CHAPTER THREE
Alina
THE SOUNDS OF the auction still ring in my ears as I’m led off the stage. The murmur of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, the faint rustle of fabric—all of it lingers in the air like a sickly perfume. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still standing in that harsh spotlight, exposed, paraded in front of strangers who now own pieces of me.
Fifty thousand. That’s what Koka promised me. The sum that would clear Marina’s debt, make it all disappear—make the threats and the tension stop.
I’m almost certain, though, that I heard a far different sum whispered after the word “sold” sounded.
“How much did he pay for me?” I ask, pulling at the hand around my wrist. The man stops and flings an irritated glance in my direction.
“That is not your concern.” He tugs.
I plant my feet, refusing to move. “It is my concern. I have an agreement with Koka. I am supposed to receive fifty thousand—”
He snorts. “Half a million will cover what you are owed, then.”
Half a million. Dazed, I let him pull me along. The sum echoes in my mind, a staggering sum. I can’t help but feel the weight of it. The victory that should have tasted sweet feels hollow.
Livestock sold at market. That’s how I feel. Like a commodity, nothing more. Very expensive, but livestock all the same.
My handler guides me down another of the narrow, dimly lit hallways that seem to populate this place like veins in a body. The shadows cast by the flickering bulb on the ceiling feel like they’re closing in, and every step I take in this unfamiliar space only makes the oppressive atmosphere heavier. There’s nothing comfortable about this. Nothing I can cling to for a sense of safety or reassurance.
At the end of the hall, we enter a small, windowless room. We haven’t ascended any stairs, so I’m pretty sure we’re still underground.
He pushes me toward a table where a thin man with spectacles and an ill-fitting button-up shirt waits, the fluorescents in here casting odd angles on his face.
“Please sit,” he invites, tapping the papers twice on the table and pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
As if I have a choice. Still, he’s more polite than anyone else has been, and he keeps his eyes above my neck, not once looking at my body in the lingerie I’m still wearing. I slide into the seat and glance down as he slides a thick pack of paperwork in front of me.
The papers in front of me are an invitation to a nightmare.
“I’ve marked the areas for you to sign. This indicates that you are leaving here this evening of your own volition. That you have not been coerced in any way, shape, or form. That the money paid to your account is for a debt owed, and not for services rendered.”
He drones on, pointing to each area where I am supposed to initial or sign.
I sign without attempting to read the text. It’s not like it matters. My choice is made. For however long this man, this stranger, claims me, I belong to him.
I feel it with every stroke of the pen—what’s left of my freedom slipping away. I should have asked Koka more questions. I should have made sure the deal was airtight. But now it’s too late.
When I finish, I set the pen down and look up at my handler, still standing in the doorway. He’s thick with muscle, with a face that doesn’t invite conversation. He looks like someone who’s used to being obeyed. I want to believe I’m above him, but right now, all I can feel are the invisible ropes of shame and fear tightening around my neck.
“The remainder will be wired to my mother, as agreed, correct?” My voice is calm, but the question weighs more than I want it to.
He grunts, not looking me in the eye. "Koka will handle all of that."
“I need to speak to him.” I can’t let go of that shred of hope. Maybe Koka will make this right.
His lips twist, a hint of something unpleasant flashing across his expression. “That’s up to your new owner.”
“But—”
“Enough. You are done here, right? Follow me.”
“Wait!”
He pauses impatiently.
I gesture at myself. “Do I get my clothes back?”
His lips thin with what could be interpreted as a smile. “No.”
I bite back a retort and allow myself to be led out of the room and back through the maze of the building. He brings me to another room, this one lined with benches and a booth at one end that reminds me of a confession box—a small wooden structure where no one can see you, but everyone knows what happens inside.
The door creaks open.
And there he is.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t him.
He’s tall. Youngish, or at least not old—mid-thirties, maybe. Fit and well-dressed.
More significantly, he looks like he is the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants, and he doesn’t bother hiding it.
His eyes skim over me and move past, detached, as if I’m not the reason he’s here but simply a matter of business. There’s no warmth in his gaze, no humanity—just cold calculation.
He’s speaking on the phone, his tone crisp and commanding. He’s speaking in English, his tone low but clear enough for me to follow. I keep my expression neutral and uninterested. Obviously, he does not know that his new acquisition speaks English. Who am I to let him know?
“He wasn’t there. No. I need to know the next time, and date, stat. It needs to be handled.”
He ends the call abruptly, and for the first time, his gaze locks fully on me. The tension in the room thickens as he assesses me openly, his gaze traveling over me tip to toe, like a rope tightening around my throat.
After a moment, he turns toward the back of the antechamber, gesturing for me to follow. “Come.” His voice is quiet, but it’s unmistakably a command, not a suggestion.
I follow him. There’s no choice but to follow.
We exit through another door on the backside of the small booth that opens to a staircase. My legs feel heavy, and every step I take away from the booth feels like another chain being shackled to my soul.
The staircase leads to another corridor, this one much like the one I passed through when I first arrived. At its end, a door swings open to reveal the same luxurious bar where I first arrived.
Without looking at anyone, the man leads me through the tables to the door. He doesn’t stop to acknowledge anyone. Doesn’t glance at the barkeep. He walks through the space as though he owns it, as though the air around him belongs to him.
His confidence is suffocating.
Outside, the night air hits me like a slap, cold and sharp. It’s a welcome contrast to the suffocating heat of the auction space, but it does nothing to ease the chill settling in my bones.
A sleek black limo is waiting by the curb. I hesitate when a driver opens a door and motions me inside. My mind races with a thousand questions, and yet none of them feel relevant anymore. What’s left to ask? What’s left to hope for?
The buyer’s gaze turns to me, impatience flickering in its depths.
I slide into the limo, the plush interior swallowing me whole and the leather cold against my thighs, and try to keep from staring like a starstruck child. That’s not what this is about. Obviously, this man is wealthy. His car is luxurious, yes, but it’s empty—like everything else in his world. Meaningless.
The man across from me doesn’t even spare me a glance. He’s already absorbed in his phone, his world far more interesting than my presence.
I study him in silence. He’s dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that only adds to the cold, detached persona he projects. There’s something about the way he holds himself, the calculated precision of every movement. He’s in control of everything, and I’m nothing but a pawn in his game.
The limo winds through the city, then the city limits, and then the countryside before finally reaching an estate and slowing. I watch through the window as the driver taps a code into an electric box of some sort and drives through a set of gates as they open, and then we drive slowly past sprawling lawns and manicured stone paths.
A mansion looms ahead, its lights casting a yellow glow that’s no doubt supposed to be welcoming. They make my stomach churn.
I don’t belong here. I don’t belong to him.
The vehicle pulls to a stop in a circular drive in front of a set of steps leading to the front entrance, and my heart leaps into my throat. My throat tightens around the lump.
Somehow, I know I won’t receive an answer, but I ask the question anyway. “How long am I supposed to stay?”
A frown flickers between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t answer.
The driver opens the door, and the man steps out first, his shoes clicking sharply against the pavement as he walks toward the house. After a moment, I climb out after him.
A guard at the entrance nods at him and gestures for me to follow.
I do. I have no choice. The heavy doors of the mansion close behind me with a finality that sends a chill through my spine. There’s no turning back.
Whatever comes next, I’m his.