Page 12 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

SOFIA

“ T hree minutes until shift change.” Maisie’s whisper is barely audible as we’re escorted back to our rooms after the final viewing.

Her lips barely move, a skill I’m guessing she perfected during her five days in this hell. “The new guard always checks his phone first. Thirty seconds of distraction.”

I give her the slightest nod, my face a neutral mask for the cameras.

After that disaster with Reed at the third viewing, security has been heightened.

More guards.

More watchful eyes.

But also more predictable patterns, if you know how to look.

My heart pounds against my ribs, but my hands are steady.

Marco’s training is kicking in when I need it most.

I’ve been planning this since the moment I saw the blind spot in the security camera network, since I noticed the guard shift change always happens at the same time, and since I realized we had one small window of opportunity.

The plan is simple: create a distraction, incapacitate the guards, make it to the roof, cross to the adjacent building, and find a way down and out.

Five steps to freedom.

Simple doesn’t mean easy.

The guards separate us at the junction of two hallways.

Standard procedure—they never let us travel in groups. Divide and control. But tonight, I start counting steps in my head as I’m led down the plush hallway toward my prison cell.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

I’ve timed this route before.

Twenty-three seconds from junction to my door.

Fifteen seconds from junction to Maisie’s door.

Forty-five seconds until the security camera above us rotates to its next viewing angle, leaving a four-second blind spot at the corridor’s midpoint.

I wait until we’re just past the security camera’s blind spot—the one I noticed during yesterday’s walk to the prep room.

The corridor bends slightly here, creating a natural shadow where the cameras overlap but don’t quite cover.

Then I stumble, letting out a small cry of pain that echoes off the marble floors.

“My ankle,” I gasp, grabbing the guard’s arm for support. He stiffens at the unexpected contact but doesn’t push me away.

They’ve been warned about damaging the “merchandise.”

No bruises. No marks. Nothing to lower our value.

I lean heavily against him, forcing him to adjust his stance to support my weight. “I think I twisted it.”

He grunts, clearly annoyed but also wary of any repercussions if I’m injured on his watch. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” I whimper, playing up the helpless girl act while silently counting in my head.

Twenty Mississippi. Twenty-one Mississippi.

Right on cue, Maisie’s scream echoes down the hallway—piercing and terrified, the kind of sound that demands immediate attention.

My guard’s head whips toward the sound, hand automatically reaching for his weapon.

That split second of distraction is all I need.

The heel of my hand drives up into his nose—the fastest way to disable someone bigger, Marco always said during our self-defense lessons.

The cartilage gives with a sickening crunch.

As he reels back, blood streaming between his fingers, I grab his radio and smash it against the wall.

No immediate calls for backup.

The first step of our plan is complete. I’m already running before he hits the ground, collecting his key card from his belt as he crumples.

The hallway stretches before me, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps as I sprint toward the rendezvous point we established through whispered conversations and subtle hand signals over the past two days.

My bare feet make no sound on the thick carpet—another cruel touch from Madame Rouge, keeping us shoeless to reinforce our vulnerability, our inability to escape.

But tonight it works to my advantage, allowing me to move silently through the corridors.

Maisie meets me at the predetermined spot—the linen closet near the service elevator—breathing hard.

Her eyes are wide, stress evident in her trembling hands.

“Got his keycard,” she pants, holding up the stolen prize.

The plastic rectangle looks so ordinary for something so valuable. “Took out my guard but he managed to hit the alarm button. We’ve got maybe two minutes before they realize it’s not a false alarm?—”

“This way.” I grab her hand, pulling her toward the service stairs I memorized from watching the staff during my days of captivity.

I’ve been mapping this place mentally since I arrived, marking every exit, every rotation, every potential escape route.

Down is too obvious—they’ll expect us to head for ground level.

Up might give us options they won’t anticipate.

We take the stairs two at a time, the metal steps cold against our bare feet.

The stairwell smells of cleaning products and cigarette smoke—the staff’s secret break area, judging by the makeshift ashtray I spotted earlier.

“What about the others?” Maisie asks between labored breaths as we climb. “We can’t just leave them?—”

“We’re no good to anyone if we’re caught,” I reply, though the guilt twists in my stomach.

Jessica, Natalie, Ava, Zoe, Kira are still in their rooms, unaware of our escape attempt. “We get help, then come back for them.”

The logic is sound, but it still feels like betrayal.

We make it up three flights before the first alarm blares—a shrill, piercing sound that makes my ears ring.

Red emergency lights begin to flash, casting eerie shadows on the concrete walls.

“They know,” Maisie gasps, fear making her voice crack.

“Keep moving,” I urge as she falters.

The thud of boots on stairs echoes below us, growing louder. Heavy footfalls.

Multiple pursuers.

My mind calculates odds, distances, timing. “Almost there.”

The roof access door is marked with warnings: “Authorized Personnel Only” and “Emergency Exit—Alarm Will Sound.”

Ironic, since alarms are already blaring throughout the building.

The door is locked with an electronic keypad, but the stolen keycard works—a master key, then.

The light flashes green, and the lock disengages with a metallic click.

Cold night air hits our faces as we burst out onto a gravel-covered rooftop.

The world opens up around us after days of confinement—stars scattered across the velvet sky, city lights twinkling in the distance.

We’re outside the city, I realize.

Somewhere in the suburbs or countryside.

The edge of the roof is maybe forty feet away, a low wall marking the boundary between captivity and freedom.

“There!” Maisie points to a maintenance ladder on the adjacent building.

It’s an older structure, possibly a converted warehouse, positioned about six feet from our current rooftop.

If we can reach it, climb down, make it to the street… “We can jump it!”

We’re halfway across the roof, gravel crunching beneath our bare feet, when the door slams open behind us. The sound is like a gunshot in the night, stopping us mid-stride.

“Ladies.” Madame Rouge’s voice cuts through the wind, cold and controlled despite the situation.

Her red dress is vivid against the darkness, like a splash of blood against the night sky. “How disappointing.”

Four guards fan out behind her, guns raised and pointed at our backs.

The metallic click of safeties being disengaged makes my stomach drop.

My mind races.

The ladder is still fifteen feet away.

Too far to reach before they could fire.

“It’s over,” Madame Rouge continues, stepping forward, her heels crunching on the gravel.

Not a hair out of place, not a hint of exertion on her perfect features.

As if she’d been waiting for us, expecting this move. “Though I must admire your spirit. Such…resourcefulness.”

“Run,” I whisper to Maisie, my eyes darting to the edge of the roof, to the ladder that represents our only hope. “I’ll hold them?—”

The crack of a gun makes us both jump.

Gravel sprays near our feet as the bullet impacts just inches from where we stand.

“Next one won’t miss,” Madame Rouge says coldly, nodding to the guard who fired.

He adjusts his aim, the barrel now pointed directly at my head. “On your knees. Both of you.”

Maisie starts to comply, her body trembling as she begins to sink down.

I grab her arm, mind still spinning through options, scenarios, possibilities.

Maybe if we split up, if one of us could make it to the ladder while the other creates a distraction?—

“Sofia.” Something in Madame Rouge’s voice makes me look at her.

The use of my name instead of “merchandise” or “product” catches my attention.

Her eyes are shrewd, assessing, seeing too much. “You’ve already cost Mr. Reed his deposit. How many more people need to pay for your defiance?”

She gestures with one red-tipped hand.

Two more guards appear from the rooftop door, dragging a bloody figure between them.

My heart sinks as I recognize him—Jonah from the kitchen—who’s been kind to us.

His face is barely recognizable beneath the blood.

One eye is swollen shut, his lip split open.

They’ve broken fingers on his right hand, the digits bent at unnatural angles.

“No,” Maisie whispers beside me, her voice breaking.

“Choose, Sofia,” Madame Rouge says, stepping closer, her perfume carrying on the night breeze—something expensive and suffocating. “Surrender now or watch what happens to those who help you.”

She produces a small pistol from a hidden pocket in her dress, pressing it to the boy’s temple.

His eyes meet mine, terrified but trying to be brave.

He can’t be more than sixteen.

The choice isn’t really a choice at all.

My shoulders slump in defeat.

“Let him go. We’ll come quietly.”

“Sofia—” Maisie starts, her voice desperate.

“Smart girl.” Madame Rouge’s smile is terrible, victorious and cruel. She lowers the gun but doesn’t put it away. “Though I’m afraid someone still needs to learn a lesson about cooperation. About consequences.”

It happens so fast.

A guard grabs Maisie, spinning her around and forcing her to her knees.

The crack of his baton against her back makes me scream, the sound echoing across the rooftop.

Maisie’s cry is higher, sharper—pure pain as the hard plastic connects with her spine.