46. Cam
I stare at the reflection in the mirror—a man I barely recognise.
It’s the same suit I wore to the last auction, but everything feels wrong. I know what I’m about to do, and I know what’s at stake, but I’m doing it all for her.
The scar slicing down the left side of my face is healing, but it still burns like a brand—a permanent reminder of the moment I failed Nell.
My truth is my punishment.
One eye remains the warm brown I’ve always known. The other, clouded and pale, stares back like it belongs to someone else.
I’m starting to get used to it though. I’ve begun to accept that this is who I am now.
What I’ve become.
Everything is ready, all I’ve got to do is play the part now. Then tonight, after the auction I’m going in to get Nell back. And if I find her, I’m not coming back empty handed.
Everything’s in place.
The suit fits. The forged credentials are flawless. The earpiece is silent—for now.
All I have to do is play the part.
Smile like I belong. Walk like I’ve done this a thousand times before.
No matter what it costs me.
The house—no, the estate—rises out of the darkness like something out of a dream twisted into a nightmare.
It’s massive.
Columns flank the entrance like sentinels, carved marble gleaming under the soft wash of floodlights. The driveway is lined with luxury cars, each one more expensive than the last. Even the air smells like money and power and rot.
I step out of the car and adjust my cufflinks, heart pounding beneath the crisp fabric of my shirt.
A few other men approach the entrance with me—well-dressed, silent, practiced.
Predators in tailored suits.
I recognise two of them from the last auction. One gives me a nod, the kind that says, ‘We’re the same.’ I nod back, because I have to. Because tonight, I’m wearing the mask. But on the inside, I’m burning.
The guards at the door barely glance at my ID before waving me through. Inside, the air is cooler, scented with expensive cologne and polished wood.
A chandelier the size of a car hangs above the grand foyer, casting fractured light across the marble floor.
Laughter echoes from deeper inside—low, indulgent, knowing, which only raises my hackles.
I walk through it all like I belong here.
But every step I take, I’m counting the exits.
Every face I pass, I’m memorising.
And every second that ticks by, I’m thinking of Nell.
The hallway opens into a vast reception room, all velvet drapes and gold trim, like some twisted palace.
Waiters in black vests glide between guests with silver trays, offering champagne and canapés like this is just another gala.
But beneath the surface—beneath the silk and smiles—there’s something rotten.
You can feel it in the air.
Like the house itself knows what’s about to happen.
I keep my expression neutral, my posture relaxed.
Just another man with money and appetite.
Just another buyer.
A man with slicked-back hair and a diamond-studded watch approaches, his grin too wide to be friendly.
“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,”
he says, voice smooth and oily.
“Last time, you looked like you’d never been to one of these before.”
I force a chuckle.
“You’d be surprised how quickly a man adapts.”
He claps me on the shoulder in a way that’s far too familiar.
“That’s the spirit. They’ve got some real gems tonight. One of them’s barely even broken in.”
He winks, and I feel bile rise in my throat. But I nod, because I have to. Because I need to stay invisible.
A woman in a crimson gown catches my eye from across the room. She’s standing near the staircase, watching everything with a predator’s stillness. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just watches.
I don’t know who she is, but I know better than to underestimate her.
A bell chimes once—clear and commanding, and in response the room quiets.
A man in a white tuxedo steps onto the landing above the staircase, arms spread like a conductor.
“Gentlemen,”
he says, voice echoing through the chamber.
“Welcome. The auction will begin shortly. Please make your way to the viewing hall.”
The crowd begins to move, slow and eager.
I fall in line like the rest, heart pounding, every step taking me closer to the darkness.
It’s all for her, I keep reminding myself.
The crowd filters through a set of double doors into the viewing hall—if you can even call it that.
It’s more like a showroom, dressed in opulence to disguise the horror.
Velvet curtains line the walls, and soft lighting casts a golden glow over the space, as if that could make what’s about to happen feel less monstrous.
Glass display cases line the perimeter, but they’re empty—for now.
The real merchandise is kept elsewhere, hidden until the bidding begins.
I move with the others, keeping my breathing steady.
My eyes scan everything—not just the people, but the layout.
Every room I can glimpse through open doorways, every corridor that twists out of sight.
I note the angles, the exits, the blind spots.
And the cameras.
Discreet, but not invisible.
One above the chandelier.
Another tucked into the corner near the stairwell.
A third just outside the viewing hall, angled toward the main corridor.
I make a mental map of every single one.
I’ll need it later.
A waiter offers me a drink. I take it, not because I want it, but because refusing would draw attention. The glass is cold in my hand, grounding me. Reminding me what I’m here for.
The guests begin to settle into clusters—men murmuring behind raised glasses, exchanging rumours about the “lots”
being brought in tonight. I catch fragments of conversation:
“—barely sixteen, untouched—”
“—from Eastern Europe, I think. Perfect skin—”
“—one of them fought back. They had to sedate her.”
My jaw tightens but I keep my face neutral.
A second chime rings out—lower and longer this time.
The murmur of conversation fades into silence as the crowd begins to move again, this time toward a set of heavy doors at the far end of the viewing hall.
Two guards pull them open, revealing a room that feels more like a theatre than a marketplace.
Rows of plush seats curve around a raised platform at the centre.
The lighting is dim, focused entirely on the stage.
Velvet drapes hang behind it, deep crimson, like a curtain waiting to be drawn on something obscene.
I take a seat near the middle—close enough to see, far enough not to stand out.
Around me, men settle in with the ease of routine.
Some sip from crystal tumblers.
Others scroll through digital catalogues on sleek tablets, reviewing the ‘lots’ like they’re shopping for antiques.
A man in a white tuxedo steps onto the stage, the same one who welcomed us earlier. He smiles, all charm and polish, as if this is a charity gala.
“Gentlemen,”
he begins, voice smooth and practiced.
“Thank you for joining us tonight. As always, we appreciate your discretion—and your loyalty.”
A few men chuckle. I don’t.
“Tonight’s selection is exceptional,”
he continues.
“Each lot has been carefully prepared, thoroughly inspected, and guaranteed to meet the highest standards. You’ll find a range of ages, backgrounds, and temperaments. Something for every taste.”
My stomach turns, but I keep my expression blank.
The first girl is brought out. She can’t be older than fifteen. Her eyes are vacant, her body trembling beneath the thin silk slip they’ve dressed her in. A collar gleams around her neck.
The bidding begins.
Fast. Ruthless. Numbers thrown out like they mean nothing.
Twenty thousand.
Thirty.
Fifty thousand.
Sold.
She’s led offstage without a word.
Another girl follows. Then another. Each one more broken than the last. Some cry. Some stare into nothing. One tries to run and is dragged back, kicking and screaming, by her hair.
All the while I sit here, silent, dying inside, knowing I can’t help any of them.
But then the host’s voice cuts through the room again, a little brighter now, like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“And now, gentlemen, our final lot of the evening. A rare find. Strong-willed. A fighter.”
The curtains part.
And my world stops.
A voice cuts through the hush—low, eager, meant only for the man beside him.
“That’s the one I told you about,”
he mutters.
“She had fire in her. Real fire. Haven’t seen that in a long time. A true fighter.”
I clock his face.
Memorise it.
It won’t be around much longer.
My fists clench in my lap, nails digging into my palms as I fight to keep still. Rage simmers just beneath the surface, begging to be unleashed. But I don’t move. I can’t—not yet.
My eyes stay locked on the girl in the centre of the stage.
Nell.
It’s her.
But it’s not.
She’s bruised, her skin mottled with fingerprints and pain. Her movements are sluggish, unsteady—drugged. She sways on her feet, barely upright, and when the handler yanks her forward, she collapses to her knees.
My heart stops.
There’s no fire in her eyes now. Just a dull, vacant haze. Like the light’s been drained from her.
I want to run to her. Tear through the crowd. Kill every man in this room and carry her out myself.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I have enough currency to outbid every bastard here. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The plan has changed.
This isn’t an extraction anymore.
It’s a bidding war.
If I play this right, I can get her out and keep my cover intact—long enough to finish what I started. Long enough to burn this whole operation to the ground.
But as I watch her sway on that stage, barely conscious, I feel the fear creep in.
Not for me.
For her.
I’ve seen what happens to girls who survive these rings. The ones who make it out with their bodies intact, but not their minds. The ones who don’t make it past the memories and horrors.
But that won’t be Nell.
I won’t let it be.
I’ll bring her back.
And I’ll make sure she remembers who she is—who she was before they tried to erase her.
The auctioneer steps forward, his voice smooth and theatrical, like this is just another performance.
“Our final lot of the evening,”
he announces, gesturing toward Nell as if she’s a prize on display.
“English. This one will still need some breaking in.”
A few men chuckle. My stomach turns.
“She’s spirited,”
he continues.
“But manageable. A rare find. We’ll start the bidding at fifty thousand.”
A hand goes up immediately. Then another.
The numbers climb fast—sixty, seventy, eighty-five.
I stay still, watching. Calculating.
Nell sways on her knees, her head drooping forward. The handler jerks her upright again, and her body flinches like it’s been trained to obey.
Those beautifully full lips are drawn down into a grimace, her cheeks sunken, the rose dusting that once hinted at her cheeks vanished, and the sparkle that used to shine bright in her eyes has been extinguished.
She doesn’t even look at the crowd, and she definitely doesn’t see me. She’s just a shell on a stage, not the Nell I know. The Nell I know would fight back if she could.
“One hundred thousand,”
someone calls from the back.
I raise my hand.
“One-fifty.”
Heads turn, a few eyebrows lift, but I don’t falter. The auctioneer smiles, pleased.
“One-fifty. Do I hear one-seventy?”
“One-seventy-five,”
the man beside me calls, voice calm and overly confident. He’s the one who spoke about her earlier. The one who was far too interested in the ‘one with fight in her.’
I don’t look at him. I raise my hand again.
“Two hundred.”
The room shifts. The air tightens.
This isn’t casual anymore.
Now it’s a contest.
“Two-twenty,”
the man snaps.
I glance at him now—just long enough to let him see it. The steel in my eyes. The warning.
“Three hundred,”
I say, voice flat.
A murmur ripples through the room. Even the auctioneer hesitates.
“Three hundred thousand,”
he repeats, almost reverent.
“Do I hear three-twenty?”
Silence.
The man beside me shifts in his seat, his jaw tight, dabbing the beading sweat from his forehead. He wants her. But not that badly.
“Sold,”
the auctioneer declares, slamming the gavel down.
“To the gentleman in the centre row.”
I exhale slowly, forcing my hands to unclench.
It’s done.
She’s mine—on paper, at least.
The room begins to stir again—men rising from their seats, murmuring final thoughts, some already placing orders for transport or ‘preparation.’ I stay seated a moment longer, letting the crowd thin. My heart is pounding, but my face stays composed. I can’t afford to slip now.
As much as I want to run to her—tear through the walls and carry her out of this hell—I can’t. Not yet.
I have to keep up the act.
When the majority have filtered out, I follow the others back into the main seating area, where the mood has shifted from anticipation to indulgence.
Laughter echoes through the room, glasses clink, and men swap stories about their ‘purchases’ like they’ve just left a high-end car auction.
Some are already talking about the next event, comparing notes, trading names.
I slip into a conversation, nodding at the right moments, asking careful questions.
Every detail matters.
Every thread I pull could lead me closer to the Broker—the man behind all of this.
The one I came here to destroy.
This mission doesn’t end tonight.
Not until the whole network burns.
Then he appears—the man who bid against me. His face is flushed, his tie loosened, his ego bruised.
“Congratulations are in order,”
he says, forcing a smile.
“I had my eye on that one. She was fiery.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—something dark and possessive. The kind of look that makes my skin crawl.
“Good luck with her,”
he adds, voice low.
“You’ll need it.”
My jaw tightens. My fists curl at my sides. For a second, I see it—his neck snapping in my hands, the silence that would follow.
But I can’t. Not here. Not yet.
Just as I’m about to lose control, a man in a black suit approaches—clipboard in hand, smile rehearsed to perfection.
“Sir,”
he says smoothly.
“your paperwork is ready. If you’ll follow me, we’ll finalise the transfer.”
I nod, forcing my expression back into something neutral, and just like that the mask slips back into place.
But inside, I’m already counting down.
Because soon, the mask comes off, and when it does, there won’t be anything left of men like him.
I follow the black suit down another corridor—this one quieter than the buzzing foyer.
The laughter and clinking glasses fade behind me, replaced by the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the distant buzz of security systems.
He leads me into a small, glass-walled office tucked behind the main floor.
Inside, a sleek black desk sits beneath a mounted screen displaying rows of numbers and names—inventory, no doubt.
A printer churns softly in the corner, spitting out contracts like this is just another business deal.
“Lot Thirty-One,”
the man says, tapping at a tablet.
“Final bid, three hundred thousand. Payment method?”
“Wire transfer,”
I reply, handing over the forged credentials.
“Same account as you have on record.”
He nods, barely glancing at the details.
“Excellent. We’ll process the transfer now. Once it clears, she’s yours.”
I watch him work, every keystroke another second I’m not with her. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to move, to act—but I force myself to stay still. Calm and controlled, as always.
The man glances up.
“You’ve got good taste. That one’s been difficult to keep in line. Bit of a wild streak I hear.”
I don’t answer, I just stare.
He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Of course, she’ll be delivered to the vehicle bay. You’ll find her sedated and secured for transport. Standard procedure.”
The printer spits out the final page. He slides it across the desk with a pen.
“Signature here.”
I take the pen. My name—my alias—flows across the page in practiced strokes.
With that, it’s done.
On paper, she belongs to me.
“Pleasure doing business,”
the man says, standing.
“Your vehicle is waiting in Bay Three. She’ll be brought out shortly.”
I nod once and turn to leave, the contract folded in my pocket like a brand.
“This way, sir,”
he says quietly.
“We’ll take you to collect your purchase.”
I rise, following him through a side door tucked behind the stage, each second dragging longer than the last. The hallway beyond is colder, stripped of the opulence of the main rooms. Here, the walls are bare concrete, the lighting harsh and clinical. The illusion ends here. This is where the truth lives.
We pass a series of locked doors, each marked with a number. I count them all. Note the cameras. The guards. Every detail. Because even though Nell will be safe now, the op will carry on until all these cunts are charred crisps.
Finally, we stop at a reinforced door with a keypad. The man enters a code, and the lock clicks open.
“She’s sedated,”
he says, as if that’s a selling point.
“Makes transport easier. You’ll find she’s compliant, though we recommend keeping restraints on for the first few days. Just until she adjusts.”
He sounds like he’s selling a puppy not a human being.
The room is small, sterile. A cot in the corner. A metal chair. A drain in the floor.
And Nell.
She’s curled on the cot, wrists bound, a thin blanket draped over her like an afterthought. Her face is pale, lips cracked, a bruise blooming along her jaw. Her eyes are half-lidded and unfocused.
But she’s breathing.
“Please inspect your purchase, and once satisfied I ask you return to your vehicle and we will bring her up.”
I can’t show how much this moment means. Not here.
It’s not safe to break character until we’re safely home, and she’s tucked in my bed.
So I keep my face blank, even as my chest threatens to cave in. I hover near her, close enough to touch, but I don’t.
She’s barely conscious—adrift in some drugged half-state, her body twitching with each breath.
She moans softly, incoherent, her eyes rolling back into her head.
My Nell.
She’s here. She’s alive.
And soon, she’ll be safe.
“All happy,”
I echo with a tight smile, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
I tear my gaze away from her—because if I don’t, I’ll break—and follow the handler as he leads me toward the waiting SUV. It sits idle in one of the bays, engine humming, doors already unlocked.
They don’t bother with care.
The rear passenger door swings open, and they toss her in like luggage—limp and silent.
She crumples across the backseat, her body folding awkwardly, wrists still bound, a strip of black tape sealed over her mouth. Someone’s thrown a thin cloth over her like it’s enough to preserve her dignity. It isn’t.
My jaw tightens. Every instinct screams to lash out, to tear them apart for treating her like this.
But I can’t. Not yet.
We’re so close now.
Just a few more steps, and she’s mine.
She’ll be free.
After