Chapter 140: Two Million

Cecilia

A little girl knelt at the center of the platform, her wrists and ankles bound with heavy chains that looked obscene against her small frame.

Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent under the harsh spotlight, her white-blonde hair hanging in tangled waves around a face that was frozen in terror.

Someone had taped her mouth shut with black electrical tape, reducing her cries to muffled whimpers that barely carried past the first row.

She was shaking—whether from cold or fear or both I couldn't tell—her eyes wide and darting around the room like she was looking for someone to save her, someone to tell her this was all a terrible mistake.

"Bidding will start at fifty thousand pounds," the auctioneer announced, and I watched in horror as paddles began to rise around the room, people casually offering money for the privilege of owning a child, of doing god knows what to her.

"Sixty thousand."

"Seventy-five."

"One hundred thousand."

The numbers climbed with sickening speed, each bid punctuated by polite applause from the audience, like this was a charity gala rather than a human trafficking auction.

I wanted to scream, wanted to rush the platform and tear that little girl free, wanted to burn this entire place to the ground with everyone in it.

But I couldn't. Moving now would blow our cover, would get us killed or captured, and then there'd be no one left to save Daniel.

So I sat there, my fingernails digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood through my gloves, and watched as a twelve-year-old girl was sold to the highest bidder for four hundred thousand pounds.

The winning bidder—a man in an expensive tuxedo sitting three rows ahead of us—stood to collect his "purchase," and I saw the little girl's eyes widen with fresh terror as he approached the platform, saw her try to scramble backward despite the chains holding her in place.

"Lot number one, sold," the auctioneer declared with satisfaction, gesturing for his assistants to remove the girl. "Our next item is quite different—a matched set, if you will. Three young men, ages 13 to 15, all trained in various combat disciplines."

The platform descended and rose again, this time displaying three teenage boys chained side by side, their faces bruised and their eyes holding the particular deadness that came from having already given up hope.

They stood with military precision despite the chains, their shoulders back and their chins up, and I realized with sick certainty that they'd been conditioned to accept this, to see themselves as products rather than people.

"These specimens are ideal for those seeking private security with absolute loyalty," the auctioneer continued, walking around the boys like he was showing off prize horses.

"Trained in hand-to-hand combat, weapons proficiency, and complete obedience. Bidding starts at two hundred thousand pounds for the set, or seventy-five thousand each if you prefer to purchase individually."

I couldn't watch this time, couldn't force myself to sit through another auction. I turned my head away and found myself looking at Harold instead, saw him standing rigid against the wall with his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping, his eyes fixed on those three boys with an expression I couldn't quite read.

When I caught his eye, something passed between us—a shared understanding of exactly how fucked up this was, how wrong, how completely contrary to every basic principle of human decency. And underneath that, I saw something else in his expression, something that looked almost like recognition.

The boys sold for three hundred thousand pounds as a set, purchased by a woman. And then the platform descended again, the auctioneer's voice taking on a note of particular excitement.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, our final item of the evening. This one is special—very special indeed. A private investigator who made the unfortunate decision to poke his nose where it didn't belong."

The platform rose, and there he was.

Daniel.

He was strapped to a chair, his hands bound behind his back and his feet secured to the chair legs with rope that looked industrial-strength.

Someone had put a ridiculous clown mask over his face, the grotesque painted smile a mockery of his situation. His shirt was torn and stained with what looked like blood, and even from where I sat I could see the bruises covering his exposed skin.

"This evening's entertainment," the auctioneer announced with barely concealed glee, "will be an interactive experience. Rather than purchasing the item itself, you'll be bidding for the privilege of participation—specifically, the privilege of removing certain... parts."

My blood turned to ice as the implications sank in. They weren't selling Daniel. They were selling the right to torture him, to cut pieces off him while he was still alive and conscious, to turn his suffering into a game for rich psychopaths.

"Starting bid is five hundred thousand pounds," the auctioneer said. "And I assure you, gentlemen and ladies, this one is a fighter. He'll provide excellent sport."

I felt Sophia's hand grip mine so hard it hurt, her whole body trembling beside me. Around us, paddles began to rise, people bidding casually on the right to mutilate another human being.

"Six hundred thousand."

"Seven-fifty."

"One million."

My mind was racing, calculating, and before I could second-guess myself I was leaning toward Harold, my voice urgent and low. "Bid. Whatever it takes—bid on him."

"One point two million," Harold called out, his voice steady and authoritative.

The room went quiet for a beat, heads turning to look at us—at the mysterious masked women and their bodyguard who'd just entered the bidding war.

I felt the weight of those gazes, felt Lord Rhys Grey's attention shift our way from his seat in the front row, but I kept my spine straight and my expression neutral behind my mask.

"One point four," someone countered from across the room.

"One point six," Harold shot back without hesitation.

"One point eight."

My heart was hammering, my palms sweating inside my gloves as the numbers climbed higher and higher.

"Two million," Harold said, and this time when he spoke there was something final in his voice, something that suggested he wasn't backing down no matter what the counter-bid might be.

Silence stretched out, tense and expectant, as the auctioneer looked around the room for any challengers.

The man who'd been bidding against us—held a knife in his hand—shifted in his seat like he was considering going higher, but then he settled back with what I could only describe as a disappointed sigh.

"Two million pounds," the auctioneer announced, his voice ringing with satisfaction. "Going once... going twice..." He paused dramatically, his gaze sweeping the room one final time. "Sold, to the lady in row two!"