She's Mine Fair and Square

1

The heavy oak door slams shut behind me, the lock clicking into place with a definitive, terrifying snap. I am trapped in a sterile, brightly lit prep room that smells overwhelmingly of burning wax, cheap perfumes, and rubbing alcohol. Two of the auctioneer's handlers waste no time, grabbing my arms and forcing me onto a cold metal table.

"Don't fight it, Eden," one of them mutters, pinning my shoulders down. "It only makes it take longer."

I grit my teeth, my skin burning as they apply the scalding hot wax, tearing away any trace of hair with brutal, mechanical efficiency. Next comes the razor, scraping over my skin until it feels raw and hyper-sensitive. I force my mind to go entirely blank, staring at the fluorescent lights above to detach myself from the humiliation. They pull me up by my wrists, shoving me into a chair in front of a brightly lit mirror to paint my face—heavy eyeliner, dark lipstick, and blush meant to make me look flushed and compliant.

Finally, they hold up the outfit. It is barely a garment at all—just a few scraps of sheer, glittering fabric that cover absolutely nothing. As they pull it over my head and zip it tight, a cold, hard anger replaces my panic. They think they are prepping a doll for a showcase, but as I look at my reflection through the heavy makeup, I know better. They are just making me dangerous.

"Time's up," the guard grunts, opening the door that leads straight to the backstage curtain. "Walk the table, look pretty, and don't make a scene."I freeze at the edge of the curtain, my bare feet glued to the floorboards. The sheer humiliation of what I'm wearing hits me all at once, paralyzing me.

"Move," a heavy hand shoves me hard between my shoulder blades.

I stumble forward, gasping as I'm propelled out of the shadows and straight onto the long lacquer table. The spotlight hits me like a physical blow. Instantly, the room erupts into a deafening roar of voices, the air thick with the suffocating scent of cologne and cigar smoke."One billion!" a voice booms from the front.
"One point five billion!" another shouts over him.

My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. Millions—no, billions—are being thrown around for me as if I'm a rare painting or a piece of land. I start walking because I have no choice, my legs shaking violently. Crisp stacks of bills flutter through the air, hitting my skin and scattering across the polished wood around my feet.

Then, a cold hand grips my ankle.

I flinch, a gasp catching in my throat as a man leaning over the edge of the table caresses his way up my calf, his fingers burning against my raw, freshly shaved skin. More hands reach out from the dark, grasping at my legs, trying to get a closer look, trying to touch what they think they already own. The heavy makeup on my face feels like a mask melting under the heat of the lights. I am losing my mind, the panic threatening to swallow me whole as the numbers keep climbing higher and higher into the billions.

The cold sensation of slimy fingers dragging up my thigh snaps something deep inside me. The paralyzing panic vanishes, replaced by a sudden, white-hot surge of pure fury. Get your hands off me.

I yank my leg back and kick out with all the force I have left. My bare heel connects squarely with a man's chin, sending him stumbling backward into the dark with a shout of pain. I twist around, desperately kicking at the other grasping hands, determined to clear a path. But the lacquer table is slick with scattered paper money. My foot slips on a smooth bill, my balance completely evaporates, and the floor gives way beneath me.