THE CAGE

CASSY

The Gilded Cage doesn't look like a place where desperate girls sell their souls.

It looks like a five-star hotel.

All marble and gold, ambient lighting that probably costs more per fixture than my current monthly rent, doormen in actual uniforms who open the doors with white-gloved hands and don't meet your eyes. The kind of place I used to walk into without a second thought, back when I had a trust fund and a last name that meant something.

Now I'm here to auction off the only thing I have left.

My body.

The thought makes me want to vomit, but I swallow it down with the same practiced control that got me through the last six months, watching my father die, the FBI raid, and through learning that everything I thought I knew about my family was a lie.

Through watching my baby sister get arrested for drugs I know she didn't use.

Delilah is twenty-one years old. She's studying marine biology. She cries at documentaries about coral reefs. She's never even smoked weed.

But she's sitting in county jail right now, facing fifteen years, because someone planted enough fentanyl in her apartment to put her away for distribution.

The bail is two million dollars.

I have six hundred and forty-three dollars in my bank account.

So here I am.

The elevator to the thirteenth floor is glass, because of course it is, because even the architecture of this place is designed to make you feel exposed. I watch the city shrink beneath me as I rise towards my own destruction, and I wonder if this is how people feel right before they jump off buildings.

That moment of commitment. That point of no return.

The elevator doors open with a soft ding that sounds like a death knell.

A woman in a sleek black dress is waiting. She's beautiful in that ageless, untouchable way that screams money and Botox. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Miss Beaumont," she says. Not a question. They know who I am. Of course they do. "This way, please."

She leads me down a hallway that's too quiet, our footsteps muffled by the carpet. The walls are decorated with abstract art that I would have pretended to understand once upon a time.

We stop at a door marked with a simple gold "7."

"Your preparation room," the woman says. "You have one hour. Everything you need is inside. Do you have any questions?"

A thousand. A million.

How did I get here?

How did my life become this?

Does it hurt?

I shake my head.

"The buyer has requested anonymity," she continues, her tone as clinical as a doctor's. "You will not see their face. They will not see yours in proper lighting until after the transaction is complete. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. Someone smaller, who isn't Cassy Beaumont, who once had the world at her feet.

"One hour," the woman repeats. Then she's gone, heels clicking away down the hall, leaving me alone with the gold "7" and my rapidly fragmenting courage.

I open the door.

The room is nicer than my apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A bathroom with a rainfall shower and enough marble to build a small mausoleum. A vanity with professional lighting and more makeup than I've owned in my entire life.

And on the bed, laid out like a sacrifice: a white silk robe.

There's a card next to it.

Shower. Put on the robe. Nothing underneath. Wait.

My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the card.

Nothing underneath.

Of course. Why would the person who paid for me want anything between their hands and what they bought?

I was worth two million dollars once upon a time, no, more than that. I was worth my father's love, my mother's pride, a future that stretched out golden and infinite. I was worth admiration and envy and the kind of beauty that opened doors without me even having to knock.

Now I'm worth whatever someone is willing to pay for one night.

The shower is scalding. I stand under it until my skin turns red, trying to burn away the shame, the fear, the tiny traitorous part of me that wonders what happens after tonight. If I'll still recognize myself in the mirror.

If there will be anything left to recognize.

I put on the robe, and looked at myself in the mirror, dark hair wet and tangled, gray-green eyes too wide, face too pale. I look like a ghost.

There's a knock at the door.

"It's time," a male voice says from the other side.

It's time.

It's time.

It's time.

I open the door.

A different escort; male, built like a bouncer, wearing the same black uniform, he gestures down the hall. "Thirteenth floor. Suite 1308."

I follow him on legs that don't feel like mine. We pass other doors. I wonder who's behind them. Other girls like me? Or buyers, counting their money, preparing to claim what they paid for?

Suite 1308 has double doors. The escort opens them, gestures me inside, and closes them behind me with a finality that echoes in my bones.

The lights are off. The room is pitch black except for the city lights filtering through windows that must be across the room. I can see nothing. Just darkness and my own racing heartbeat.

"Hello?" My voice cracks.

"Walk forward," a female voice says from the darkness.

I wasn't expecting that. I don't know why, plenty of women have money, plenty of women come to places like this but somehow I'd convinced myself it would be a man. A faceless businessman. A tech bro with too much money and not enough conscience.

Not a woman.

Not a voice that sounds like honey poured over gravel, smooth and rough all at once.

I walk forward blindly, trembling.

"Stop."

I stop.

I hear footsteps. The click of expensive heels on marble.

She's circling me. I can feel her eyes on me even though I can't see her. I can feel her taking in every inch of me like I'm a painting she's considering buying.

Like I'm already bought.

"Take off the robe," she says.

"I can't see…"

"I didn't ask if you could see. I told you to take off the robe."

Her voice is different now. Still smooth, but with a tone of command. The kind of voice that's used to being obeyed.

My hands move to the belt of the robe. I tell myself this is for Delilah. This is to save my sister. This is just one night, just a few hours, and then I can shower again and pretend it never happened.

The robe falls to the floor. I'm naked in the dark, and somewhere in front of me, a stranger is looking at me like I'm hers.

"On your knees."

"Please, I…"

"On. Your. Knees."

I kneel.

The marble is cold against my skin. I feel it in my bones, the chill of it, the reality of where I am and what I'm doing sinking in like hypothermia.

The footsteps come closer. She's right in front of me now. I can smell her perfume, something dark and expensive, amber and smoke.

"Do you know what I paid for you tonight?" she asks.

I shake my head, then remember she might not be able to see. "No."

"Four million dollars."

The number hits me like a physical blow. Four million. Twice Delilah's bail. Twice what I needed. Why would someone…

"Do you know why I paid so much?"

"No," I whisper.

"Because I wanted you to know exactly how much you're worth to me."

A gloved hand touches my face. The touch is gentle, almost tender, and somehow that's worse than if it had been rough.

The gloved hand traces down my jaw, my throat, my collarbone.

"Every time I touch you tonight," she says softly, "I want you to remember. You're the most expensive thing I've ever bought. And I'm going to make sure I get my money's worth."

Her hand tightens around my throat.

Not enough to choke, just enough to control.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," I gasp.

"Yes, what?"

I don't know what she wants. I don't know the rules. I don't know anything except that I'm naked and on my knees and her hand is around my throat and I've never felt more powerless in my entire life.

"Yes, Ma'am," I try.

The hand loosens slightly. Approval.

"Good girl."

Two words. They shouldn't mean anything. They shouldn't make something in my chest flutter like a trapped bird.

But they do.

And I hate myself for it.

Her hand moves from my throat to my hair. She grabs a fistful, pulls my head back, forces me to look up even though I can't see her face.

"Do you want this?" she asks.

The question is absurd. I'm here, aren't I? I took off the robe. I'm on my knees.

But she's waiting for an answer.

"I…I need the money," I say. Honest, at least.

"That's not what I asked." Her grip tightens. "Do you want this? Me touching you. Me owning you for the night. Do you want it?"

No.

Yes.

I don't know.

All I know is that I need the money and I need to save Delilah and I need to survive this, so I say: "Yes."

"Liar."

She releases my hair. Steps back. I hear her move across the room, hear the clink of glass, she's pouring a drink. How can she see in the dark?

"I don't want you to lie to me, Cassy."

My blood turns to ice.

She knows my name.

Of course she knows my name. She knew who she was buying. But hearing it in her mouth, in the darkness, makes this somehow more real. More personal.

"I'm sorry," I say automatically.

"Don't apologize. Just tell me the truth. You don't want to be here. You don't want me to touch you. You're only doing this because you're desperate. Yes?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Good." I hear her take a sip of her drink. "Now we can begin."