I have been unable to find Imani since lunch. The cell door clangs open so loud it damn near rattles my bones. I jerk upright on the cold metal cot; my heart is hammering against my ribs.
The guard isn't the usual one who steps inside. He is not the one who tossed my lunch tray like I am an animal. This man is bigger, mean-looking, and doesn't say a fucking word. Just nod once like a habit.
"What is going on?" I ask him when he raises me by my arm. "Leave me."
He neither answers nor stops.
Instead, two more guards enter. They yank me to my feet and take me out of the cell. I had no intention of resisting; I was simply asking them not to touch me. Although I want to scream, to fight, to demand answers, here in three months, I learn one thing: the more you resist, the more you'll suffer.
My instincts are saying this isn't the usual cell transfer or psych eval turnaround. This is different. My gut is screaming it.
They cuff my wrists tight, the metal biting into my skin, and shove me down the hall with zero explanation. My sneakers are squeaking weakly against the concrete as they march me past empty cells and dark corridors.
This is the first time I am witnessing this side of the prison. Here, silence is too damn loud. No shouting inmates, no buzzing doors. Just scrape off boots and my own ragged breathing.
They have taken me outside as the night air hits my face. A black van is standing, not the big one, but no markings and no license plate I can catch. I don't know who, but someone pulled a black hood over my head. The fabric is reeking of sweat and stale cigarette smoke, suffocating and sour, and my breath catches in my throat.
Someone lifts me and shoves me inside. The doors slam shut behind me with a finality that sends a shiver straight down my spine.
Why me? Why now? I am thinking, trying to calm my breath. Where the fuck is Imani? But I get no answers and no comfort from this eerie silence. Just a steady thrum of the engine and the terrifying unknown waiting on the other end.
I can't help the darker thought slithering in my mind, like maybe Ethan has paid someone off to have me killed tonight. I swallow hard. Because this option doesn't feel so far-fetched, as he has money, influence, and greed. Or maybe fear of my comeback, as he knows about me.
All elements for a silent execution.
I sit cross-legged, hood still on, wrists bound tight, breathing in short, shallow bursts. My whole body is vibrating, a trembling mess of adrenaline and terror. I can't stop replaying Imani's voice in my head. "Whatever happens, don't panic. Panic gets you dead."
I try to count. Focus on something, anything, to stay grounded. One turn, right.
Then another. Right again.
A long stretch. A stop.
Third right.
Another stop.
The word "Please..." escapes my lips when the van jerks one more time. Slowed. Then stop altogether. My heart jackhammers in my chest. I have no idea if the worst has started or if the worst is still coming.
The back doors creak open. I flinch at the sound. Rough hands grabbed my arms. "Walk," one of them barks.
I start moving again, blind, shaking, and swallowed by something I can't yet name. But every step is screaming a horrific truth.
This isn't freedom. This is something else entirely.
Now I start hearing voices; initially, there are just a few, but within seconds, they grow to dozens, maybe even hundreds, echoing throughout the space. Low, hungry murmurs. The laughter sounds as if it belongs in a graveyard. I am already feeling sick to my stomach.
Finally, someone yanks the fucking hood off, and I blink fast, my eyes watering against the sudden glare of golden lights. Mirrors lined the walls; it seemed like dressing rooms or behind-the-scenes movie sets. A dozen vanities stretch across the room like it is some backstage glam zone for a fashion show gone rogue.
Girls are everywhere. Young. Nervous. Barely dressed. Sitting in a salon chair while makeup artists act like robots, blending, brushing, and powdering. Their faces are blank, and the girls are looking like soulless beauties.
My pulse is thundering in my ears. A mean-looking guy barked at one of the poor makeup guys. "This one is yours; make her look expensive."
The guy gestures at the seat. "Sit," he says like I am talking to a damn dog. I sit.
"What is happening?" I ask. As expected. No response.
I look around; every girl looks like a porcelain doll thrown into the wrong universe. Everyone is wearing either satin or silk robes. Those who have already been changed into thin, shimmering dresses that scream not for comfort. My gut twisted.
God, is this some kind of high-end brothel? Or a sex club?
I inhale sharply as a thought strikes me like a slap. I don't want to believe it, but what makes sense? A secret place, girls being made up like prized pets, no one talking, no one explaining.
It seems useless to ask. Useless to fight, so I tell myself, keep quiet and let the man do his work.
Brushes sweep across my cheeks. My lips are painted wine red. Lashes are curled and coated. I barely recognize myself by the time he is done.
"Up," he motions towards a rack of gowns. I change behind an almost negligible curtain; there is no privacy here at all. The dress I have been given is floor-length and flowy and has emerald green shimmering threads that sparkle when I move.
It is hugging me in all the wrong ways, like it doesn't mean to cover me, just display me. When I step back, another guy wraps a wrist tag around my arm.
Asset #19
Okay, now what the hell is this? A brothel doesn't tag people like cattle...does it?
My head is spinning. I am officially out of guesses and options. Whatever this place is. It isn't gonna be good.
I hear an amused male voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen...we thank you for all your loyalty. Tonight's assets are one of a kind...trained, compliant, and unblemished by the outside world. The auction is now open for bidding.
The stage has slick black floors and five cages resting right in front of men and women in tailored suits, lounging in red velvet chairs, and sipping champagne like it's just another Friday night.
Auction. No way. No. Fucking way.
The first five girls are locked in cages and brought to the stage. Some are three blondes. One is Pale, and the last one is barely legal. Their bids shoot up in seconds to half a million, six hundred, and seven.
The applause is low, polite, and rich-sounding. I don't blink. I can't. I refused to cry.
Then, more girls are taken to the stage. The light hit them hard, and once again, every eye started assessing their worth as if they were not girls but rather slabs of meat.