The auction block-1b
788 Words
He listed her like livestock.
Lysandra's stomach turned.
What the hell was she doing?
This was insane. Illegal. Immoral.
But Elara's last text message was burned into her brain:
*"Treatment scheduled for Monday if you find the funding. Dr. Shaw says I have two weeks, max, to start or it's too late. I love you, Lys. Whatever you're doing, please be safe."*
Two weeks.
The auction was tonight.
The treatment was Monday.
The timeline was too perfect to be coincidence—Lysandra had made sure of that. Applied to the auction three weeks ago. Been vetted. Passed medical exams. Signed preliminary contracts. Jumped through every degrading hoop.
All for this moment.
Lot #5 came back through the curtain. Eyes red. Shaking.
"Sold?" someone asked.
She nodded. "Four hundred and fifty thousand."
A collective exhale. That was good money. Life-changing money.
But not two million.
Not enough for Switzerland.
Not enough for Elara.
Lysandra needed a buyer with deeper pockets.
She needed a miracle.
"Lot number six."
The beautiful older woman walked toward the stage like she owned it. Confident. Unbothered. She'd done this before, Lysandra realized. Or something like it.
The muffled auction began again.
Lysandra closed her eyes and counted her heartbeats.
*One. Two. Three.*
*This is for Elara.*
*Four. Five. Six.*
*You can survive anything for six months.*
*Seven. Eight. Nine.*
*You've been invisible your whole life. What's six more months of not existing?*
Lot #6 returned. Smiling.
"Eight hundred and ninety thousand," she announced, checking her phone like she'd just closed a business deal.
Someone whistled.
"Not bad for a night's work."
The woman shrugged. "Stupid rich bastard. I'm getting a condo and disappearing after six months. He'll never find me."
Margot shot her a warning look. "That's breach of contract—"
"What's he gonna do? Sue me? Take me to court and admit he bought a woman at an illegal auction?" She laughed. "Rich men and their egos. Makes them so easy to manipulate."
Lysandra filed that information away.
Six months.
Then freedom.
She could do this.
She *had* to do this.
"Lot number seven."
The words dropped like stones.
Lysandra's legs moved on autopilot.
Margot adjusted her dress one last time—red silk that clung to curves Lysandra didn't know she had. The kind of dress that cost more than her textbooks. The kind that said *expensive* without saying anything at all.
"You look beautiful," Margot said. And for a second, she almost sounded sincere. "Remember: smile, eye contact, walk slowly. They're not buying your fear. They're buying your potential. Show them you're worth the investment."
*Investment.*
Not human.
Investment.
Lysandra took a breath that tasted like expensive perfume and her own terror.
Then she stepped through the curtain.
---
**THE STAGE**
The lights hit her like a physical blow.
Blinding. Hot. Designed to disorient.
She couldn't see past the stage. Just darkness filled with shapes. Shadows. Wealth made anonymous.
Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought they might c***k.
*Smile.*
She smiled.
*Eye contact.*
She looked into the void and pretended she couldn't feel forty-seven pairs of eyes dissecting her like a specimen.
The auctioneer stood to her left—an older man in a tuxedo, silver hair, voice like aged whiskey and cigarettes.
"Lot number seven," he announced, his tone as casual as if he were selling furniture. "Twenty-one years old. Education: Columbia University, English Literature major. Background: clean. Medical history: excellent. Special notes: no previous relationships, no dependents, high intelligence, fluent in English and French."
He listed her life in bullet points.
Reduced twenty-one years to a paragraph.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she turned slowly—one full rotation, like Margot had instructed—giving the faceless bidders a complete view.
*This is me. This is what you're buying. A girl. A body. A life.*
The auctioneer continued: "Starting bid: fifty thousand dollars."
Silence.
Lysandra's chest tightened.
What if no one—
"Fifty thousand." A voice from the darkness. Male. Bored.
Relief flooded through her so fast she almost stumbled.
"Sixty thousand."
"Seventy-five."
"One hundred."
The bids climbed.
Slowly.
Agonizingly.
Each number a reminder that she was being purchased. Evaluated. Priced.
"One hundred and fifty thousand."
"Two hundred thousand."
Lysandra's breathing grew shallow.
*Not enough. Still not enough.*
"Two-fifty."
"Three hundred."
The bidding slowed.
Three hundred thousand was good. Life-changing for most people.
But Elara needed two million.
*Come on. Please. Someone.*
"Three-twenty-five."
"Three-fifty."
Then—silence.
The auctioneer waited. "Three hundred and fifty thousand. Going once—"
Lysandra's world tilted.
*No. No, this can't be it. This can't be—*
"Going twice—"
Her vision blurred.
*Elara. I'm sorry. I tried. I tried so hard—*
Then.
A voice.
- Writer
