**Chapter Seven** **River** The air buzzes with anticipation—an electric charge that sends a shiver down my spine. The auction is set to commence, and I find myself trapped in a horrifying reflection in the full-length mirror of the dressing room. The figure staring back at me looks like an unholy fusion of an exotic burlesque dancer and a bewildered streetwalker. I wear an ocean-blue and green crisscross bra embellished with diamantés that barely clings to my skin, its minimal coverage feeling almost ludicrous. In truth, it barely masks my bare flesh, a flimsy fabric that does nothing more than conceal my most intimate areas. The thong—if it can even be called that—offers little more than a token gesture of modesty, leaving me feeling almost completely exposed. Only the long waves of my hair afford me a shred of decency, draping over my backside like a curtain, but that thin veil is hardly a refuge. When I was told what I would be wearing tonight, I envisioned something with a hint of sophistication—something that wouldn’t reduce me to a mere object of desire. But this… this costume strips me of dignity, unraveling my sense of self, leaving only raw vulnerability. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I bite my lip and fight to quell them. I refuse to break down again; the last time I surrendered to tears felt like a chasm opened beneath my feet, pulling me into darkness. How much lower can I descend before I can rise? What if tonight spells failure, with no beacon of hope to guide me out of this pit? The tales of women who once walked a treacherous path only to find redemption resonate within me, yet their journeys seem to demand a hellish trial first. I feel engulfed in my own version of hell right now. I know I must endure this, but the weight of my circumstances presses heavily on my soul. Doubts creep in, settling like stones in my heart, whispering the truth I’ve been trying to hide from—that I may have sold my soul to the devil by agreeing to work in this place, to partake in this auction. Not even the glimmering promise of tonight's earnings can soften that bitter truth, and the worry for Gina gnaws at my insides. Following our chaotic night, I took a day away from both the café and the school, creating a sanctuary of sorts around myself. I would have kept clear of the club, too, but tonight was compulsory, a task I simply could not avoid. Gina had seemed stable when I left her in the care of a hospital support worker, yet unease lingers. With her history, any mention of chest pains sends up red flags; I learned that the hard way when I lost my mother to a sudden heart attack—a silent threat that took her from me far too early. I was only twelve then, gathered around the Thanksgiving table with family, when I watched her collapse in the kitchen. That final moment still haunts me. The thought of losing Gina in a similar manner is unthinkable. I pray—fervently—that the earnings from tonight will not only secure my future but ensure I can rush back home to her side as soon as possible. The door swings open, and Zara peeks in, her face alight with enthusiasm. “Wow. You look absolutely amazing.” I can hardly respond; "amazing" doesn’t even remotely capture how I feel draped in this wretched attire. “Thank you,” I murmur, my voice betraying the dread swirling within me. Zara, undeterred by my lack of exuberance, brightens. “We’re ready for you. The auction will begin shortly.” “Okay. I’ll be out in two minutes,” I reply, my nerves strung tighter than ever. “Great! And don’t be nervous; tonight is going to be spectacular!” Her enthusiasm feels misplaced—like an overzealous cheerleader before a disastrous game. There are thirty-five girls taking the stage tonight, and the club stands to rake in a fortune; estimates hover around half a million dollars or more. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I attempt to reassure her, but my words sound hollow even to my ears. “See you out there!” she calls as she leaves, and I draw in a deep breath, mentally preparing myself. Twenty thousand dollars, River. That’s the minimum I could take home tonight; anything less would be devastating and could threaten my entire plan to support Gina. I force my weary body into motion, shrugging into my dressing robe before stepping into the chaotic backstage area of the main hall. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement; men of all ages and types fill the seats. Their eyes glimmer with anticipation, and I feel like a livestock auctioned off, a product stripped of its humanity. I join my fellow performers, each adorned in equally revealing costumes. To them, this is the familiar grind, a process measured in reheated glamour. Yet I stand out like a sore thumb, an outsider cocooned in anxiety. Zara arrives to provide instructions, but her voice quickly fades into the background noise, drowned out by the pounding of my heart. “All you need to do is walk out when your name is called—smile as if the money is already yours, and strike your hottest pose to stir the bids,” she instructs, but her advice seems distant. All I can focus on is navigating my steps without falling apart. The auction kicks off, and Maribel—an alluring platinum blonde—struts on stage. The bidding erupts, starting at a thousand and escalating until the final amount hovers at twenty thousand dollars, effortlessly claimed by a man who practically resembles a scion of wealth from an advertisement. The subsequent girls follow suit, each walking away with sums that make my heart clench tighter, creeping towards an unbearable anxiety. Each moment stretches out as I await my turn, nerves amplifying with the passage of time. By the moment my name rings through the air, I am quaking with nerves, light-headed. As I prepare to step out, Zara glances at my robe, and I suddenly remember the comfort it had offered. With a swift motion, I shed it, and panic washes over me once more, the stark reality of my exposure hitting me hard. Shakily, I move onto the stage, each step bringing me closer to the center where my heart thunders like a caged animal. I try to summon a smile, but I feel like an imposter under the glaring lights, dwarfed among the seasoned girls whose confidence radiates. I’m standing here as a terrified rabbit in a den of predators. The auction opens at five thousand dollars, a figure that shocks me, but soon bids mount, rising rapidly. Twenty-five thousand—I struggle to process that amount as it reverberates through the crowd. Suddenly, a voice calls out a bid for thirty; the highest yet, igniting a flicker of hope deep within me. My heart races at the thought of walking away with such a life-changing sum, even though dread creeps in alongside excitement as I consider what I might be expected to do for it. The highest bidder lounges in front, his smile making my skin crawl like a venomous serpent, a man far too old to play this game with me. He fits the caricature of a lecherous old man, his gaze uncomfortably lingering. “Going once, going twice—” Zara’s voice rings through the air before punctuated silence grips the room. “Thirty-five thousand!” A booming voice slices through the tension. My blood runs cold as I look up, locking gazes with Jericho, standing like a colossus among mere men, radiating authority. My mind spirals. What is he doing here? Shock roots me to the spot, and the whirlwind of emotions leaves me breathless. There’s a stark intensity in his gaze—a potent energy that shifts the dynamic of the auction entirely. “Forty,” the old man mutters, attempting bravado, but it flails under the weight of Jericho’s glare directed at him. Jericho counters firmly, “Forty-five.” I can barely breathe as he steps forward, his eyes fixed on me, an unyielding conviction brimming. Sixty grand. That single thought reverberates through me, a promise of salvation, a lifeline—yet the dread of what it entails grips me more tightly than ever. “Sixty thousand,” Jericho proclaims, driving shock through the crowd. He bears down on the man, his tone thick with menace. “How far are you willing to go? You do know who I am, right?” “Jericho Grayson.” The man stumbles over the name, fear mingling with defiance as beads of sweat gather upon his brow. “Well done,” Jericho remarks coldly, brushing an imaginary speck from the man’s lapel. “You know who I am. Therefore, you know I won’t lose.” I can’t believe my ears. His mere presence is formidable, commanding silence and respect. All around me, whispers swirl and spin, the tension palpable as if the mere air has thickened in Jericho’s wake. “It seems we’ve reached an understanding,” Zara speaks, cautious and surprised. “Sold for sixty thousand dollars to Jericho Grayson.” As murmurs break out among the audience, Jericho strides onto the stage with purposeful confidence. The protocol of collecting me from the back seems to vanish in his wake, as he strides towards me, shedding his jacket and draping it across my shoulders. His piercing blue eyes hold mine, a silent understanding passing between us. I feel a strange comfort in the shield of his jacket enveloping me, a stark contrast to the fragile state I find myself in. He leads me away from that hell, the very place I had feared but now realize he has just rescued me from. The din of the auction fades behind us, replaced by the hum of uncertainty mingled with the strangest glimmer of hope.