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“Up next is lot sixteen eighty-nine,” the auctioneer says.
Haley gives me a little push. “Good luck.”
My heart jumps and lodges itself in my throat as I move to stand in the circle beside the auctioneer as I was instructed.
“And here we have lot sixteen eighty-nine, gentlemen, sixteen eighty-nine in the catalogue. Twenty-year-old female for a five-year transferable contract. Bid starts at ten thousand dollars. Do I have ten thousand? Can I get ten?”
As he begins his chant, I look out into the hall, scanning the faces of the people in the audience, searching for Arran Maxton. But if he’s there, I don’t see him.
Everyone is peering into their large handheld devices that Haley said contain the catalogue. It feels like an eternity before anyone glances back up. Then they all seem to do so simultaneously. Going from the description of what my contract entails to me, scrutinizing me, determining if I’m worth such a commitment when all they want is fun.
Without removing their gazes from me, they whisper among themselves. I am acutely aware of the sheerness of my dress, of how it does little to conceal what’s beneath. Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I fight the urge to cover myself. The whole point is to sell. To entice a buyer.
Like a whore.
Pushing away the embarrassment of this humiliation isn’t difficult. All I have to do is conjure up the image of Maisie’s face. To imagine her locked up in some shithole, depending on me to succeed. And knowing her, doing so with extreme impatience.
Shit. I hope she doesn’t do anything stupid. Like try to rescuemeinstead.
A paddle goes up. It’s an elegant woman, maybe in her early forties, in the front row, who reeks of money. And I think to myself that if it all goes to hell, it might not be so bad to end up with her as I regroup. Maybe with enough time to formulate a plan, time where there’s not the barrel of a gun pointed at my head, I can get Maisie and me out of this.
The chant continues. “I have ten, can I see fifteen.”
To my shock, and because I didn’t know if I’d get only one bid, another paddle goes up. “I see fifteen, can I get twenty.”
My heart rate increases as the bids do, blood pounding in my ears until I can barely hear what’s being said. Fifty thousand, sixty, eighty, one hundred, the amounts rise fast. But just like my indecent attire doesn’t matter, neither do the bids. All that matters is that the one man I need to make a bid isn’t even within my sight.
Oh my God. What if he’s not here? What if I’m sold to the wrong person? What if I did all this for nothing and I end up losing Maisie?
“One hundred and fifty thousand, can I get one fifty. Look at how pretty she is, and don’t forget, the contractistransferable. I want to hear a one fifty.”
An old man sitting three rows back smiles. He’s been watching me. Waiting. I’ve seen his kind many times at auctions. The one who waits till the last second, then sweeps in with a ridiculously high amount no one else wants to outbid.
His lips pull up into a salacious grin, like he can’t wait to start this game he’s used to playing, and my stomach sinks.
No, no, no! The words blare in my mind as he begins to lift his paddle with the number sixty on it.
“Five hundred thousand,” he calls out proudly.
I look around the room almost desperately, searching for the face of the one I’m meant to go home with.
Hesaid Arran would wantme.Hesaid with complete certainty Arran would buy me.Healso said my and Maisie’s lives depended on it.
But as the seconds tick by and the auctioneer can’t get another bid—because who in their right mind wants to buy a five-year contract for more than five hundred thousand dollars—and number sixty’s grin begins to widen, all seems lost.
My mind races with possible solutions. I could tell them to stop. That this was all a huge mistake. They’d have to release me. But I’d just be thrown out to where my enemies are waiting to get their claws in me, and Maisie would die.
I could go through with this and hope for the best. But when he looks at me with those beady eyes, like he’s already undressing me, I cringe at the thought.
“Five hundred thousand going once,” the auctioneer says when no one else bids. “Going twice…”
“Wa—” I begin to protest but am cut off by the deep rumble of a voice far in the back.
“One million dollars.”
There’s an audible gasp and excited chatter erupts as the crowd collectively turns toward the sound.
“What was that?” the auctioneer asks. “Who bid?”
