Page 8 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

SOFIA

“ D on’t flinch.”

Madame Rouge’s perfectly manicured nails dig into my chin as she applies another coat of lip gloss.

The woman hasn’t stopped touching me for the past hour—adjusting my hair, smoothing my dress, treating me like a doll she’s preparing for display.

Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am.

“Such lovely bone structure,” she muses, turning my face side to side with clinical detachment. “The Renaldi genes served you well. Though we’ll need to do something about that stubborn set of your jaw.”

I keep my expression neutral even as my skin crawls.

In the mirrored wall behind her I catch sight of the others.

Six other girls in various stages of preparation.

Six other girls whose lives, like mine, have been reduced to price tags and selling points.

Maisie is closest, being worked on by another stylist, her tall frame draped in something pink and ethereal that makes her look like a fairy tale princess.

The irony isn’t lost on me—the princess awaiting not a prince, but a purchaser.

Jessica sits trembling while a makeup artist tries to cover the tear tracks on her cheeks.

Eighteen years old.

She’s eerily silent, her blue eyes vacant.

Breaking already.

Beside her, Ava winces as a stylist covers the bruises on her shoulders with concealer.

The marks from her escape attempt are still vivid against her dark skin.

But there’s a calculating anger in her eyes that tells me she hasn’t given up.

Just regrouping.

She catches me watching and gives an almost imperceptible nod. Another potential ally.

Natalie sits unnaturally still, back perfectly straight, eyes fixed on nothing.

She hasn’t spoken since Madame Rouge’s psychological dismantling.

The stylist working on her might as well be arranging a mannequin.

In the corner, Zoe’s hands won’t stop shaking.

Whatever medication they’re withholding is clearly something she needs.

She’s muttering to herself, fingers twitching against the emerald green fabric of her dress.

The guards watch her more closely than the others.

They consider her unpredictable. Dangerous, maybe.

Then there’s Kira, the Russian diplomat’s daughter.

Unlike the rest of us, she looks almost bored.

She meets my eyes in the mirror and raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

A challenge or a question? I can’t quite tell, but there’s intelligence in that gaze.

Calculation.

I avert my eyes before meeting Maisie’s.

Her slight nod steadies me.

Seven young women trapped together.

Seven stories.

Seven lives intersecting in this nightmare.

“There.” Madame Rouge steps back, surveying her work like an artist contemplating a canvas. “Remember what we discussed. Grace. Poise. Submission.”

Her blood-red lips curve into what she probably thinks is an encouraging smile. “The merchandise that presents well earns the highest bids. The highest bids mean the most…comfortable futures.”

The threat in her voice is clear.

I’ve seen the welts on Ava’s back from her day of “rebellion.”

I’ve heard the stories Maisie whispered about girls who fought back.

About their “accommodations” afterward.

“Yes, Madame,” I murmur, the words acid in my mouth.

She pats my cheek in a grotesque parody of motherly affection.

“Good girl. Five minutes until the preview begins.”

As soon as she sweeps from the room in a cloud of expensive perfume, I force down the urge to wipe my face clean.

To tear off this wisp of blue silk they’ve put me in.

To scream until my throat bleeds.

Instead, I breathe.

Focus.

Assess the situation. Plan your moves. Stay alive.

Not just for myself, but for the six other women trapped here with me.

“You’re up first,” Maisie whispers, sliding closer under the pretense of borrowing a hairpin. “They always start with the most valuable.”

My stomach turns. “How many…viewers?”

“About thirty. All men. All rich.” Her hands shake slightly as she fusses with her hair. “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t react to anything they say. Just…float. Like none of it’s real.”

But it is real.

Horrifyingly real.

The nightmare I’ve spent my life being protected from, only to end up here anyway.

“There’s a rhythm to it,” Kira adds unexpectedly, her voice low and accented.

She’s moved closer, pretending to adjust her makeup.

“They will look first at your face, then your body, then back to your face. They are assessing whether you are broken yet or if you still need breaking.”

Her perfect English carries no emotion. “Make them think you are exactly what they want—whatever that is.”

Zoe laughs suddenly, a high, unnerving sound.

“We’re all just paper dolls,” she says, too loudly. “Dress us up. Tear us apart. It doesn’t matter.”

A guard steps forward, a hand moving to the baton at his belt.

Ava quickly intervenes, putting a steadying hand on Zoe’s arm.

“She’s fine,” she says firmly. “Just nerves.”

I file away this interaction.

Ava is protective.

Zoe is unstable but possibly useful as a distraction.

Kira is observant.

Natalie is completely shut down.

Jessica is barely hanging on.

The guard appears in the doorway. “Time.”

Walking to that ballroom feels like walking to my execution.

Maybe it is.

The marble is cold under my bare feet—no shoes allowed, another way to make us feel vulnerable.

It’s just another reminder that we are merchandise, not people. Music drifts through the doors, something classical and haunting.

Rachmaninoff, I think.

Dad’s favorite.

Dad.

The thought of him sends a wave of emotion through me.

Is he looking for me? Do they all know I’m missing by now?

Of course they do.

Marco would have raised the alarm instantly.

The entire Renaldi network would be mobilized.

They must be looking for me. Dante must be tearing apart the city.

I cling to that knowledge as I approach the double doors.

“Chin up,” the guard growls. “Shoulders back.”

I obey, but not out of submission.

I’m a Renaldi.

If these bastards want to look at me, they’ll see exactly who I am.

Who they’ve dared to take.

My fear is still there, but beneath it burns something hotter.

Something that keeps me standing when my knees want to buckle.

The doors open.

Light hits my face, momentarily blinding me after the dimmer preparation room.

Chandeliers cast a golden glow over everything, creating an atmosphere of luxury that can’t disguise the fundamental ugliness of what’s happening.

Madame Rouge’s voice cuts through the soft murmur of conversation.

“Distinguished guests, we begin tonight’s preview with a very special offering.”

The room is a blur of faces as they lead me to the platform.

All these powerful men in expensive suits, drinking champagne, and looking at me like I’m a piece of meat.

I focus on a point above their heads.

Float, like Maisie said.

Don’t let them see how much my hands want to shake.

But I can’t help cataloging details, assessing threats, looking for opportunities—just as I’ve been trained to do since childhood.

Thirty men.

Four guards visible.

Two exits beside the main doors.

One woman besides Madame Rouge—severe-looking, standing near what must be a Japanese businessman based on his entourage.

Madame Rouge circles me like a predator, her red dress a splash of blood against the cream and gold of the room.

She describes my “attributes” like I’m a show pony.

My education. My languages. My family connections.

She keeps my last name unspoken but drops enough hints that anyone with connections to New York’s elite would recognize the Renaldi in my bones.

“A rare opportunity,” she purrs to her audience. “Beauty and breeding, yes, but also exceptional intellect. Top of her class at university. Skilled with computers—something many of you might find…useful in your enterprises.”

The casual mention of my skills sends a chill through me.

They don’t just want my body. They want my mind. My abilities. Everything that makes me me .

And then—there.

A flash of something familiar.

My eyes drop automatically to the source, and my heart stops.

Because I know those eyes.

Would know them anywhere, even surrounded by a stranger’s face.

Dante .

He looks different—older, somehow, with grey at his temples and subtle changes to his features I can’t quite identify.

But those eyes…those storm-grey eyes that have haunted my dreams for years.

I start to move, to speak, before I catch myself.

No.

If he’s here, there’s a reason.

I force my gaze onward, praying I didn’t give him away.

But hope blooms in my chest, fierce and bright, pushing back against the fear that’s been my constant companion.

He came for me.

They’re coming for me.

It takes everything I have not to keep looking at him, not to draw strength from his presence.

Instead, I let my gaze drift emptily over the crowd, playing the role of the doll they expect.

“Turn for us, my dear,” Madame Rouge commands, her hand at the small of my back guiding me into a slow rotation.

I comply, moving robotically, but as I turn, I use the opportunity to scan the room more thoroughly.

To check for any missed exits, for weaknesses, for anything that might help our escape.

And yes—to steal another glance at Dante.

He sits among them, looking for all the world like he belongs.

His posture is different—more rigid, more formal.

He holds himself like European old money, not like the coiled weapon I know him to be.

He’s playing a role and playing it well.

But I see the rage in his eyes, carefully banked but burning.

There’s tension in his jaw, his fingers gripping his pen too tightly as he makes notes in a leather portfolio.

I endure Madame Rouge’s monologue about my “potential value.”

Let her display me like artwork.

All the while, my mind races, building a plan, coordinating with what I assume must be Dante’s strategy.

“The bidding will begin at five million,” Madame Rouge announces, her hand possessively on my shoulder. “Though we expect the final price to be…significantly higher.”

Five million dollars.

That’s what my life is worth to these people.