But before I can drown in a wave of guilt the curtain parts again.
Another girl steps onto the stage—or rather, stumbles. She’s young, maybe even younger than the last. Her limbs are loose and uncoordinated, her head lolling slightly as she tries to stay upright. She’s drugged. I can see it in the way her eyes struggle to focus, in the way her knees buckle with every step.
She’s being held up by nothing but instinct and willpower.
Just like Nell was.
The room shifts forward again—predators scenting weakness. The bidding will start soon. The men around me murmur, amused, as if her fragility makes her more valuable.
I grip the remote tighter, my knuckles whitening, knowing all I can do is sit here silent and watch as her life is ripped from her.
I can’t save this one either.
But I’m getting closer.
Every second I endure this nightmare, every lie I tell, every bid I place—it all brings me one step nearer to her.
And when I finally have Nell in my arms again, it will all be worth it.
The next round begins. The bidding starts higher this time, and it drags on longer—two men locked in a silent war, their remotes flashing as they try to outbid each other.
The girl on stage doesn’t even flinch. She’s gone somewhere deep inside herself, and I don’t blame her.
The night unfolds in the same sick rhythm.
Girl after girl. Life after life. Stolen, stripped, and sold.
They’re not whores. They’re not willing. They’re justgirls—young, terrified, and thrown headfirst into a world they never had a chance to understand.
I place a few more bids, just enough to stay in character, though each one feels like a betrayal. But I remind myself—if I try to save any of them now, I lose Nell. And I can’t lose her. Not again.
It’s her or them.
And right now, it has to be her.
When the final girl is sold and the curtain closes for the last time, the men drift back into the lounge. The mood shifts into something lighter, celebratory. Glasses clink. Laughter rises. They compare purchases like they’ve just left an art auction, not a human marketplace.
I join them, just enough to blend in. I sip my drink, nod at the right moments, ask the right questions. Every word is a performance. Every smile a mask.
“I must admit,” one man says, raising his glass, “I haven’t seen you at these auctions before.”
I offer a casual shrug. “Just moved back down from up north. I used to attend the circuits up there. But I have to say…” I lower my voice, lean in slightly. “The stock down here? Much better quality.”
The words taste like poison.
But I say them anyway.
Because this is the only way in.
And I’ll crawl through hell on my knees if it means getting her out.
“Tell me about it,” the man says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Some of the ones I’ve picked up over the last few weeks? Outstanding. It’s rare we even get a look in these days, though—not with the Broker sniffing around.”
I keep my expression neutral, but my ears sharpen at the name.
“I know he never shows up in person,” the man continues, lowering his voice slightly, “but he always sends someone.Always. Jammy bastard manages to scoop up half the stock before the rest of us can blink.”
The Broker.
