Page 3 of Bratva Bidder

My fists curl, hidden by the folds of my dress.

“And of course,” the auctioneer finishes, “she comes with no ties. No past. A clean slate. For the man who wins her tonight—she becomes whatever you want her to be.”

I close my eyes. Just for a second.

Two nights ago. My apartment.

My father pushed the door open before I could chain it, stumbling inside like he still had the right to walk through my life. Pyotr Makarov, once known for his cold cunning, now just a man sweating desperation through his stained collar.

“They’re going to kill me,” he said before I could speak. “And if I’m gone, you think that boy of yours is getting that surgery? You think you’ll keep your job?”

My blood ran cold. “Get out.”

But he kept coming. Cornered me against the kitchen counter, arms braced on either side. “You want Nikolai to live? You want that medication? That surgeon? I can make it happen.”

“Don’t you dare say his name.”

“I will burn every connection you have if you don’t listen to me,” he hissed. “No charity is going to cover that heart. You’re out of time, Nadya.”

He pulled a small envelope from his coat and laid it on the table between us. My name. A time. A location.

“Auction night,” he said softly. “Your one chance to pay everything off. With one night. One man.”

I stared at him, tears stinging my eyes. “You’re not serious.”

“I already gave them your name,” he said. “You don’t show up, the deal dies. Is it unconventional? Sure. But it’ll pay the debt.”

I’d laughed. Bitter and ugly. “You’re insane.”

“Then let me be insane,” he snapped. “But you don’t have a choice. You think that hospital’s going to keep treating your son out of charity? You think those specialists are going to take your IOUs?”

Pyotr had seen the hesitation in my eyes. And he pounced.

“You go up there. You make yourself pretty. You last a few months, tops. That’s all they want. You do this, and your son gets what he needs. Or you can stay here and watch him die on a waiting list.”

And then he’d given me the smile. The one I’d grown up hating.

The one that always came after he said something vile and wanted credit for keeping it “civil.”

“I’m doing this for you,” he said.

No, I’d thought.You’re doing this to me.

But in the end…I said yes.

Because the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. No one else was coming to save us.

I open my eyes, and the room is still here. The stage. The marble. The low murmurs of power deciding my fate. I feel like I’m underwater—every sound distorted, every moment stretched too thin.

The announcer is calling out numbers now. I don’t track them. I just breathe. One breath. Then another.

I’m not here for them.

I’m not here for Pyotr.

I’m here for Nikolai.

My son.