What about the other girls?
My mother would curse me for the shame and guilt I suffered at the thought of leaving the sold women. But she’d also be proud because I’d chosen a path with decisiveness and conviction. Something she said I’d always lacked.
Happy now, Mother?
The room erupted in murmurs of deliberation while I stood in the sea of ebbing voices.
For a moment, I stupidly believed I’d won. That I’d played my hand at the perfect time and earned my freedom. But I hadn’t learned my final lesson.
Pride goeth before the fall.
And I was about to plummet.
“I see your offer and raise you,” Lord Mask murmured. “One million, five hundred thousand pounds, not dollars. What say you?”
Before I could reply—before I could increase my bid and change my circumstances, the dreaded gavel fell.
“Sold!” the auctioneer yelled. “To Mr. Lord for one million, five hundred thousand pounds.”
* * * * *
To No One,
That was the last time I spoke. The last time I lost. The last time I knew what it was like not to live every day in pain.
From that day onward, I was Pimlico the Mute, the Voiceless Woman in White.
No matter what that man did to me, I didn’t break.
No matter the beating he gave or the sexual punishment he delivered, I remained speechless and strong.
I’d like to say I found a way to escape. That I ran. That I’m writing this to you from a quaint coffee shop in London with a handsome boyfriend on my left and a best friend on my right.
But I’ve never been good at lying.
This toilet paper novel was never going to be fiction.
This is my autobiography so that one day, when my worth has been used, and every penny my master paid for me has been cashed, someone might recall the wordless slave who endured so much.
Maybe then, I’ll be free.
INSTEAD OF COUNTING what I’d lost and would never see again, I preferred to count what I did have.
It kept me occupied as the transaction for my sale went through, the room emptied as successful bidders took their new possessions home, and my arms wrenched behind me for coarse twine to wrap around my wrists like some sort of twisted wedding ring.
I didn’t say a word as a blindfold settled over my eyes with a blackening shroud nor did I make a peep as dominating hands guided me from the warmth and piano-note filled ballroom, down corridors I couldn't see, and through a foyer I hadn’t witnessed.
Soft voices were exchanged as I was pushed like a fugitive inside the back of a car, my white dress and scarf still decorating me as a prized toy fresh off the rack.
I didn’t know if a beaten up Honda or an expensive Maybach transported me from Hotel de Sex Traffic to a private airstrip. I wasn’t permitted to see or touch or move without the aid of the two hands that’d purchased me.
He didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to him. And the staff around us didn’t need to speak because they had their orders and obeyed them explicitly.
Ducking past the fuselage of what I guessed was a private jet, gentle pushes guided me up the gangway before directing me to perch on an unseen seat. At least, away from that dreadful no-sensory cell, I had what I needed.
Snippets and sensations of life surrounded me. The city air on my face, the sounds of civilisation as we’d driven down streets, past unsuspecting parents and lovers out for a stroll, and now…sitting on the softest leather imaginable with my back locked, wrists bound, and no vision.
It heightened the senses I did have. Tart scents of liquor, full-bodied whiffs of cinnamon and caviar, and a deeper, headier note of a man’s aftershave.
Throughout my imprisonment, I hadn’t tried to free myself by being stupid. I never answered back (not after the first welcome beating) and not once refused the meals I’d been served. All such ridiculous notions of starving myself and fighting with words were removed within the first few hours of arrival.
In these new circumstances, I wouldn’t stop being wise. I wouldn’t scream or cry or try to befriend my jailer. Instead, I would remain quiet and strong and never be idiotic by refusing whatever sustenance this man wanted to give me.
I needed all the health and determination I could cling to.
Icy bubbles of champagne were held to my lips.
I hadn’t tasted anything so sharp in a very long time. My mouth opened, and I sipped.
The flute was removed after precisely two swallows. Private jet engines whined into power, someone pushed me deeper into the chair to fasten a seat-belt over my lap, and the crackle of an unknown pilot announced we were ready to take-off.
I wanted to know where we were flying.
I wanted to know who this new adversary was.
I wanted to know how long I could last before the mask I’d plastered in place on the podium would shatter. Paper mache only lasted so long before the elements dampened and destroyed it. What about a guise made of sheer stubbornness and rebellion? How long did those prevail?
But wanting was different from receiving, and I had no choice but to sit back in my chair as we careened down the runway and shot into the sky. My ears popped with steep ascent, and no one muttered a word for a long time. No one moved to untie me or give me back the gift of sight, either.
Minutes switched to hours, and I stopped waiting for the man to speak. I relaxed as much as I could and turned inward, keeping myself sane by mentally preparing for the next step.
I’d known this would happen ever since the bastard who’d strangled me revived me thanks to mouth-to-mouth CPR. I had no one to rely on anymore. No one to tell me what to do and how to act. It was entirely on me. Whatever pain or mistreatment may or may not be in my future, I had to hold my own hand, wipe away my tears, and find comfort in my arms no matter how bloody.