30. Damien
Damien
The lights shift.
Soft at first—dimmed just enough to make the stage the only place worth looking. Brooke walks forward, ghost-like, obedient, blank. She’s not trembling, not stiff. She’s floating. Like this moment has been playing in her head for weeks, and she’s just now stepping into it.
She’s dressed like perfection. White lace, black ribbon. Bruises on display, as ordered.
The host doesn’t waste time. “Lot Three,” he calls out, his voice echoing through the rec room like a sermon. “Young. Obedient. Trained. Exceptional performance under pressure.”
Brooke lowers her gaze.
The silence breaks.
“Twenty thousand.”
A voice from the third row. Nasally. Entitled. An easy start.
“Twenty-five,” someone counters near the aisle, a familiar bidder with a taste for blondes.
I relax into the booth’s leather seat, legs spread, arms draped over the backrest like a king watching the spoils of war. Harmony sits beside me, stone-faced, her hands folded neatly in her lap like she doesn’t feel the weight of what’s about to happen.
But I see it.
Her fingers are white at the knuckles.
“Thirty,” another man calls out.
“Thirty-five.”
My jaw tightens.
Too slow.
“Forty.”
Still dragging.
“Forty-five.”
I scan the room from above—dozens of suits, whispers and glances, thick cigars and heavy rings tapping the arms of their chairs. These are the buyers. The collectors. The ones who smile at violence like it’s art.
But something’s off. Half of them aren’t bidding.
They’re watching. Not the stage.
Me.
“Fifty,” a deeper voice echoes from the right side.
I shift forward. That voice—clean. Confident. Calm. And I don’t fucking recognize it.
“Fifty-five,” a second bidder bites back.
The auctioneer barely blinks. “Sixty.”
Harmony’s head tilts slightly, like she’s trying to hear better. I don’t let her speak. I don’t speak either.
But my whole body goes still.
“Seventy.”
“Eighty.”
“Eighty-five.”
It’s gaining speed now—no longer crawling, now climbing.
“Ninety.”
“Ninety-five.”
“One hundred,” the same unfamiliar voice cuts through the noise. It’s not loud, nor is it demanding. It’s poised. Certain.
I lean into Reese, who’s standing behind us like a statue. “That voice,” I mutter. “Find it.”
He gives the slightest nod, then disappears into the shadows behind the booth.
“One fifteen,” the mystery voice says again.
This time, the room reacts. Brows lift. Heads turn.
Even the host seems startled. “We have one fifteen.”
No one counters. Someone near the back clears their throat.
The auctioneer waits.
And waits.
Then, slowly, “One twenty.”
A pause.
“One twenty-five.”
No response.
“One thirty.”
Nothing.
The host glances down at his clipboard, probably wondering if someone missed a signal.
Then it comes.
“One fifty-five.”
The entire room falls silent.
That voice again.
Same tone. Same calm.
Same faceless source.
The host’s lips part like he’s about to say something, then close again. He looks around the room, then quickly regains composure.
“No further bids?”
Nothing.
“Sold,” he announces, striking the gavel. “One hundred fifty-five thousand dollars.”
Brooke doesn’t flinch.
She’s collected like always. She lets herself be led offstage by a man in black gloves. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch her beyond the elbow.
I rise from my seat.
Harmony turns toward me. Her mouth opens, then closes again. I step out of the box onto the platform.
“Who bought her?” I demand, my voice low but lethal.
The host says nothing.
The bidders pretend not to hear.
I stalk toward the hallway, pushing past a pair of guards with no time for manners.
That voice wasn’t local.
It wasn’t logged in our pre-screen.
No ID tag. No raised hand. No standard protocol.
Just numbers.
Just money.
Just a ghost.
I pull out my phone and fire off a code to the surveillance team.
No one ghosts me at my own fucking auction.
Not without a name.
And not without a consequence.