Chapter Two: The Auction

They did not call it an auction.

They used softer words. Transfer. Placement. Selection. Words that made it sound orderly, almost respectable. As if selling people could be improved simply by changing the language around it.

Waiting was the worst part.

Not because of fear — fear was constant, like breath — but because waiting gave it space to grow roots.

They kept us in a long room with no windows. The lights were too bright, buzzing faintly overhead, casting everything in an unforgiving white that made it impossible to hide. The walls were tiled, cold, as if the room had once been meant for something clean and clinical, before it was repurposed to prepare girls for sale.

There were twelve of us that day.

Some sat on the benches lining the wall. Others stood, pacing in small circles, as though movement alone might keep their bodies from being claimed. No one spoke at first. Silence pressed down heavily, broken only by the hum of the lights and the occasional sniffle someone tried and failed to suppress.

I sat with my hands folded in my lap, spine straight, eyes lowered.

Stillness was a skill I had learned quickly.

Across from me, a girl no older than sixteen rocked back and forth, whispering under her breath. I could not hear the words, but I recognized the rhythm. She was praying. Her lips trembled with each repetition, her eyes squeezed shut as if she could shut the world out entirely.

It would not work.

I knew that, but I did not tell her.

Another girl, tall, dark-haired, sharp-eyed — watched the door like she expected it to attack her at any moment. Her jaw was clenched so tightly I wondered if it hurt. She caught me looking once and held my gaze without flinching.

There was anger there.

That kind rarely survived long.

Footsteps echoed outside the room.

Several girls stiffened immediately. One gasped softly. The praying girl whispered faster, words tumbling over each other in desperation.

The door opened.

Two women entered.

They wore simple uniforms, crisp and unwrinkled. Their hair was tied back neatly. They looked like nurses. Or teachers. Or anyone you might trust instinctively, which I suspected was the point.

“Stand,” one of them said.

Her voice was not cruel. It was worse — bored.

We stood.

They moved down the line, inspecting us. Chins lifted with firm fingers. Shoulders straightened. A bruise on one girl’s arm was pressed, examined, then dismissed with a slight shake of the head.

“Cover that,” the woman said to the other. “Before the bidding.”

The word settled into the room like smoke.

Bidding.

We were taken, one by one, into another room to be washed.

When it was my turn, I stepped forward without being told twice.

The washing room was colder. The floor slick beneath my bare feet. I was ordered to undress. I did not hesitate. Hesitation invited hands.

Water was poured over me from a metal hose, cold enough to steal my breath. I gasped despite myself, fingers curling reflexively as my body reacted before my mind could stop it.

They scrubbed me efficiently, methodically. Not roughly, but without care. Hair, skin, nails. I stared at the wall in front of me, focusing on a small crack near the corner, tracing it with my eyes again and again until the sensation dulled.

I had learned where to put my mind when my body was not mine.

When they were done, they handed me a thin white gown.

“Put this on.”

The fabric clung to damp skin, almost transparent in the light. It covered everything and nothing at the same time.

They tied my hair back tightly, exposing my face and neck. One of them tilted my chin upward, studying me.

“Pretty,” she said flatly. “Men like that.”

Men.

Once, that word had meant something else. Fathers. Brothers. Neighbors. Now it meant buyers.

We were led down a corridor afterward. Music drifted faintly from somewhere ahead — soft, classical, carefully chosen to give the illusion of refinement. The smell changed as we walked. Polish. Leather. Alcohol.

Money.

The auction room was circular, with rows of seats rising upward. Men filled them easily, some leaning back comfortably, others forward with interest. Glasses clinked softly. Low laughter rippled through the space.

I felt eyes on me immediately.

Not curiosity.

Assessment.

We were lined up at the front, one by one, and presented like items on display. Names were read. Ages announced. Backgrounds summarized in neat, sanitized phrases.

“Domestic upbringing.”

“Rural.”

“Unmarried.”

When it was my turn, I stepped forward.

“Rosalia Marina,” the man announced. “Twenty years old. Sicilian.”

He paused, glancing down at his notes.

“Untouched.”

The room changed.

Interest sharpened. I felt it like a physical thing, crawling over my skin. Hands lifted. Voices called out numbers casually, conversationally, as if discussing art or property.

I kept my face still.

I thought of my sister.

Her laughter when she was younger. The way she clung to me when she was afraid. The promise I had made in the car that night, as men took me away and she screamed my name.

I would protect her.

Even if I had to become something unrecognizable to do it.

The numbers climbed.

I stopped listening somewhere in the middle. I focused on breathing. On keeping my knees from shaking. On not disappearing completely inside myself.

Then a voice spoke — calm, older, unhurried.

The room quieted.

I looked toward him.

He did not raise his hand. He did not need to. His presence alone carried authority. Sixty-two, if I had to guess. Thick through the waist, face lined not with cruelty but with certainty. His eyes held no hunger.

Only possession.

“Sold,” the auctioneer said, smiling.

Just like that.

No ceremony. No pause for dignity.

I was led away while the next girl was called forward. Her name barely registered before the door closed behind me.

He approached afterward, walking slowly, deliberately, like a man inspecting something he already owned.

“You will be well kept,” he said.

Not loved. Not cherished.

Kept.

I was not asked if I agreed. I was not congratulated. A woman guided me away while the rest of the room resumed its low murmur, already moving on to the next body.

The old man did not look at me as I passed.

That should have been a relief.

Instead, it felt like a sentence.

I learned later that his name carried weight. That he was respected, feared, obeyed. That he paid debts and collected them. That people like me were solutions in his world, not complications.

Marriage was mentioned as if it were an administrative detail.

It was explained to me slowly, carefully, like something I should be grateful for. Wife sounded better than commodity. Wife sounded protected.

I did not argue.

Gratitude, I had learned, was expected whether you felt it or not.

That night, as I was taken somewhere new, I thought of my sister. I imagined her older, taller, standing where I once stood. I imagined men discussing her in numbers and neutral tones.

I told myself that if I was going to belong to someone, I would belong long enough to learn how power worked from the inside.

Survival had kept me alive.

Now, patience would have to do more.