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She nods and walks away briskly. I don’t know what to do from here, but a few other girls wearing their numbers are sitting on chairs. So, I go and take a seat beside the redhead from earlier. Her knees shake, and she wrings her fingers. We sit in silence for a few minutes before she leans into me and whispers unsteadily.
“D-do you think they killed her?”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “Probably.”
“Are we being trafficked?”
I really don’t know, after everything I’ve seen. If she had asked me that before I saw that girl killed in the cell next to me, I would’ve said yes, but now... my wildest guess would probably be inaccurate. The two men’s eyes glowed red, like the monsters from my childhood. Maybe I’ve just lost my damn mind, and this is all a horrific nightmare.
“That scary guy said auction. We’re being numbered. What the fuck else could it be?” she asks, but she isn’t directing the question to me. Really, she’s just talking aloud.
The truth of the matter is, it doesn’t matter. Either way, our chances of survival are looking grim, but I won’t tell her that. I’ll let her hang on to any hope she has. Hope fuels courage, and courage is what she’ll need if she wants any chance of escaping with her life.
“It’s my best guess. But I don’t know,” I admit.
She huffs before asking, “What’s your name?”
“Marina.”
“Stacey Ryan,” she chokes. “I’m Stacey Ellen Ryan.”
I smile, not knowing any other way to comfort her. She’s clearly wanting to hang on to her identity, and I can’t blame her. If she gives up on herself, it’s all over for Stacey Ryan. She needs to be strong, and if repeating her name helps, maybe I should do the same.
“You’re number seven-ninety-five. Stacey Ryan no longer exists,” a cold voice says from behind us. I see Stacey shudder—whether at the voice or the thought of losing her identity, it’s hard to tell. “Now, seven-seventy-six, follow me.” I stand, following Ratilda reluctantly.
“Hmm. You’re a size four. Full C cup, approximately five foot seven.” She taps her finger to her mouth, contemplating. My eyes narrow slightly. “I have the perfect dress. You’ll be radiant.” She beams, clearly pleased with herself.How does she know all of that just by looking at me?
She walks to the large armoire and shuffles through the gowns. “Here it is,” she says, pulling a beautiful gold-colored dress from the back. “Drop your frock.” The garment falls to my feet as I’m ushered onto the raised platform. She holds the golden dress near the floor and I step into it, waiting as she tugs and pulls it into place. When she’s done fussing, she spins me around to the floor-length mirror, and my eyes widen at the beautiful rose-gold dress.
Exquisite beads are embroidered onto lace and tulle, which overlay satin. It molds to the curve of my body, flaring just slightly from my waist. Swarovski crystals showcase my slender neck and shoulders. The neckline scoops just enough to show the swell of my full breasts that have been enhanced by the corset hidden by a row of crystal buttons.
“Ah. The aristocracy will not be disappointed with you. I dare say we shall have a bidding war.” She giggles while my insides rumble in protest.
I don’t want anything to do with this. Nobody that engages in this sort of perverse and insidious act is anyone I want to draw attention from. I’d rather die now than be sold off to some sicko. And aristocracy? What royal needs to pay for girls?
No Prince Charming, that’s for sure.
“One more thing,” Ratilda says. “We need to draw your blood.” I furrow my brow.Draw my blood?
More women with collars approach with a cart full of needles and other objects I vehemently object to. “No,” I say, squirming. “No, I won’t do this,” I repeat, shaking my head.
“Don’t get blood on that dress,” she warns the other women, ignoring my protest.
“If you hold still, I should only have to do this once,” a woman with short purple hair says to me. “Let me see your vein.” I flinch away from her. “Don’t be stupid, girl. Do as I instruct.” With trepidation, I hold out my arm. She pokes at it with her finger. “Fabulous. This will be painless,” she promises as she stabs a needle into my vein, drawing the blood through the syringe and into a tube with a bag attached. I wince, feeling light-headed. A few minutes later, a woman is removing the tubes, cleaning the area, and placing a Band-Aid over the tiny wound.
“There you go,” she says, handing me a small glass of what appears to be orange juice. I gulp the liquid down and pick up the two cookies sitting on a plate in front of me. “See? It wasn’t so bad,” she chides. I nibble greedily on the chocolate confections, hardly hearing her words. “Now, now... you mustn’t overindulge. We can’t have you busting out of that lovely dress. Your future owner will want you at your best. Remember to remove that bandage before you enter the auction room,” she chuckles, eliciting a hard scowl from me.
“No one owns me,” I snark under my breath, but it doesn’t go unheard.
“That attitude will get you killed around here. Best to keep your head down and mouth shut.”
She doesn’t say it to be cold or frighten me, but to warn. The corner of her mouth lifts into a semblance of a smile, conveying that she doesn’t like this situation any more than I do, but she’s been through it enough to know the ropes.
Minutes later, the final touches are being forced upon me by various strangers’ hands. I don’t pay them any mind. Instead, I plan my murderous revenge on them all. If I ever escape, I promise myself I’ll hunt them all down. Even the unwilling participants. The lot of them will pay.
I take a moment to look at the other girls’ transformations. Mousy girl is no longer mousy. Her hair has been colored a brilliant shade of caramel, and curls cascade down her back. The sweetheart top of her fuchsia dress showcases cleavage and makes her look confident. I can’t help but admire the work that has been done to each girl in such a short amount of time. Every one of them looks magnificent.
