Chapter 9 Camilla #2
The question catches him off guard. I see it in the slight widening of his pupils, the way his throat moves as he swallows. He's processing the implications, that I'm already thinking about how to present myself, how to optimize my appeal to potential buyers.
"Some prefer spirit. At least in the beginning." He takes a small step back, creating breathing room. "Others prefer compliance. It depends on the buyer."
"Then I need to understand what each buyer prefers.
" I pivot away from him, reaching for the portfolio he brought.
The leather is supple under my fingers, warm from being pressed against his body.
"You need to give me everything you can find on these men.
And I need to practice." I flip open the portfolio. "What's in here?"
"Preparation materials." He's moved to lean against the desk now, one hip resting on the edge, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The posture should be casual, but I sense the tension in his shoulders. "What's expected, how these events typically unfold, protocols you'll need to understand."
I spread the documents across the desk with both hands, creating a fan of papers.
Guidelines for behavior, dress requirements, conversation topics to avoid.
The text is professionally printed, the language clinical.
Like a training manual for expensive high-end prostitutes.
My fingers trace the words without really reading them.
"This is quite thorough. How long do I have to study this?"
"That depends on how quickly you learn. And how quickly I can arrange the auction." He shifts his weight, making the desk creak slightly. "What's going on here? Why aren't you fighting this, Camilla?"
I realize this is a test. Not of my compliance, but of my reasoning.
I close the portfolio slowly, letting the leather covers meet with a soft thud. Then I turn to face him fully, lifting my chin.
"Because fighting would accomplish nothing except making my situation worse." I hold his gaze, not blinking, not looking away. "Better to understand the game and play it well than to exhaust myself fighting rules I can't change. I don't want to go into this blind."
"And you think you can play it well?"
"I think I can play it better than anyone expects." I take a step closer to him, then another, watching his eyes track my movement. "The question is whether you're smart enough to help me."
"How?"
"Help me use my advantages." I gesture toward the photographs with one hand, a sweeping motion that encompasses all of them.
"These men might expect a broken Italian princess who'll be grateful for rescue.
Instead, they'll get someone who can discuss art, speak four languages, and make them feel like the most fascinating men in the world.
" I tilt my head slightly. "Which version do you think commands a higher price?
Which would be worth more to you? If you were buying women instead of selling? "
I see understanding dawn in his expression. He hadn't considered that my composure might be an asset rather than a problem.
"You want to customize your presentation for each buyer."
"I want to maximize my chances of survival.
" I turn back to the photographs, picking up Kozlov's image and holding it between us.
"Kozlov appreciates intellectual conversation?
I can discuss Russian literature and European politics.
" I set it down and pick up Al-Rashid's.
"Al-Rashid values traditional behavior? I can be the perfect respectful wife who never questions his decisions.
" Finally, Torretti's photograph. "Torretti's clients prefer anonymity?
I can be discreet enough to take secrets to my grave.
But I don't like the idea of going to someone I haven't met. "
"You'd do all that?" There's something almost like wonder in his voice. "Transform yourself to appeal to whoever bids highest?"
"I'd do whatever it takes to survive." I set down the last photograph and turn to him. "The question is whether you'll let me have the information I need to do it well."
Renato is quiet for a long moment. He's studying my face with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken, makes heat rise to my cheeks despite my efforts at control. His eyes move from my eyes to my lips, to the hollow of my throat where I know my pulse must be visible, then back to meet my gaze.
"What information do you need?"
"Everything." I count off on my fingers, touching each one as I speak.
"Their backgrounds, their preferences, their psychological profiles.
What they value, what they fear, what motivates them, what really turns them on.
Surely, they each have their own little nasty kinks, right?
" I drop my hand and move toward the other side of the room, putting distance between us because suddenly the air feels too thick, too warm.
"I also need to understand the auction format.
Will I be displayed? Required to demonstrate skills? Expected to answer questions?"
"Possibly all of the above."
"Then I need practice." I turn to face him again.
"As I'm sure you're aware, I'm an inexperienced virgin.
Anything I know about sexual things has come from the internet, if you know what I mean.
And I need to understand what you're telling these men about me.
" I wrap my arms around myself, a gesture that's both defensive and emphasizing.
"What's my story? Kidnapped bride? Debt collateral?
Willing participant who chose this life? "
"Why does it matter?"
"Because each story suggests different expectations. Different types of behavior they'll be looking for. You're selling a fantasy, Renato. Help me understand what fantasy you're selling so I can act it out perfectly."
The admiration in his eyes is unmistakable now. He's seeing exactly what I want him to see—not a victim, but a strategic partner in this transaction.
"You're stronger than I expected," he says quietly, and the words feel like they cost him something. "You're insane, but you're tough."
"I'm practical." I pick up one of the photographs again, using it as a prop, something to focus on besides the intensity of his stare. "When will the first buyers arrive?"
"I haven't sent invitations yet. I wanted to..." He trails off.
"What?"
"Make sure you understood what was expected."
But that's not the whole truth, and we both know it.
He could have sent invitations before talking to me. Could have arranged the auction immediately after the families refused to pay.
Instead, he's giving me time. Preparation. Information I shouldn't have.
Why?
"Renato," I say his name softly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yes." The word is barely audible.
"What did Alessandro mean when he called me damaged goods?"
He hesitates, and I watch the conflict play across his face. "It's not important."
"It's very important to me. I need to understand what I'm dealing with. Stop protecting my delicate sensibilities and tell me exactly what they meant by saying I'm damaged goods."
He won’t look at me. "They believe your... purity... has been compromised by staying here with me."
"My purity." I taste the word like something bitter, letting my disgust show. "You mean my virginity."
"Yes."
"I see." I move away from him to process this new degradation.
"And will your buyers expect me to prove this supposed virginity?
Some sort of medieval examination by a doctor?
" I keep my voice clinical, even as my stomach churns and my hands are threatening to tremble. I clench them into fists at my sides.
He looks genuinely uncomfortable now. I can hear it in the way his breathing has changed, see it in his reflection in the glass. "Some buyers... yes. They place value on inexperience."
"How quaint and disgusting." I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, leaving a small fog of breath. "They must all be remarkably stupid men."
"Excuse me?" There's surprise in his voice, maybe even a hint of offense.
I turn back to face him. "Any man who thinks a simple physical examination can determine whether a woman is a virgin clearly knows nothing about female anatomy.
It's medieval thinking from medieval, ignorant minds.
Are they expecting to see actual drops of blood on the sheets after they rape me?
If so, I'll probably need a vial of blood or at least a needle I can sneak with me to prick my own fucking finger. "
Something flickers in his expression. "Maybe things won’t go that far."
"And what would make you think that, Renato? Tell me." I'm standing directly in front of him now, close enough that I have to look up to hold his gaze. Close enough to see the shadow of stubble already appearing along his jaw despite his morning shave.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, can see the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing deepens.
"You’re right. The auction will happen regardless," he says finally.
"Unless you find a better solution." I reach out and touch his arm lightly, just a brief contact through the soft fabric of his suit jacket.
But I feel him inhale sharply. "And I suspect you're very good at finding creative solutions to business problems, so I hope you're looking for an alternative to the auction. "
"Camilla..." There's warning in his voice.
"I'm not asking you to free me. I'm not begging for mercy I know you can't afford to show." I let my hand fall away, the absence of contact somehow more intimate than the touch itself. "I'm asking you to consider that there might be more profitable options than selling me to the highest bidder."
"Such as?" His voice is strained.
"That depends on what you value more than money."
I can see him processing the implications, his eyes searching my face as if looking for answers written in my expression.
"I should go," he says, but his feet remain planted. He doesn't move an inch.
"Yes, you should. But, admit it, Renato. You don't want to."
"This is a dangerous game you're playing." There's heat in his voice now.
I finally step back, giving him space to leave if he chooses. "Take your time with those invitations, Renato. After all, you need to make sure you're completely satisfied with the quality of the merchandise before you put it on the market."
He stares at me for another long moment, conflict playing across his features. His hand rises slightly, as if to reach for me, then falls back to his side.
"Study those materials," he says finally, moving toward the door. "We'll discuss your presentation strategy tomorrow."
"Of course." I lean back against the desk, feeling the solid wood support my weight. "I intend to be perfectly prepared for whatever you decide."
His hand is on the doorknob when he pauses. For a moment, I think he'll turn back, say something more. But he just opens the door and steps through, pulling it closed behind him with a soft click that sounds very final.
After he leaves, I remain leaning against the desk for a long moment, feeling my heart gradually slow, my breathing steady. Then I gather the portfolio and photographs and carry them to the bed, spreading the contents across the white duvet like cards in a game of solitaire.
Guidelines for behavior, dress codes, conversation protocols. A handbook for becoming the perfect commodity. The paper whispers as I sort through it, organizing it into categories, committing key phrases to memory.
But as I read through the detailed instructions, how to stand, how to smile, how to respond to questions, I'm not thinking about compliance.
I'm thinking about the crack I just opened in Renato Vitiello's armor. That sharp intake of breath when I touched his arm. The way his pupils dilated when I stood close. The conflict in his eyes when he forced himself to leave.
He's attracted to me.
More than attracted. He's intrigued by me as a person. The question is whether that attraction is strong enough to override his business instincts.
I have maybe a week to find out.
I pick up the photograph of Viktor Kozlov and hold it to the light, studying his face.
Silver hair perfectly groomed. Expensive watch.
Cold eyes that probably calculate the value of everything they see.
I commit these details to memory, then move to Al-Rashid.
Younger, handsome in a severe way, traditional clothing mixed with Western tailoring.
Then Torretti—the most dangerous because he's shopping for other men. Men I don’t know anything about.
If I'm going to play this game, I need to understand all the players.
But as I work, methodically cataloguing each photograph, part of my mind is occupied with a different kind of planning.
Not how to appeal to potential buyers, but how to make one particular man realize that some things are worth more than money.
His weakness is his appreciation for beauty, for quality, for things that can't be easily replaced.
I need to become something to him besides a business transaction.
Something he might not be willing to sell.
I set down the last photograph and lie back on the bed, staring up at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling, cherubs and clouds and classical scenes rendered in white and gold. The evening light has turned everything amber and rose, warm colors that belie the coldness of my situation.
I allow myself to smile for a brief moment. Because I'm starting to think Renato Vitiello doesn't really want to auction me at all.
He just doesn't know it yet.