Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Erica
The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound is too final.
For a second, I just stand there in the suite, staring at the same velvet couch, the same polished bar, the same warm lamps, like I might wake up and realize I never left this room at all.
Like the stage and the dark crowd and the microphone were a fever dream my body invented to survive the last hour.
It isn’t. My feet still hurt from the heels. My throat still tastes like adrenaline. My skin still feels too tight over my ribs, like my heart is trying to break its way out.
Seventy thousand dollars.
I say it in my head once, like that will make it make sense.
Seventy thousand dollars.
My stomach lurches. I clamp a hand over my mouth and swallow hard, forcing it back down. I don’t throw up. Not yet. I can’t, not with the smell of lemon polish in my nose and the memory of that room still sitting behind my eyes.
Seventy thousand dollars.
I needed twenty thousand dollars.
Twenty.
The number I repeated to myself every night like a prayer. The number I scribbled on the back of receipts and the inside cover of my planner as if writing it down would turn it into something I could earn.
I walk to the vanity like my legs belong to someone else. My fingers grip the edge of the marble until my knuckles go white.
I can still hear the host’s voice in my head. Calm. Practiced. Like he was talking about a charity auction or an exclusive bottle of wine.
Five thousand.
Ten.
Twenty.
The numbers rose so fast I stopped being able to process them. I stopped being able to follow. I only knew when it went up because the host said it did, and his voice kept climbing, the cadence changing, the room feeding off it like an animal scenting blood.
It wasn’t an easy bid. It didn’t end quickly. It went on and on, the numbers stacking up so high my brain started sliding away from them. My chest was so tight I couldn’t draw a full breath.
I couldn’t see anything beyond the lights.
That was on purpose. They didn’t want me to see faces. They didn’t want me catching a glimpse of who was buying me. They didn’t want me to know if it was one man or five or a whole table quietly pushing a number up just because they could.
I didn’t even see paddles. No one lifted a sign in the air like the movies. The bids were anonymous, and the crowd was dark, and everything was controlled and hidden.
Sometimes the host couldn’t keep up. I heard it in the way his voice stumbled for a beat, like he was being fed numbers too fast. Like something in his ear was firing and firing and firing, and he was trying not to lose the room.
The room loved it.
Every time the number jumped, there was a low sound from the crowd. Approval. Hunger. Entertainment. They reacted when I stepped onto the stage. I heard it. I felt it. The air thickened, and I knew, I knew, I knew what they were thinking even if I couldn’t see them.
I told myself this was normal for them. This was just what rich people did when they wanted something. They spent money like it wasn’t real. They treated it like a game.
But even in the moment, even with the light blinding me and my hands shaking and my mouth locked into that soft, obedient smile, a part of me thought—
This is too much.
Who the hell spends that much for one night?
Who looks at a girl they can’t even see properly—because the light makes her a silhouette with highlights—and decides she’s worth a number that high? Pay off debt. Keep someone alive.
My throat burns again. I press two fingers to my neck, feeling my pulse slam under the skin.
Seventy thousand.
It’s not relief.
It should be. It should be relief so intense that I collapse with gratitude. It should be me sobbing because I can pay for the surgery and more, my dad can get a chance, and I can breathe again.
But it’s not.
It’s horror.
Because a man doesn’t spend that much money unless he thinks he’s buying something much more than one night.
Unless he thinks he’s buying ownership.
Unless he thinks he’s buying the right to do whatever he wants.
Whenever he wants.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to inhale slowly. In. Out. Slow. The same way I told myself in the mirror earlier.
There’s a chime.
Not a knock. Not someone calling my name. A small, clear sound from somewhere in the suite that makes my head snap up.
A warning bell.
The woman who escorted me back here—still smooth, still calm, like this is an office job—told me what it meant.
Twenty minutes.
I have twenty minutes alone before the winner comes in.
My heart stutters. My mouth goes dry so fast it feels like the inside of it shrinks.
Twenty minutes.
I turn, scanning the room like I’m looking for exits even though I already know there aren’t any.
The windows are bolted shut. I noticed earlier, but I didn’t let myself linger on it. Now I see the metal brackets, the thick locks. The heavy drapes that can be pulled closed to hide the fact that the city is right there, and I’m trapped in here anyway.
The door has security posted outside of it now. I know because I can see the shape of a man through the peephole when I lean in close. Another guard stands in the corridor by the elevator. Two more down the hall.
It’s subtle, meant to look like protection instead of enforcement.
But I know what it is.
To make sure I go through with it.
To ensure my safety.
That’s what they said. That’s what they promised. That’s the line they deliver with that calm, practiced voice.
I try to remind myself of it. I repeat it in my head like a spell.
Whatever happens tonight, I’m safe.
Whatever happens tonight, I’m safe.
The words feel thin.
I push off the door and pace back toward the vanity, then toward the sitting room, then back again. My heels click on the hardwood, too loud. My dress whispers against my skin, the fabric catching on my thighs as if it’s trying to slide up again.
Twenty minutes.
The number of minutes doesn’t feel like time. It feels like a countdown to something I can’t stop.
My gaze lands on the couch.
That’s where the “presentation” is laid out.
White fabric laid out on the velvet material. Not lace the way I imagined, not satin. Something soft and thin and deliberately innocent. A baby doll.
White for virgin.
The phrase comes back with sick clarity. The woman said it like she was telling me what color napkins they picked for a dinner party.
A pair of heels sits beside it—white too, glossy and delicate. They must have placed them while I was out there on the stage, being introduced, being measured, being priced.
Innocent and not-so-innocent.
That was the image they were going for, the stylist told me earlier, smiling as she picked out this damn dress for me, as she put soft curls into my hair and highlighted my eyes.
Sweet girl.
Dirty night.
I swallow hard.
I can’t do this.
The thought hits with the force of a slammed door. It knocks the air out of me.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
But the next thought follows right behind it, sharp and merciless.
You already did.
You already agreed. You already walked onto that stage and let the room decide what you’re worth.
I grab the edge of the table and bend forward, breathing through my nose because if I open my mouth, I might make a sound I can’t take back.
My dad’s face flashes in my mind. Tired smile. Kind eyes. The way he always tries to make it easier for me. The way he said, “We’ll figure it out,” even though his hands were shaking when he lifted his coffee cup.
Twenty thousand dollars.
This is for him.
That’s what I told myself.
This is for him.
I lift my head and stare at the baby doll. The white fabric might as well be a surrender flag.
My hands are trembling when I reach for the strap of my dress. I pause, fingers hovering over my chest, and my throat tightens again.
How does a person do this?
How does a person take off a dress in a room like this and put on something that makes them look like a gift? How does a person step into a costume designed to signal purity right before it’s taken?
My breath turns shallow. I force myself to slow down.
One thing at a time.
That’s how I’ve always handled panic. Break it into pieces small enough to swallow.
I turn my back to the mirror because I can’t watch myself do it. I can’t watch the girl in the champagne dress unmake herself.
The zipper slides down with a soft, traitorous sound.
Cool air touches my skin. Goosebumps rise along my arms and down my spine. The dress pools on the floor like liquid gold.
I stand there, no underwear because I wasn’t provided any, arms wrapped around myself, chest heaving. The room is too quiet. The hum of the air conditioning feels loud. I can feel time ticking away until I’m not alone anymore.
I glance at the door again, at the security shadow beyond it.
Protection.
Enforcement.
Safety.
Feeling insecure without any clothes, I pick up the baby doll.
The fabric is softer than it has any right to be. Thin. Light. Almost weightless. It feels like something you’d wear in a bedroom when you wanted to be adored, not… delivered.
My fingers fumble with the straps. My hands are clumsy, like they don’t belong to me.
I breathe in, then out.
And then I lift it over my head and pull the white baby doll down over my body.
My breasts might as well have a giant arrow pointing at them for all the coverage I get.
The only thing that’s really covered are my nipples, and they can be seen through the nearly-sheer material anyway.
The underwear is a matching little scrap of fabric that’s just as useless. I slip on the shoes and wait.
I might as well be wearing nothing. I’ve never felt so exposed.
The click of the door latch cuts through the suite’s quiet like a knife.
I turn away from it, facing the window with my arms wrapped tight around myself, as if holding my body together will keep me from falling apart.
My stomach is a constant, uneasy swirl—acid and fear and the awful awareness that I can’t undo any of this. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. The sickness sits there, heavy, rolling.
I have to do this.
The money has probably already changed hands. The number doesn’t feel real, but it is.
My fingers curl into the thin white fabric at my sides. It’s so little it’s almost insulting. It doesn’t hide anything I want hidden. It doesn’t protect me. It just reminds me of what I am in this room, to these people.
Spreading her legs for the first time. The words echo in my ears. A “tight pussy” to “sink” into.
My heart is thundering. I can hear it in my ears.
I force air into my lungs. One shaky breath, then another, like I can trick my body into cooperating if I pretend I’m calm.
Turn around.
Just turn around.
My feet feel glued to the carpet. I make them move anyway, pivoting slowly, because the faster I do it, the more likely I am to break.
The room blurs at first, my vision glitching like my brain refuses to process what’s happening. I blink, and the blur shifts into a silhouette framed by the open door.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair.
The outline confuses me. It doesn’t belong in a room like this, and yet it does.
My stomach drops. My pulse spikes so hard I swear I feel it in my throat, in my fingertips. For a split second, I think I might actually pass out. Or my body might just give up and shut down.
The figure steps in far enough for the light to catch his face, and something in my chest tightens painfully.
A face carved in stone.
My eyebrows draw together in instinctive confusion, my mind scrambling for an explanation that isn’t there. This can’t be real. It can’t be—
My vision clears.
The blur sharpens.
And I see him.
Someone familiar.
Someone I see every single day.
My boss.
Nico Conti.