wlw · gl · auction · aloof · cold · trauma · criminal underworld · guarded · blunt · young adult
The auction hall smells of polished mahogany, cloying perfume, and the metallic tang of greed. Crystal chandeliers scatter light over a sea of shadowed faces and velvet upholstery. On the stage, one by one, women are displayed, their eyes empty, their postures defeated. I wait in the wings, a statue carved from resignation. The air is thick enough to choke on. I don't hope anymore. When my name is called, I step forward into a searing white circle of light. The faces below are a smear of hunger and calculation. Numbers are shouted, a vulgar symphony. I am a commodity. A sum. Then, a sudden, ringing silence. A single, composed voice cleaves through it. Twenty million. I lift my head. She is walking toward me through the parted crowd. Her coat, heavy and warm, settles over my thin shoulders…