THE VIRGIN AUCTION

Aria Monroe didn’t feel the pain in her ankles until she paused to wait at Table 6. The sting came sharp and fast, heel digging into skin, nerves screaming under the pressure of nine straight hours. She didn’t flinch. Just shifted her weight and steadied the tray. It had in it two champagne flutes and a dirty martini. Her spine held straight. Her eyes scanned the table, checking placements, posture, mood. She slipped between chairs, dodging a careless elbow and sidestepping a man too drunk to notice how close he came to grabbing her waist. The Rosevelt Lounge glowed in gold and smoke. Jazz hummed under the chatter, and every surface shimmered like it cost more than her annual rent. Table 7 waved her down. She approached with practiced ease. The hedge fund manager, red-faced, heavy jaw, thinning hair slicked too far back snapped his fingers. “Hey, sweetheart, we’re out of olives.” Aria smiled, tight and in control. “I’ll fix that for you, sir.” She pivoted fast, her jaw clenching the moment her back turned. Her fingers curled around the tray. She imagined throwing it straight at his greasy face. The fantasy lasted two seconds. Her rent was due, Micah needed food; and her mom needed meds; no tray throwing today. Behind the bar, Victor tracked her like a hawk. He didn’t speak. Just jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. His eyes did the yelling. Aria dropped her gaze and nodded once. She slipped into the back hallway, cutting through the service corridor until she reached the locker room. She grabbed her phone from the bottom of her bag. The screen flickered as it came to life, seven missed calls from Nurse Melinda. One message. She tapped it. “Your mom had another episode. We need to talk about long-term care.” Aria exhaled sharply, then pressed her forehead against the cool, dented locker door. Her body sagged for a moment. Only for a moment. She stuffed the phone back into her bag. An envelope fluttered out and hit the floor. She knelt, unfolded it, and read the red stamp: FINAL EVICTION NOTICE. Her eyes caught the circled date—Tomorrow. Her throat tightened. She folded it up slowly, slipped it back in, and stood with her head high. Her face was blank. Her gut twisted. Back on the floor, she hovered near the VIP booths with another tray. One table’s glasses were nearly empty. She moved closer to catch their request and paused as the conversation cut through the music. “…the last one went for seven mil. Virgin. Colombian.” “Next week’s private. Invite-only. Top bidders only.” “Yeah? I heard her scream when they signed the release form.” Their laughter grated. Aria’s grip on the tray slipped slightly. She blinked hard, mouth dry. “Excuse me..” she turned too quickly. A glass tipped and Champagne poured down onto an expensive pair of Italian loafers. The man pushed his chair back, barking, “Are you blind?” “I’m so sorry” Aria scrambled for napkins. Victor stormed over, crouched low, and growled into her ear, “Clean it up. One more mistake, Monroe, and you’re done.”She bit down hard. Iron filled her mouth. Ten minutes later, Aria leaned against the back wall of the alley behind the lounge. Raven lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. “Girl, you look like you’ve been through hell’s waiting room.” Aria took the cigarette without answering. Raven studied her. “Talk.” Aria exhaled. “My mom’s back in the hospital. The landlord's done playing nice. I got… nothing left.” Raven hesitated, then stepped closer. “You will be fine, maybe you need to take another job to meet up.” Aria sobbed, “I'm tired, I keep working but things keep getting worse.” “Calm down girl.” Raven’s eyes glinted. “You will be fine.” “I heard of an auction coming up soon, I think I want to go”. Raven looked disappointed. “Girls who go for such auctions don't come the same”. Aria didn't respond. Not out loud. But something in her face shifted. Aria cleared plates from the far end of the bar. Madame Celeste, tall, sleek, wrapped in white fur and red lipstick watched her over a glass of bourbon. Aria bent to grab a glass, and a smooth card slid under her tray. She paused. Glanced down.The card was black and embossed in gold. It had an inscription written on it that said: “For the Right Price”. She quickly shoved it into her bag and headed for the subway. The subway hissed to a stop. Aria sat wedged between two strangers, one was snoring, the other asleep. Her legs pressed tight, back rigid. She stared at the card in her hand. No name. No number. Just a QR code and other three phrases on it: “One Night. One Chance. One Bidder”.