29. Harmony
Harmony
The sun bleeds through the slats of the blinds, golden and cruel. The auction starts at six. Brooke needs to be perfect.
She sits at the edge of the small vanity, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in her lap like she’s at a tea party.
Except there’s no tea.
No laughter.
No pretending.
Just me. A brush. And the sickening scent of sugar and rosewater that coats her skin like plastic wrap.
“You’re quiet today,” I murmur, running the brush through her tangled curls.
She shrugs. “I’m always quiet on Fridays.”
Right. Fridays mean finality. Fridays mean you’re about to become someone else’s possession.
“You don’t have to talk,” I say gently. “Just sit still.”
She nods, obedient. Too obedient.
I pull the dress from the hanger. It’s white. Of course, it’s white. Virgin-coded. Delicate. It’s laced at the collar and sheer at the thighs.
Brooke doesn’t blink.
“Arms up,” I instruct.
She lifts them, mechanical. I slide the dress over her head, careful not to disturb the fresh bruises Damien told me not to cover.
“Proof of value,” he said. “Proof of discipline.”
My stomach turns. I keep my face still.
I kneel and help her into the matching heels. Strappy. Delicate. Impossible to run in.
She looks like a doll—one of those vintage ones in glass cases. Pretty, preserved, and permanently silenced.
I apply her make-up next. Soft blush. A kiss of shimmer on her eyelids. Red lips.
Always red.
“Men like the contrast,” Damien once said.
When I finish, I meet her eyes in the mirror.
“Brooke,” I whisper. “You don’t have to smile.”
“I know.” But she does anyway.
A weak one. Tight at the corners. Crooked.
I reach for the thin black ribbon and tie it around her throat.
Her voice is almost inaudible. “Do you think I’ll be chosen?”
I pause. “Yes,” I say.
Because it’s the truth. Because she’s young, beautiful, and moldable. Because she was never meant to survive this place.
She lowers her gaze. “Will he be proud of me?”
I can’t answer that.
Instead, I tighten the bow and stand.
“Let’s go.”
She rises, hands trembling just slightly—and I realize she’s not as far gone as I thought.
Sh e’s still scared.
Good.
Scared means there’s still something left inside her.
I lead her to the door and knock twice.
Reese is waiting outside with the clipboard. He doesn’t look at her. He looks at me.
“Room five.”
I nod.
Brooke walks ahead, heels clicking across the floor like countdowns.
One click.
Two.
Three.
And at six p.m., she will be sold to the highest bidder.
I wait until she’s gone. Then I slip into the bathroom and vomit quietly into the sink. Because there’s no one left to hold my hair back. No one left to whisper that this isn’t my fault.
Just the girl in the mirror—with makeup-stained hands, and a heart full of silent screams.
And the clock that won’t stop ticking.
* * *
The rec room doesn’t look like the place where prisoners used to work out.
Tonight, it’s a cathedral. The song “The Dope Show” by Marilyn Manson booms around the walls.
Every light dimmed, except the ones aimed at the stage. The bleachers were removed. The walls were draped in black. A raised platform was placed at the center, bordered by heavy velvet curtains and a gold-trimmed podium that gleams like an altar.
They call it an auction.
Bu t it feels like a ritual.
I sit beside Damien in the private viewing booth above it all. The glass is tinted, reflective from the outside. No one can see us. But we can see everything.
His fingers tap the armrest rhythmically and patiently. A glass of scotch in his free hand. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make a point. There’s a calmness about him tonight that curdles in my stomach. Like the eye of a storm pretending it’s not spinning.
Below us, the room is full.
Men in suits. A few women. All of them are seated in assigned rows. Lanyards at their throats. Numbered paddles at their feet. Whispers bounce off the walls like insects.
There are no smiles.
Only hunger.
Damien leans toward me, voice low and amused. “Enjoying the view?”
I don’t answer.
He clinks his glass against mine anyway. “To new beginnings.”
The lights dim further. A hush ripples through the room like a spell being cast. The stage lights flare.
The first girl steps forward—Anya. Dressed in black, but not like us.
Her version of black is see-through, strategic.
Her arms are bare, marked in gold ink. Her face is blank. She doesn’t look up.
She doesn’t have to.
Her value has already been decided.
The host speaks in a voice that doesn’t belong to anyone here. “We begin tonight’s offering with lot one. Trained. Disciplined. Virgin.”
The word makes me flinch. Damien exhales like it’s his favorite line in a movie.
The bidding starts at $50,000.
It takes all of ten seconds to climb to $90,000.
Th en $100,000.
The man who wins her is older. Balding. Wearing rings that gleam like threats. His smile is too wide.
“Sold,” the host announces. “One hundred ten thousand dollars.”
Polite applause.
The kind that sounds like knives unsheathing.
A guard escorts Anya off the stage and into the hallway to the right. The buyer follows closely behind. The door shuts. The next name is called.
And that’s when I feel Damien’s hand on my thigh.
“Almost time for our girl,” he murmurs.
I go still.
Below us, the stage lights shift slightly—cooler now, like moonlight instead of fire. The host clears his throat.
“Next offering… Lot Two.”
Ethan walks out onto the stage. I exhale a nervous breath. This is going to be a long two hours.