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“Kids! You’ve just raised nine hundred thousand dollars!” I announce, still smiling, enjoying every second of this.

They cheer again, their tiny hands clapping louder than ever, and I can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride. For them. Not for the women in the room, but for the children. They’re the only ones who don’t judge, who don’t care about the facade.

“Next, shoes,” I cry out, my voice ringing through the space, loud and clear.

The crowd goes wild, and I can see the women starting to squirm in their seats, their eyes locked on Emilia’s high-end shoes, as if they’re about to jump up and fight for them.

The crowd erupts again. These women are practically vibrating, eyeballs glued to Emilia’s designer shoes like vultures circling roadkill. Hands shoot up before I’ve even finished the sentence.

“Seven hundred!”

“Eight!”

“Eight-fifty!”

“Million,” a voice belts, breathless, like she’s confessing her sins.

I lean into the mic, grinning. “Going once...twice....” I glance at Emilia. She’s frozen. Pale. If I listen closely, I swear I can hear her soul slipping out of her body. “Sold.”

The kids explode, clapping like I just pulled a bunny out of a hat.

Their faces are lit up with wide grins, happy little humans who don’t give a damn about brand names or bloodlines.

For the first time since waking up in this psychotic carnival of a life, I feel…

something like pride. Not for the social piranhas in the seats, but for them.

Finally, mercifully, the auction ends. The crowd starts filing out, buzzing, comparing receipts like war trophies. I don’t bother hiding my smirk as I stroll toward the entrance, the children practically glued to my sides like tiny security guards.

They tug my hands, pulling me lower to pepper kisses on my cheeks. I kiss them back, one by one. Their warmth is honest. No agendas. No whispered insults behind manicured nails. Just kids.

The nuns herd them toward the waiting bus. Before they board, the head nun turns to me, hands clasped in front of her chest. “We can never thank you enough, Miss D'Angelis. You’ve given us more than we could have ever dreamed. Over five million raised.”

I wave my hand, playing casual. “Oh, don’t thank me.” My smile sharpens as I tilt my head toward Emilia. “Thank her.”

Right on cue, Emilia appears like the ghost of bad decisions.

She’s wrapped in a plain black dress, barefoot and polished, stripped of everything but her brittle pride.

Even her hair extensions are gone, auctioned off like cheap trinkets.

She looks like she’s just crawled out of an emotional bankruptcy meeting.

The nun turns, bows again. “Thank you, Miss Emilia.”

Emilia manages a smile so tight I’m half-convinced her teeth might crack. The nuns usher the kids onto the bus. They press their tiny faces against the windows, waving wildly as the bus drives off. I wave back, blowing a few more kisses. My heart softens again—for them, not for anyone else.

And then come the ladies. The scavengers.

They drift toward me like perfume clouds, all fake smiles and congratulatory nonsense.

“Thank you, Miss D’Angelis, for giving us this chance to acquire such exclusive pieces.”

I plaster on my own saccharine smile. “Oh, no need to thank me,” I say sweetly, gesturing toward Emilia like a game show hostess. “It was all her.”

The ladies pivot, eyes locking onto Emilia like trained dogs waiting for permission to pounce.

“Thank you, Emilia!” one of them gushes.

Emilia’s lip twitches. Her jaw locks. Her fists ball at her sides. And then—

“Fuck off.”

The women recoil, wide-eyed, as if someone had slapped them with a diamond-encrusted fan. They scatter like pigeons, heels clicking furiously on marble as they rush away.

I bite my lower lip, shoulders shaking as I choke back a laugh, but I don’t quite succeed. A snort escapes. God, it feels good.

“That was beautiful,” I whisper under my breath.

Emilia glares daggers at me. “Shut up, Fioretta.”

I grin wider. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”

The moment we slide into the back of the car, Emilia snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. The door hasn’t even shut properly when she whirls toward me, eyes glassy, voice trembling but loud.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she spits, her voice cracking under the pressure of whatever scraps of dignity she’s still clinging to.

I don’t even blink. My hand glides up in one smooth motion, and I tap gently on the tinted partition. The driver glances back through the mirror.

“Give us a moment, please,” I say, calm, almost cheerful.

“Yes, ma’am,” the driver replies softly. The door clicks open. He steps out, closing it behind him, leaving us cocooned in suffocating silence.

I turn slowly, like I’ve got all the time in the world, and meet Emilia’s wide, tear-glossed eyes. Her breath stutters in short, sharp gasps, hands clenched in her lap like she’s physically holding herself together.

I lean in, just enough for her to feel the shift in air between us. She tries to shrink back, pressing her back flat against the door, as if the leather might swallow her up.

“I don’t know who I was,” I say, voice low, precise. “Or what I used to put up with.” My gaze locks on hers, sharp as a blade. “But don’t you think for one second that who I am now will tolerate your nonsense.”

Her chest trembles. I watch her throat work as she swallows.

I lean in closer, my voice like a whisper curling around her ears. “The next time you play with me, I’ll auction off your internal organs. Do you understand?”

Her whole body jerks slightly like she’s flinching from an invisible slap. She doesn’t answer. Her jaw works, but no words come out.

My hand shoots forward—just a tiny movement—but enough that she gasps and recoils tighter into the corner of the seat. “Do you understand!” I snap, voice slicing through the tight air like a whip.

“I—I do!” she sobs, voice cracking into pieces, her shoulders shaking.

I inhale, long and steady, and sit back into my seat, smoothing my skirt with care. My smile stretches wide, cool and satisfied. “Good.”

With a light tap on the glass again, I call, “Driver.”

The door opens. The driver returns to his seat wordlessly, and the car pulls off. Outside, the city glides by, but inside, the tension simmers thick and hot.

I lean my head back, humming softly, fingers playing with the edge of my sunglasses. “Isn’t this a lovely day?” I ask with exaggerated cheer.

“Yes, ma’am. It is,” the driver answers politely.

Beside me, Emilia’s muffled sobs fill the air like background music.