I moved through the corridors again, this time with purpose. The music grew heavier the deeper I went, bass thumping through the walls like a second pulse layered over my own. Perfume, alcohol, and something bitter—chemicals, maybe—hung in the air. I kept my hood low, mask firm against my face, eyes scanning for guards.
Midnight crept closer.
"Looking lost again, Mr. Cerberus?"
Rebecca's voice came from my left. I turned and found her walking toward me, calm and composed, crimson dress catching the low light like spilled wine.
"I was trying to find the private floor," I said.
She nodded. "I figured. Just to be clear, violence isn't allowed here. If you want the girl, the only way is to bid."
"I know," I replied. "Midas and Morpheus already made that clear."
A flicker of surprise crossed her eyes. "Is that so?" She studied me for a moment. "Then the next question is funds. Do you have enough?"
"I've got fifty thousand," I said. Saying it out loud made it feel smaller.
Rebecca winced. "That won't even get you a seat, Mr. Cerberus. Minimum to bid is five hundred thousand."
I frowned. "For one person?"
"This isn't an auction for necessities," she said softly. "People here bid on indulgence."
I hesitated, then asked, "Can I use the diamonds?"
She shook her head. "No. Only liquid funds." Then, before I could respond, she slipped a black card into my hand. "Take this."
I stiffened. "I can't—"
"You gave me six diamonds," she cut in. "This card has a million. Use it. If it's not enough, I can cover the rest."
"That's too much," I said.
"You saved my life," she replied, eyes steady. "Money is replaceable."
She glanced at her watch, then reached for my hand. Her fingers were warm, grounding. "Come on. We're late."
She led me past a guarded door—not upstairs, but down. The elevator sank beneath the villa, doors opening into the second basement level. The atmosphere changed instantly. The noise dulled, replaced by murmurs and restrained laughter. Hundreds of men and women filled the space, all masked, all dressed in absurdly expensive suits and gowns.
Rebecca put on her mask as we walked. Even then, heads turned. Eyes followed her. Some followed me.
A man stepped into our path, his gaze lingering too long on her. "Miss Rebecca," he said smoothly. "Didn't expect to see you accompanied tonight."
"She's with me," I said flatly.
Rebecca blinked, then recovered. "Yes. He's my date."
The man smiled thinly. "Lucius Fricks. And you are?"
"Cerberus," I replied. "And I'd appreciate it if you stopped staring at my woman."
His expression hardened, but the woman beside him tugged his arm. He chuckled and backed off. "Enjoy the night."
As we took our seats, I felt the weight of attention pressing in from all sides.
Cerberus muttered, "Lustful pigs."
I exhaled slowly. I still couldn't believe the words I'd used—my woman. The thought unsettled me more than the crowd.
The lights dimmed. A man stepped onto the stage, voice amplified but smooth.
"Esteemed guests, welcome. Tonight has been carefully arranged for those who appreciate rarity, discretion, and opportunity. What you will witness is not merely an exchange, but an invitation—access to acquisitions unavailable through conventional means. Each presentation has been carefully curated, and each transaction has been conducted with absolute confidentiality. Bids reflect not only wealth, but intent. Once concluded, all arrangements are honored without exception. We thank you for your trust, and we invite you to participate responsibly as the evening unfolds."
The lights dimmed further, not enough to hide anything, just enough to soften edges and sharpen appetites.
A low murmur rolled through the hall as the presenters wheeled the glass case onto the stage. It was tall, pristine, and deliberately transparent—an altar disguised as display. Dark fabric draped over it, hiding the figure inside. Two presenters stopped at center stage, their movements practiced, almost reverent.
The host smiled, warm and measured. A pause. Then a nod.
One of the presenters reached up and pulled the fabric away in a single smooth motion.
Gasps followed.
Inside the case stood a woman bathed in white light, skin flawless, posture confident. She moved slowly, deliberately—turning just enough to let the crowd appreciate her figure, her expression trained into something sultry and inviting. She knew where to place her hands, how to tilt her chin, when to meet the audience's gaze and when to look away.
I felt a faint twist in my chest.
Midas and Morpheus's words surfaced again, uninvited. Most of them came here by choice. Opportunity wrapped in silk and lies.
"So this is the power of money," I muttered.
Rebecca didn't look away from the stage. "The power of desperation, Mr. Cerberus," she corrected quietly. "Every woman here wants the same thing—to break the chain of poverty."
I glanced at her. "There's no other way?"
She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. "Not without education. And that's a luxury most of them never had."
The host's voice cut cleanly through the air. "Bidding will begin at one hundred thousand."
Paddles rose.
"One hundred twenty."
"One twenty-five."
The numbers climbed with ease, tossed out casually, like spare change. The woman inside the case smiled wider as the bids rose, confidence blooming with every increase. When it reached four hundred thousand, the host brought the hammer down, congratulating the bidder as the crowd applauded politely.
She bowed.
She looked relieved.
That bothered me more than I expected.
The auction moved on. Woman after woman. Different faces, different bodies, different performances—but the same rhythm. Pose. Bid. Sold. Some of them smiled, some laughed nervously, some looked triumphant. Business concluded cleanly, efficiently. Too clean.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
The next glass case was wheeled out.
No confident stride. No practiced allure.
The fabric fell away, and the girl inside didn't move.
She was curled slightly inward, arms close to her body, shoulders tight. Her eyes were wide, darting across the room like she was searching for an exit that didn't exist. No makeup heavy enough to hide the fear. No rehearsed movements.
And then it hit me.
The scent.
Faint, but unmistakable—the red district.
"This is her," I whispered.
Rebecca stiffened. She studied the girl carefully. "She's beautiful," she said, voice measured. "Good figure. Innocent face. Even without makeup, she'd turn heads."
There was something else hidden beneath her words—something tight, restrained. Jealousy, maybe. Subtle, fleeting. I didn't call it out.
She wasn't wrong. The girl was striking. Enough that comparisons were inevitable. She was in Rebecca's league—maybe just a step below—but unlike the others, she wasn't trying to sell herself. That alone made her stand out more than any practiced seduction.
The host cleared his throat. "We will begin the bidding at three hundred thousand."
I raised my paddle. "Four hundred."
Almost immediately, another voice cut in. "Four fifty."
A pot-bellied man two rows ahead laughed and raised his paddle. "Five hundred."
Rebecca leaned toward me. "This will be troublesome, Mr. Cerberus."
"I know," I said.
Of course it would be. The most beautiful item always drew the worst attention.
The numbers climbed fast. Too fast.
I exhaled once and said, "One million."
The room fell quiet.
Heads turned. Masks tilted. Curiosity sharpened.
A man sneered from across the aisle. "One point two."
My fingers tightened around the paddle. I did the math again in my head, hoping I'd somehow miscounted.
I hadn't.
I had one point zero five million. That was it.
I hesitated.
"One point three million."
Rebecca's voice.
I turned to her, startled. "Rebecca—"
She met my eyes, calm but resolute.
A middle-aged man a few seats away chuckled. "Miss Rebecca, I never thought you'd bid against me just for a girl."
"I'm sorry if I offend you, Mr. Klaywood," she replied smoothly. "My man wants her. I'll do what I can."
Heat crept up my neck.
"Lucky man," Klaywood said, though his smile was thin. "But I'm afraid I won't back down. I find her quite interesting. Two million."
"Two million," the host echoed.
"Two point two," Rebecca replied without missing a beat.
Klaywood's jaw tightened. "Two point five." Then, with a sideways glance at me, he added, "Aren't you jealous? Your man spending your money on another woman."
Rebecca smiled. Cool. Controlled. "I don't mind."
She lifted her paddle. "Three million."
The room buzzed again. The host began the closing cadence. "Three million. Any further—"
A voice cut through the hall, sharp and arrogant.
"Ten million."