You know, the one where I get sold to the highest bidder.
Cool.
Totally fine.
No biggie.
My fingers won’t stop shaking. The sequins bite into my palms as I clutch it tighter, then I let it fall back onto the satin-draped bed like it burned me. It lands with a pathetic shimmer, poolingthere like spilled mercury. I drag in a long, slow breath. You know, like one of those calming, yoga-style inhales I learned back in the Before Times. But it hitches halfway, turning into a ragged shudder that rattles my ribs. Before I got snatched. Before I ended up in this penthouse tower of hell. Before I became… property.
Merchandise.
Lot #17.
The girl with too much attitude and just enough market value to make the wrong kind of men pay top dollar. My stomach twists again, a sharp, hollow cramp that makes me double over for a second. I can’t remember my last real meal. Three weeks of fruit slices, watery broth, and the occasional protein bar shoved at me like I’m a dog being trained. My head feels light and swimmy, my legs heavy and disconnected, like they belong to someone else. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that sleep never touches because they never let me sleep more than a few fractured hours at a time.
I think about my mother. The way she used to hum off-key while making coffee in our tiny kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and her cheap vanilla perfume. Carl who never looked up from his phone long enough to notice I existed unless I was late with the rent again. Or unless he was drunk. Which was ninety percent of the time. Did they report me missing? Or did they just shrug and figure I finally ran away like I always swore I would after another screaming match? The bigger, crueler question gnaws at me: did they even notice I was gone? Have three whole weeks passed without a single person in the world wondering where Salem Bloom disappeared to? The thought lands like a stone in my chest, cold and heavy, pressing down until I can barely breathe.
I shuffle over to the giant gold-framed mirror across the room, my bare feet silent on the heated marble. The girl staring back is me and not-me all at once. My eyes—still that same stormy gray—are sunken now, ringed with purple shadows that no amount of concealer they slathered on me can hide. My lips are chapped and smudged with the remnants of the deep red lipstick they forced me to wear earlier, defiance bleeding through in the way I keep biting them bloody. My hair, once a wild cascade of dark waves I was proud of, hangs limp and dull around my shoulders, the shine stripped away by whatever chemical shampoo they used in that first degrading “prep” session. My collarbones jut out sharper than they ever have, my wrists look breakable, and there’s a faint bruise blooming along my upper arm from where one of the handlers grabbed me too hard yesterday when I talked back.
The edges of everything I used to be are fraying so fast I can almost hear the threads snapping. Confidence, fire, that smart-mouth armor I wore like a second skin. It’s all unraveling, thread by thread, leaving me raw and exposed.
I try to force a smirk anyway, the same one I used to flash at boys who catcalled me or teachers who underestimated me. It wobbles, cracks, and dies halfway. My reflection looks pathetic. Broken. “Pull it together, Salem,” I whisper, but the words come out small and cracked, barely audible over the pounding of my own heart. “No one likes a quitter.” The pep talk feels like a joke now. Who am I kidding? I’m so tired. So goddamn tired. My knees want to buckle. I want to curl up on this ridiculous bed and never get up again.
I roll my shoulders back anyway, ignoring the protest in every joint. I try to remember the things I kept repeating to myself likea mantra these past three endless weeks, but the list feels like lies whispered by a stranger.
You are not weak.
You are not helpless.
You are not?—
I stop. Because right now, in this glittering cage, I am all of those things. Scared my skin crawls and my mouth tastes like metal. Alone in a way that hollows me out from the inside, the kind of alone that makes the air feel too thick to breathe. Hungry down to my marrow, the kind of hunger that makes my hands tremble and my thoughts fuzzy. Sad, a deep, desolate sadness that sits on my chest like wet concrete, making every heartbeat feel like a chore. Desolate. That’s the word that keeps circling in my head. Like a desert at midnight—endless, empty, freezing cold even under a burning sun.
The lock clicks suddenly, and Clipboard Karen marches back in, her heels stabbing the marble with military precision. I don’t know her name, but she’s a full-on Karen if I’ve ever met one. Her botoxed face is pinched tighter than usual, lips pursed into a thin, disapproving line, that perpetual sour expression carved deeper by whatever expensive fillers keep her looking perpetually disappointed in the world. She’s the one who oversees all us girls, barking orders, checking clipboards, treating us like inventory that might spoil.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” she snaps, eyes raking over me like I’m already defective merchandise.
I blink slowly, too exhausted to flinch. My voice comes out hoarse. “Because I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be worn or used as dental floss.”
She inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “You think you’re funny?”
“Not really.” The words crack on the way out, and I hate how small I sound. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. “I think I’m desperate. And scared out of my mind. And so hungry my stomach feels like it’s eating itself. But the jokes… the jokes are all I’ve got left to keep from screaming.”
She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t soften. Just levels me with that curdled-milk stare that could freeze lava, then mutters something under her breath about “breaking me in properly this time” before spinning on her heel and clicking back out. The door slams behind her, and the lock engages with a final, echoing metallic snap that vibrates through my bones.
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 girlslike 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.