Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Alone again.
The too-bright chandelier overhead glitters mockingly, crystals throwing rainbows across the walls like some twisted party that no one invited me to. Security cameras blink their red eyes in every corner. The room smells like expensive perfume and fear. The air is warm, almost stifling, but I’m freezing. I rub my arms hard, goosebumps rising despite the temperature, the chill of impending doom seeping into my marrow like ice water dripping down my spine.
I knew this was coming. God, I knew it from the second that van door slid shut and the world went black. They cleaned me up in that sterile room downstairs—scrubbed my skin raw, waxed everything, slathered lotion that smelled like fake flowers. Catalogued me like a used car: height, weight, measurements, “attitude level—high, requires training.” Paraded me through this “exclusive estate” with its marble floors and velvet drapes and crystal everything. It was never a spa retreat. It was always a slaughterhouse dressed up in luxury, a pretty cage where girls like me get polished and priced and sold off to the highest bidder.
I sink onto the edge of the satin bed, knees drawn tight to my chest, arms wrapped around them like I can hold all the broken pieces inside.
The sadness crashes over me again, wave after wave, until I’m drowning in it. I remember my last normal morning—burnt coffee, arguing with Mom about money, the way Carl grunted “pass the salt” like I was something he’d rather eat instead. I remember laughing with my new friend, Jules, on the phone the night before, making plans for cheap tacos and bad movies. All gone. Erased. I’m just Lot #17 now. A body. A toy. A transaction.
My vision blurs with hot tears I’m too tired to wipe away. They slip down my cheeks anyway, silent and endless. I lie back on the bed, curling onto my side, the sequined “dress” crumpled beside me like a discarded joke. The ceiling sparkles above me, too perfect, too indifferent. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out before the rest of me is auctioned off, sold to some faceless monster who’ll take me somewhere even darker, use me until there’s nothing left, then toss me aside like yesterday’s trash.
I don’t whisper anything. There’s no one listening. No prayers, no last hopes, no secret rescuers waiting in the wings. Just me. Just the crushing quiet of this golden prison. Just the long, empty dark waiting downstairs where they’ll parade me out in this ridiculous scrap of nothing, smile for the bidders, and seal my fate with a gavel.
By tonight, I’ll be gone. Handed over. Owned.
I close my eyes against the glare of the chandelier, but the tears keep coming, soaking the satin pillow beneath my cheek. My body shakes with silent sobs—tired, hungry, sad, desolate sobs that wrack me until I’m empty. The auction is coming. The sale is coming. And after that… nothing. Just the end of Salem Bloom.
I lie there, fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms, heart still hammering its useless escape rhythm, and let the desolation swallow me whole. No one is coming. No one ever was.
TWO
OZZY
The thing about “top secret extractions” is that everyone says top secret like it’s a vibe. Like it’s a cute little aesthetic. Like it doesn’t mean I’m crouched in the back of an unmarked SUV at two in the morning, wearing black-on-black-on-black that’s so matte it sucks in light like a bad breakup. The fabric clings to my skin, sticky with the humid night air that sneaks in through the cracked window, smelling like wet asphalt and distant ocean salt mixed with the faint, greasy whiff of the fast-food wrapper Arrow crumpled up an hour ago. I’m holding a burner phone that’s one wrong swipe away from becoming evidence in my own murder trial—or worse, a meme on some dark web forum where hackers roast my thumbprint security.
Rae’s voice crackles in my earpiece, tinny and sharp like she’s whispering through a tin can strung across the city. “You’re breathing loud, Oz.”
“I’m breathing heroically,” I whisper back, my breath fogging the screen of the phone for a split second before I wipe it away with my sleeve. “It’s different. Heroes get to huff dramatically. Villains wheeze.”
From the front seat, Arrow makes a sound that isn’t a laugh but is definitely the closest he’s capable of. His silhouette blocks half the dashboard lights, casting long shadows that make the SUV feel like a coffin on wheels. The engine hums softly beneath us, a steady purr that does nothing to drown out the distant wail of a siren echoing off the high-rises, probably some poor sap getting busted for jaywalking in this godforsaken hour.
Juno’s on comms too, her voice calm as a surgeon mid-incision, smooth and unflappable, like she’s narrating a yoga class instead of a felony. “Focus. You’re a distraction machine on a good day. Today we need you to be a scalpel.”