The auction house plunged into deathly silence, everyone stunned speechless by my insane actions.
Anthony whirled around, his eyes filled with utter disbelief and horror. “Melissa, how dare you!”
Over the walkie-talkie, my voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. “Clean her up. Dress her in the sailor uniform from the photos. Then place her in the golden display case prepared for tonight’s ‘surprise.’”
Minutes later, in the center of the main hall below, a massive bulletproof glass case slowly rose from the floor.
Curled up inside like a broken doll was Allison. The ill-fitting student uniform made her look both pitiful and ridiculous. She was trembling, tear tracks staining her face, her eyes fixed in my direction, brimming with terror.
“And now,” my amplified voice echoed through the entire venue, “we begin the auction. One night’s ownership of Miss Allison. Starting bid: one dollar.”
The crowd exploded.
This was humiliation—ultimate, merciless humiliation.
“Melissa! You’re insane!” Anthony roared, lunging toward me like a provoked, cornered beast.
My bodyguards were already blocking his path.
I turned, my gaze icy. “Anthony. Six years ago, you took knives and bullets for me. Six years later, you turn your blade on me for another woman. Tell me, which one of us is truly insane?”
He stared back, eyes bloodshot.
Downstairs, the bidding had reached a fever pitch, numbers climbing at a terrifying speed. The air thickened with naked desire and malice.
Inside the glass case, Allison wept desperately, pounding on the walls—all of it futile.
“Fifty thousand!”
“One hundred thousand!”
“Three hundred thousand!”
Anthony’s body shook violently. He looked at the girl being treated as merchandise below, then back at me. The hatred in his eyes was almost enough to devour me whole.
Suddenly, Allison seemed to remember something. She stopped crying, lifted her head, and fixed a venomous glare on my private box. With every ounce of her strength, she screamed:
“What right do you have to treat me like this! I’m ten thousand times cleaner than Melissa! Do you know? She’s just used goods! When she was a teenager, her own uncles took turns with her! She’s a monster—a monster even her own father found disgusting! Anthony never loved her! He just pitied her!”
Her words fell like a thunderclap, shocking the entire hall into utter silence.
Every eye turned toward my private box.
Time seemed to freeze.
Those memories I had buried in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind—rotten, foul—were ripped open, raw and bleeding, exposed in the harsh light of day.
My mind went blank. A sharp ringing filled my ears; everything before me began to twist and spin. Those men’s faces, their filthy hands, the nauseating smell… it all crashed over me like a tidal wave.
PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
I thought I was healed. But it had only been lying dormant inside me, waiting for a trigger.
My blood turned to ice. I couldn’t draw a full breath.
Instinctively, I looked at Anthony. I hoped he would do as he had countless times before, when nightmares woke me—hold me tight and whisper, *Don’t be afraid, I’m here.*
He did move.
But not toward me.
Shoving past the bodyguards, he rushed downstairs toward the glass case and began pounding on the door with all his might. To the girl who had just held me up for public shame, he roared:
“Allison! Stop! Don’t be afraid! I’ll get you out of here!”
He had made his choice. Between my scar and her grievance, he had chosen her—without hesitation.
I watched his back, the back that had once sheltered me from the storm. Now it was the blade that finally eviscerated me.
Slowly, very slowly, I reached into my handbag and withdrew a small, silver pistol.
I raised the gun. Not at Anthony. Not at Allison.
But to my own temple.
“Anthony.” My voice sounded alien even to me, terrifyingly hollow. “You want to save her, right?”
“Now, you have two choices.”
“One, I die.”
“Two, you watch me ruin her with my own hands.”
I clicked off the safety.
