessments.”
My face burns with humiliation.
They’re discussing my body like I’m abroodmare.
“Fourteen million from the gentleman in the blue tie,” she continues, gesturing toward a silver-haired man who’s studying me through small binoculars—binoculars—like I’m a fucking bird he’s considering for his collection.
“But I want to inspect the teeth first,” he calls out.
Inspect the teeth.
Like I’m a horse at market.
“All dental records are available,” Madame Rouge purrs. “Perfect orthodontic work, no cavities. And might I remind everyone, she speaks three languages fluently. Quite useful for certain…international arrangements.”
Someone in the front row—a man old enough to be my grandfather, his wedding ring glinting in the lights—raises his paddle. “Fourteen million. And I’ll need confirmation of…purity.”
“Medical documentation confirms virginity, yes,” Madame Rouge responds matter-of-factly, as if discussing the provenance of a painting. “Quite rare in today’s market.”
I want to die.
Want to disappear.
Want to scream that I’m aperson, not livestock, not property to be evaluated and sold.
I force myself to breathe.
To stay still on this platform like a good piece of merchandise.
To remember Dante’s whispered instructions:When the lights go out, run for the east exit. Don’t stop for anything.
But will the lights go out?
Can his plan still work if they’ve identified him?
“Fifteen million,” the Russian—Viktor—calls out, his voice carrying clearly through the room.
He’s smirking at Dante, playing some game I don’t understand but can feel the malice of.
“Eighteen,” Dante counters, his accent still perfect despite the tension I can see in every line of his body.
The room stirs, sensing drama.
Money is always entertaining, but conflict between bidders?
That’s theater. Madame Rouge’s smile widens like a shark scenting blood in the water.
“Twenty million.” Viktor again, leaning back in his chair with false casualness.
