Page 13 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

“Stop!” I lunge forward, only to be restrained by another guard, his grip bruising on my arms. “Please! It was my idea! Punish me!”

Madame Rouge watches with clinical detachment as the guard raises the baton again. “But this is your punishment, Sofia. To watch. To know that your actions have consequences for others.”

The baton comes down again with sickening force. “To understand that defiance costs more than just your own comfort.”

Maisie’s second scream is weaker, the sound catching in her throat.

The guard hits her again and again, each impact making a sound like a breaking branch.

“Please,” I beg, tears streaming down my face now. “Please stop. I’ll do anything?—”

“Yes,” Madame Rouge says simply. “You will. That’s exactly the point.”

They make me watch every stroke.

Five in total, though it feels like fifty.

By the end, Maisie has collapsed onto the gravel, her pink dress torn and dirty, her breathing shallow.

I’m forced to walk back to my room with a guard gripping each arm.

My mind feels numb, disconnected from my body, like I’m floating somewhere above the scene.

Is this shock?

Trauma?

Some defense mechanism kicking in to protect me from what I’ve just witnessed?

Madame Rouge walks ahead of us, her footsteps muffled on the carpet. At my door, she turns to face me.

“Tomorrow is the auction,” she says, her voice conversational, as if we’re discussing the weather rather than the sale of human beings.

“You will be perfect. You will be obedient. You will smile when appropriate and speak when spoken to.” Her eyes harden.

“Or next time, it won’t be just Maisie who suffers.

The kitchen boy has five brothers and sisters.

The maid who cleans your room has elderly parents.

The driver who brought you here has a pregnant wife.

I know all of them, Sofia. All their weaknesses, all their vulnerabilities. ”

She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear. “Your defiance has cost enough. Don’t test me again.”

The door closes behind me with a final-sounding click.

I stand in the center of my beautiful prison, trembling from head to toe, the enormity of my failure crushing down on me.

I didn’t just fail to escape—I got Maisie beaten.

Got the kitchen boy tortured.

Put others in danger with my recklessness.

From my barred window, I can see guards dragging Maisie back to her room.

Her feet leave trails in the decorative gravel of the garden path, her body limp between the two men.

My fault. My fault. My fault.

The emotions hit me in waves—guilt so intense it’s physical, rage that burns like acid, helplessness that threatens to drown me.

I’ve never felt so utterly powerless.

Not when I was taken from my home.

Not when I was drugged and transported like cargo.

Not when I was displayed like livestock for wealthy monsters.

This—knowing others suffered for my actions—this is a new kind of hell.

I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms, focusing on that small pain to keep from screaming.

I’ve been trained for many things—self-defense, negotiation, basic weapons handling, computer security—but nothing prepared me for this.

For the weight of responsibility.

For the knowledge that my actions have such direct consequences for innocent people.

I’ve lead teams on missions, but every member had agreed to the risk before we even began.

This is different.

Is this what Dad feels all the time? What Marco lives with? The knowledge that every decision affects not just themselves but everyone connected to them?

I sink onto the bed, my legs finally giving out.

The silk sheets feel obscene against my skin after what I’ve just witnessed.

The luxury of this prison, the careful attention to aesthetic details while human beings are treated like commodities—it makes me physically ill.

Something crinkles under my pillow when I finally collapse.

A small piece of paper, folded tiny and tucked where only I would find it.

My hands shake as I open it in a way the camera can’t see, recognizing the handwriting instantly.

Bold, exact strokes.

The penmanship of a man who commits fully to everything he does.

Hold on, principessa. One more day. Trust me.

Dante.

I press the note to my chest, tears finally spilling over after being held back by shock and fear.

In the distance, a clock chimes midnight, the sound carrying through the still night air.

The auction is tomorrow evening.

Less than twenty-four hours until I’m sold to the highest bidder.

One more day, Dante said.

One more day until…what?

Rescue?

Revenge?

Both?

I can survive anything for one more day. Can endure whatever humiliations tomorrow brings, knowing that Dante is out there, planning, preparing.

Knowing that my family hasn’t abandoned me.

After the tears subside, something colder and harder settles.

Something that feels like my father’s rage and my brother’s intelligence.

Something that was always there, perhaps, but is now crystallized by trauma and fury.

I wipe my face, breathe deeply, and begin to plan again.

Not escape—not yet.

But survival.

Observation.

Preparation for whatever Dante has in mind.

Madame Rouge thinks she’s broken me, thinks she’s shown me the cost of defiance and taught me to be docile.

She doesn’t understand who I am.

Doesn’t know that Renaldis don’t break—we regroup, we adapt, then we wait for the perfect moment.

But the Calabreses better pray his brother’s prison cell has room for two, because when this is over, I’m going to make him pay for every mark on Maisie’s back.

For every drop of Jonah’s blood.

For every tear Jessica has shed.

Every. Single. One.

I smooth Dante’s note carefully, then tear it into tiny pieces and flush it down the toilet.

No evidence.

No connections.

Nothing to give them leverage.

Tomorrow I’ll be the perfect merchandise.

I’ll smile.

I’ll speak when spoken to.

I’ll play the role of a defeated captive.

But inside?

Inside I’m my father’s daughter.

My brother’s sister.

Vengeance will be mine.