The air reeked of sweat, perfume, and expensive cigars. It clung to the back of my throat, making me want to gag, but I refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
My wrists were bound in front of me with a thin golden chain. It was decorative and humiliating. It was meant to make us look like fragile little dolls instead of what we were: prisoners.
They called it an "auction," but even a fool knew the truth. It was a marketplace for human bodies. For girls who had no one left to fight for them.
Except me.
I wasn't frightened. My pulse didn't race the way it was supposed to. Instead, I lifted my chin, staring straight at the rows of velvet-draped seats filled with men in silk suits and jeweled watches.
Their laughter boomed, their champagne glasses clinked. Some of them looked at me like I was nothing more than the main course of a meal they had already paid for. Others smirked, amused at my defiance, as though it were a little trick to spice up the evening's entertainment.
But I didn't look away. My eyes found theirs, sharp as a blade, daring them to blink first.
The air was thick with perfume, cigar smoke and fear.
Not mine.
The other girls trembled as men in pressed suits and hungry eyes leaned forward, wallets already itching to be opened. Their whispers slithered through the room. They said numbers, bets, filthy promises. Some girls clutched each other. One was already crying.
I stood alone.
If they wanted fear, they'd have to buy it from someone else. I wasn't for sale.
The MC was a slimy man with too much gel in his hair and too much sweat on his forehead. He lifted his microphone. His smile was all teeth and no warmth.
"Gentlemen, tonight you are in for a treat. The best of the best. Fresh faces, untouched jewels."
The crowd erupted, tossing bids like candy at a parade. One girl went for half a million. Another for more. Each time, the room roared with laughter, curses and applause.
I kept my chin high, my eyes on them. I let them see me looking. Staring. Watching them like they were the ones trapped in a cage. Some shifted uncomfortably. One man smirked, as if daring me to keep looking. I did.
I kept throwing glares at my uncle, too. He was seated close to the stage, smug, practically basking in the glow of his profit. Every time our gazes met, I made sure mine carried enough venom to curdle his expensive wine. If stares could slit throats, he would've been bleeding out by now. He knew I hated him, and he enjoyed it. The bastard.
The stage lights were hot, searing against my skin. The MC was in a burgundy suit. He strutted across the platform, his voice echoing through hidden speakers as he introduced the merchandise. That was the word he used. Merchandise. Not girls. Not human beings.
Merchandise.
One by one, the others were paraded in front of the crowd. Their eyes darted everywhere. Wide, frantic and watery. A few whimpered. One girl collapsed to her knees and begged not to be taken. The crowd erupted in laughter. Bids were shouted like they were playing a game at a carnival.
"Two hundred thousand!"
"Half a million!"
"A million for the blonde!"
Hands shot up casually, as if they were purchasing rare art. The numbers rose until a bell chimed, signaling a winner. The girls were dragged offstage, kicking, crying or silently resigned.
I didn't cry. I didn't beg.
When the man in the burgundy suit finally gestured toward me, I stepped forward myself. The chain clinked as I moved, but I refused to let it slow me down. My heels clicked against the stage floor, sharp and steady, like a soldier marching to war.
"And now, gentlemen," the MC crooned, his lips curling, "our final jewel of the evening. Serena."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Their gazes raked over me, trying to peel me apart piece by piece. I locked eyes with the front row, daring them to name their price. I would burn through every single one of their wallets if it meant I could sear their greed into ash.
The MC was really trying to sell me. He must have been tipped off by my uncle. His smile faltered when it was my turn.
His voice cracked. He coughed, adjusted his tie, forced the grin back. " Exotic. Untamed. Worth every penny, gentlemen—"
But then it happened.
The noise shifted.
It wasn't gradual. It wasn't a slow hush of curiosity. It was a collapse. The kind of silence that hits a room like a blade drawn across its throat.
The laughter died. The applause cut off mid-clap. Even the sound of money shuffling onto tables stopped. A stillness swept across the room so sharp, so unnatural, I thought for a second the lights had blown out.
Laughter cut off mid-breath. The men who had been shouting bids minutes ago froze, their mouths open but soundless. Champagne glasses lowered. Chairs creaked as powerful men shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the door.
The silence was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat.
What was this?
I frowned, scanning the crowd. Had something gone wrong with the sound system? No, this wasn't technical. This was fear.
The MC, the same man who had barked numbers with smug arrogance all night, stiffened. His eyes darted to the entrance, and I swear I saw his hand tremble as he adjusted his microphone.
I said to him, "What's the matter, big guy? Stage fright? Forgot your lines?"
He leaned in, his lips barely moving, his voice dropping to a rasp meant only for himself. But I heard him. I'm pretty sure everyone did.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, horror curling around every syllable, "the devil is here."
And the room didn't dare exhale.
And just like that, I realized.
Whatever they feared had just stepped into the room.