Chapter Seven
Chapter
Seven
SAGE
Istand beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers, lined up alongside the other women, waiting.
The stage is wider than I expected, the polished marble floor cool beneath my heels.
Below us, the ballroom stretches out like something from a fever dream—masked men watching, the weight of their attention pressing down on us like a tangible force.
A court of silent kings, each waiting to claim their prize.
I swallow hard.
This isn't real. It can't be.
And yet, one by one, women are brought to the center of the stage. And one by one, they are bid on.
The first woman—tall, stunning, with an effortless grace that makes it clear she's accustomed to being admired—is led forward. A hush falls over the room, the air buzzing with something I don't quite understand.
The bidding starts at fifty thousand.
Fifty. Thousand.
I try to keep my expression neutral as the numbers rise. Sixty. Eighty. Ninety. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars, final bid.
A man in a black mask wins her, tipping his glass in quiet triumph as she's escorted off the stage.
I stare after her, my stomach twisting.
One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. For her.
Another woman is called forward. This one is blonde, petite, delicate in a way that reminds me of a doll—porcelain skin, shimmering dress, lips that curve into something demure and practiced.
Seventy thousand. Ninety.
She sells for one hundred and ten.
The third woman walks with the kind of confidence that demands attention. Her gown is ruby red, her dark curls swept up in a way that makes her look regal, untouchable.
She sells for one hundred and forty thousand.
My fingers curl at my sides, pressing into the silk of my emerald dress.
I shouldn't be surprised. Of course, this is how it works. I should have known the moment the Magister called this a ritual. The moment I saw the way these women presented themselves, with the poise of people who already knew their worth.
Because they have worth, don't they?
They're beautiful, elegant, confident.
They know what they're doing here.
And then there's me.
I steal a glance downward, my fingers trailing absently over the smooth fabric of my gown.
The dress is exquisite. Everything about me tonight is borrowed, stolen from some other world where I don't belong.
I don't look like them.
I don't carry myself like them.
I'm not thin enough, not graceful enough, not the kind of woman who makes men pay attention, let alone pay hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I don't know how to pleasure a man. Not really, anyway.
Maybe it won't matter. Maybe no one will even notice me standing here, lined up among women who are so much more than I am.
Maybe no one will bid at all.
A small, bitter voice in the back of my mind whispers that it would be better that way.
I spent most of my life being overlooked, and it was easier that way.
Growing up, I wasn't the girl boys noticed in the hallway.
I wasn't the one at the center of the party, the one people whispered about with admiration.
I was the girl with her head buried in a book, the one who spent lunches in the library instead of making friends in the cafeteria.
The girl who was always on the outside, looking in.
I told myself it didn't bother me. That I preferred it. That books were safer, better company than people ever were.
But standing here now, under the weight of so many unseen stares, I feel that old wound stirring, deeper than I want to admit.
Because what if it happens again?
What if they skip over me entirely?
What if the silence stretches, too long, too awkward, as the auctioneer calls my name and no one speaks?
I don't know which is worse—the idea of being bid on like some prize in a catalog, or the idea of being ignored completely.
I swallow hard, thinking of Malachi's intense stare, Elias's scholarly interest, and Asher's playful scrutiny. Would any of them bid? Or was their attention just a momentary curiosity?
The next woman is led to the center of the stage. She sells for one hundred and thirty thousand.
My breath shudders out, uneven.
And then, the auctioneer calls my name.