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“Three million!”
Several people groan and lean back in their chairs. Those with the cash to burn lean forward, their eyes firmly planted on me.
“Seven million dollars!”
More groans. A few good-natured chuckles. Several hisses of defeat.
The auctioneer beams. “Seven million! Do I hear seven-point-five million?”
“Ten million!” The man from Belarus, who I recognize from the sale right before me, grins at me and licks his teeth.
“Fifteen million!”
More fall out of the bidding war. As people sit down to watch the rest of this play out, it becomes clear that Raizo’s preapproved bidders are the only ones remaining.
The man with the beard, who keeps staring at me with increasing hunger in his icy gaze, is one of them.
God, please… let someone outbid him.
I don’t know this man. I don’t recognize him from anywhere. And yet I do? In a very weird, uncomfortable way.
And while it’s clear that every person in this room is sick as fuck and should go to prison for the rest of their miserable lives, not everyone seems to be sadistic. The elderly woman is being doted upon by who must be her current slaves, a mananda woman. They keep feeding her bites of food and whispering things in her ear. The man from Belarus is laughing and chatting with his colleagues while writing out a check for a waiting attendant. I don’t see any slaves with him, but I also don’t feel like he’s the worst person in the world to be purchased by.
Butthisguy? The bearded man?
The way he looks at me doesn’t just say he wants to break me. It promises me that hewill, slowly and surely, bit by bit—and he will enjoy every moment of it.
The auctioneer clears his throat. “Do I hear?—?”
“Fifty million.”
At that, the room falls completely silent. All heads turn to stare at the bearded man, who didn’t shout or yell or even hop out of his chair. He continues to stare at me, unwavering.
The auctioneer actually stutters. “Y-you heard it here, folks. Fifty. Million. Dollars. For Lot Three Sixty-Seven. Going once?”
The other bidders shake their heads and sit down.
“Going twice…”
Seriously. Where do I know him from? Is he?—
“Sold!”
36
CLARA
I don’t remember walking back to Raizo’s room. It’s just one moment spliced into the next, with jarring skips in between.
The eyes of the bearded man.
Sold.The gavel strikes.
Then I’m walking in a sick sort of processional line of women.The Lots. The woman in the pink dress sobs as she walks, her shoulders shaking in front of me.
I should cry. I feel like I should cry.
I just… can’t.
