Chapter 2 #3
I could. I know it would be easier to just reply to him, to my grandfather, or anyone, but six months into my term I realized my voice was just another currency Henry DuPont wanted to spend.
We were in D.C. early on—he used to follow me there, not ready to give up his influence in the House yet.
He orchestrated his way into one of my committee meetings and tried to advise me on a bill tied to Chicago infrastructure.
Federal grants were on the table—money that could’ve gone to housing repairs on the West Side.
I told him I was going to back it. It’s what was best for my constituents and for Chicago.
When I said that, he didn’t even look up from his notes before he shot it down.
“No one invests in neighborhoods that can’t donate back. ”
The next day, before I could speak to any press, he went on record saying our office opposed the bill because it “lacked fiscal accountability.” A polite way of telling the poor they weren’t profitable.
Press can twist your words, misquote them. My grandfather tried to use them for sure. But silence? They can’t own that. So, I keep my words as my last bit of control.
It started more situationally rather than selectively, but it’s rippled into most aspects of my life.
I … shut down. Most people don’t know what to do with my silence.
The media ran a few tabloids calling it arrogance at first with headlines like Congressman DuPont Thinks He’s Above Questions.
After the hype surrounding my decision to keep quiet slowed, my peers called it a strategy.
Elliot handles press briefings and floor statements for me.
The rest of my staff learned early to translate my nods, gestures, and notes into action, and they do a hell of a job with it.
You don’t have to talk to be heard—you just need the right people in your corner.
Sometimes I wonder if there will be anything worth prompting my words again.
Wilson chuckles. “I know. Never hurts to try. Isn’t that right, Slade?”
I nudge the rim of my glasses higher with a quick tap of my finger.
“If he was going to break his years of silence, he wouldn’t waste his breath talking to you; he’d talk to me.” Kenji grins.
Senator Graves laughs, and Wilson flips off Kenji while the announcer for the Market steps onto the stage.
His suit is perfectly pressed, not a speck of lint, and his movements are like the predator he is.
Naturally, his presence summons the attention of the whole club, and he divulges the details of how the evening will proceed.
It’s all the same as last week, the week before that, and the week before that.
The red velvet curtains behind him shift, the slightest ripples in the fabric betraying the movement behind them.
Ominous shadows dance in the folds, and as I glance around, the men hyper focus on the unmistakable flutters.
The faint clink of chains, sharp against the low murmur of the room, follows the swaying curtains, and the sound causes many to salivate.
Kenji leans back, folding his bulky biceps over his chest, and rolls his eyes.
“The rules for bidding are as follows,” the announcer says.
“All bids start at a ten-thousand guard coin, with payment in full due tonight before you leave. All bids are final, no retractions. Tonight’s arrangements are for one evening only.
I will remind our esteemed patrons that delivery is expected tomorrow, and we’ll be monitoring to ensure a timely return.
Attempts to bypass the process will result in a permanent blacklisting.
Remember, discretion is not just expected, it’s enforced.
Everything tonight has a price. The question is … how badly do you want it?”
There’s a hot breath in my ear as Kenji shifts near me. I stiffen. “The question is … why the hell do ugly-ass rich men need to spend this kind of money?”
I draw away from him and don’t bother to react. I let my expression hang flat as I stare at him.
He blinks, then grins. “You’re the exception, of course.”
I pin him with a glare, then shift my focus to the announcer still on stage. His expression is lit with a dreadful, almost gleeful, look as he gestures an introduction to the curtains behind him.
It rises.
At first, the club is silent, but then the hum of instrumental music caresses the air.
Deep bass thrums as gentle notes weave in and out—teasing, just like the slow lift of velvet.
Inch by inch, the hem reveals the gold glint of heeled shoes.
One pair. Then another. Then more evenly spaced.
As the fabric draws higher, long, poised legs appear.
The line of each calf is tense, lit by a wash of bright light fixed on each woman.
They’re dressed in identical bold red lingerie, stretched over every shade of skin tone like a second skin and catching with a subtle sheen. The fabric taunts every curve and contour while delicate lace traces along their hips in smooth, intricate patterns.
If that were the only story, the only thing you saw, one would think this is another round of dancers like earlier in the evening. But it’s not.
Black chains coil around each woman’s wrists and ankles.
A matte metal, dark as midnight, with links thick enough to feel brutal.
It’s more than securing the unwilling women, but to feed the cravings of dominance sitting in this room.
To indulge the hidden, sick thrill that comes with control stripped raw.
Each shackle fits snug, biting into their skin, as evident in their movements to seek relief. They stand still, a row of illuminated silhouettes.
Their faces are pale, drawn tight in pain. Most of their eyes are glassy and distant, rimmed with red, and despite the excessive makeup, I know they each sport heavy bags under their eyes.
Some stare at nothing, waiting for their dreaded number to be called forward.
Others, usually newcomers, take in the sea of ever-eager men on the edge of their seats, trying to get an idea of who they should bid on, if anyone.
Several women twist in the chains, their mouths quivering.
Others bite at the corners of their mouths, whispering quiet encouragement to themselves as they try to smother their feelings of devastation.
Wilson is the first at our table to comment. “Same selection as last week. When will there be fresh ones brought in, Graves?”
Senator Graves bristles. “These are some of the most beautiful women in Chicago. You’re paying for the experience, Marks.”
I swallow, scanning the slumped shoulders and hollow eyes.
Marks is right, though. I count fifteen women. The same as last week. Most of them I’ve bid on before. There are two I have yet to take home.
I scan the lineup and make eye contact with the woman I took home last week, Juliette.
She’s a tall, beautiful blonde with dull blue eyes and flawless skin—I paid thirty thousand for her last week.
The average going rate, considering there are fifteen of them and over forty EV members willing to shell out money.
Though some of the members are content to watch the dancers and pay for their company in other ways.
However, dancers are employees, willing participants.
I guess Senator Graves is right; you’re paying for the experience.
I wouldn’t have the money either on my meager salary, but my grandfather funnels endless cash from somewhere, and I use every last drop I can get my hands on.
Juliette doesn’t look away. Her eyes search mine, brows drawn tight, lips parted as if she wants to get my attention. She wants me to bid on her again. Most of them do. There’s desperation in their expressions as they seek me out in the crowd, past the older men licking their lips.
I force my attention to the two new girls I haven’t bid on yet: a stunning brunette, probably younger than the rest, and a blonde with sharp lips and high cheekbones who looks more pissed than afraid.
“We’ve been discussing rotating them out more. After so many weeks, the men get bored. We’ve set up trade deals with a few organizations overseas but still need to work out the logistics.”
Senator Graves doesn’t see women; he sees assets that wear heels and makeup, inventory to be rotated and discarded when worn. Names don’t matter, only usefulness. They’re flesh to be bought and bodies to own.
Wilson is holding on to every word, but our discussion is interrupted when the man on stage calls out the first number. Two-thirty-five.
She steps forward on shaky limbs while I try to recall her name.
I can’t. They all seem to blur together.
All dark features: her hair is long and black, her thick brows raised above equally dark eyes.
She’s given her instructions: turn once, hold a pause under their gaze, then turn again. They aren’t required to smile; there’s no need.
“Bidding two-thirty-five beginning at ten thousand. Do I have ten thousand dollars?”
The Market doesn’t progress like some fast-talking, backwoods farm auction. No, this is slow and methodical, designed to wring every last drop of guard coin from this group of men willing to throw it away.
Wilson elbows me. “You going to have another round with this one?”
I shrug, but don’t let on that I won’t be bidding.
“Twenty!” an older, silver-haired male yells out, his mouth wrapped around a cigar as he leers.
“Twenty thousand here. Do I have twenty-five?”
“Here!” There’s another bid from the crowd.
I tune it out, testing another sip of cognac in my mouth. Kenji doesn’t pay any mind to what’s going on around him. He’s on his phone, thoroughly focused. When it tilts at the right angle, I realize he’s playing Angry Birds.
I suppress a smirk.
“Sold! Twenty-five thousand.”