And I’ll make sure she remembers who she is—who she was before they tried to erase her.
The auctioneer steps forward, his voice smooth and theatrical, like this is just another performance.
“Our final lot of the evening,” he announces, gesturing toward Nell as if she’s a prize on display. “English. This one will still need some breaking in.”
A few men chuckle. My stomach turns.
“She’s spirited,” he continues. “But manageable. A rare find. We’ll start the bidding at fifty thousand.”
A hand goes up immediately. Then another.
The numbers climb fast—sixty, seventy, eighty-five.
I stay still, watching. Calculating.
Nell sways on her knees, her head drooping forward. The handler jerks her upright again, and her body flinches like it’s been trained to obey.
Those beautifully full lips are drawn down into a grimace, her cheeks sunken, the rose dusting that once hinted at her cheeks vanished, and the sparkle that used to shine bright in her eyes has been extinguished.
She doesn’t even look at the crowd, and she definitely doesn’t see me. She’s just a shell on a stage, not the Nell I know. The Nell I know would fight back if she could.
“One hundred thousand,” someone calls from the back.
I raise my hand. “One-fifty.”
Heads turn, a few eyebrows lift, but I don’t falter. The auctioneer smiles, pleased. “One-fifty. Do I hear one-seventy?”
“One-seventy-five,” the man beside me calls, voice calm and overly confident. He’s the one who spoke about her earlier. The one who was far too interested in the ‘one with fight in her.’
I don’t look at him. I raise my hand again. “Two hundred.”
The room shifts. The air tightens.
This isn’t casual anymore.
Now it’s a contest.
“Two-twenty,” the man snaps.
I glance at him now—just long enough to let him see it. The steel in my eyes. The warning.
“Three hundred,” I say, voice flat.
A murmur ripples through the room. Even the auctioneer hesitates.
“Three hundred thousand,” he repeats, almost reverent. “Do I hear three-twenty?”
Silence.
The man beside me shifts in his seat, his jaw tight, dabbing the beading sweat from his forehead. He wants her. But not that badly.
“Sold,” the auctioneer declares, slamming the gavel down. “To the gentleman in the centre row.”
I exhale slowly, forcing my hands to unclench.
It’s done.
She’s mine—on paper, at least.
