The auction block-1a
981 Words
Opening line: she was suppose to be invisible - just Another caterer weaving through Manhattan's elite with champagne flutes and practiced silence."
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**She was supposed to be invisible—just another caterer weaving through Manhattan's elite with champagne flutes and practiced silence.**
That was the plan, anyway.
Stand in the back. Wear black. Don't make eye contact. Survive the evening with enough tip money to cover this week's groceries and maybe—*maybe*—Elara's next round of medications.
Instead, Lysandra Thorne stood backstage at the Velvet Auctions in a dress that cost more than three months of rent, waiting to be sold.
The irony wasn't lost on her.
Six hours ago, she'd been serving champagne to these same people at the Waldorf Astoria. Now she was the entertainment.
"Lot number seven."
The coordinator—a woman named Margot with a clipboard and the emotional warmth of a corporate lawsuit—checked Lysandra's makeup with clinical efficiency. Perfect red lips. Smoky eyes. Hair in waves she'd never bothered with before tonight. They'd transformed her from invisible to *unavoidable* in under two hours.
"Remember the rules," Margot said, her manicured nail tapping the clipboard. "Smile. Don't speak unless directly asked a question. Walk to the mark on stage. Turn once—slowly. Make eye contact with the room, not individuals. When the gavel falls, you go to the private collection room. Your buyer will meet you there. Questions?"
Lysandra had a thousand questions.
*How did I get here?*
*When did my life become something I could sell by the pound?*
*Will this actually save Elara, or am I just trading one death for another?*
But she swallowed them all and said: "No questions."
"Good. You're on in three minutes." Margot's expression softened for exactly half a second—a c***k in the professional veneer. "For what it's worth, honey, you'll do fine. You're smart, pretty, and young. Someone will want you."
*Want you.*
Like she was a handbag. A car. A commodity.
Lysandra supposed that's exactly what she was now.
She looked around the backstage area. Twelve girls total. Lot numbers one through twelve. Some looked excited—sugar baby dreams dancing in their eyes, visions of penthouses and private jets. Some looked resigned—debt written into the slump of their shoulders, desperation in how they gripped their clutch purses.
Lot #3—a blonde girl, maybe nineteen—was crying quietly in the corner.
Lot #6—older, maybe twenty-seven, with the kind of beauty that came from expensive maintenance—checked her lipstick in a compact mirror, utterly unbothered.
Lot #9—dark skin, elegant neck, dancer's posture—stared at nothing, lips moving in what might've been prayer.
Lysandra felt numb.
Three weeks ago, she'd been a different person. Columbia University student. English Literature major. 3.8 GPA. Three jobs. Legal guardian to her dying sister. Invisible girl making invisible choices in an invisible life.
Then Dr. Martinez said the words that changed everything:
*"Six weeks. Maybe eight if we're lucky."*
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**THREE WEEKS AGO**
**Mercy General Hospital, 11:47 PM**
Elara's hand was so thin Lysandra could feel every bone. Twenty-three years old and dissolving from the inside out. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia—the kind with too many syllables and not enough hope.
"There's an experimental treatment," Dr. Martinez had said, her voice careful, like she was defusing a bomb. "Clinical trial in Switzerland. Ninety percent success rate in early testing. But—"
"How much?"
"It's not FDA approved yet. You'd need priv
ate medical transport, private facility, specialized team—"
"*How much?*"
Dr. Martinez's pause said everything. Then: "Two million dollars. Minimum."
The number hung in the sterile air like a death sentence.
Lysandra's checking account balance: $847.23.
Her savings account balance: $0.00.
Her credit cards: maxed out on Elara's previous treatments.
Her options: none.
"I'll find it," Lysandra had said, voice steady despite her hands shaking.
Elara squeezed her fingers weakly. "Lys, it's okay—"
"No." Lysandra stood, pulling herself together with the same grim determination that had kept them alive since their mother died four years ago. "It's not okay. You're twenty-three. You're supposed to graduate Columbia next year. Become a neurosurgeon. Save lives. You don't get to die because I'm too poor to save you."
"Where are you going to get two million dollars?" Elara's voice was barely a whisper, but the question hit like a shout.
Lysandra didn't have an answer.
Not then.
But three days later, while serving overpriced hors d'oeuvres at a charity gala, she'd overheard a conversation that would change everything.
Two women. Designer gowns. Diamonds that could fund a small country. Standing near the bathroom, voices low but not quite low enough.
"Did you hear about the auction next month?"
"Oh God, I thought they shut those down."
"Not if you know where to look. Invitation only. Very exclusive."
"What are they auctioning?" A pause. Then, quieter: "Companions. Six-month contracts. Full discretion. The starting bids are *insane*."
"That's barbaric."
"That's capitalism, darling. Supply and demand. Some of these girls walk away with enough money to change their lives."
"How much are we talking?"
"Last year? Lowest bid was three hundred thousand. Highest was two point eight million."
Lysandra's hands had trembled so badly she'd nearly dropped her tray.
Two million dollars.
Six months.
Elara's life.
The equation was simple.
The decision was impossible.
But she was out of options.
And desperate people do desperate things.
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**PRESENT: BACKSTAGE, THE MONTGOMERY ESTATE**
"Lot number five, you're up."
A girl with red hair and freckles walked toward the stage entrance. She looked back once—brief, terrified eye contact with Lysandra—then disappeared through the curtain.
The muffled sound of the auctioneer's voice filtered through:
"*Lot number five. Twenty-three years old. Education: NYU, Fine Arts degree. Background: clean. Special
notes: prior modeling experience, proficient in three languages...*"
- Writer
