Page 23 of Marriage of Revenge

And yet... as I look at those girls on stage, their smiles plastic and eyes empty, I realize I might be luckier than I want to admit. At least I'll be one man's prize, not a toy passed around until I break. At least there's a chance—slim as it might be—that whoever wins me won't be a complete monster. That maybe, just maybe, I might find a way to survive this with some part of myself intact.

For a second, I almost thank him for this twisted kindness—and isn't that the most fucked up part?

"Without further ado, let the bidding begin."

"For five hundred thousand dollars," Antonio's voice slices through the heavy air, filled with a nonchalance that makes my stomach clench. Like he's bidding on a race horse instead of his former stepsister.

A chuckle emerges from the corner, drawing my gaze to the Irish mafioso, his green eyes dancing with amusement. "A mere half mil? You insult the lady," he teases, drawing laughter from the room. "One million."

"Where are the Greeks?" my father asks suddenly, his disappointment barely masked. The question makes my skin prickle—there's history there, something important.

The Russian's laugh is cold vodka and sharp edges. "Too busy with their civil war, I hear. Brother against brother. Though rumor has it Alexander..." He trails off at my father's sharp look, and I file that reaction away like I used to file away corrections from my ballet instructors. Every detail matters when you're dancing for your life.

"Two million," Henrik counters, not even flinching. His eyes never leave my face, like he's already imagining ways to break me.

The Colombian lounges in his chair like it's a throne, running a finger along the rim of his glass. "Two point five." His gaze slides from me to the stage where the dancers perform. "Might as well make it worth the trip from Colombia. A wife and a pet to take home." He winks at the redhead on stage, whose hair catches the light like fresh blood. "The defiant ones are always more fun to train."

My chest tightens, and it's not just the corset. The way he talks about us—like we're dolls he can collect and break at his leisure. The dancer's shoulders stiffen slightly, but her movements don't falter. I wonder if that's what survival looks like in this world: perfect performance even when you're screaming inside.

The French mother's fan snaps shut. "Three million," she announces, studying me like I'm a painting that might not match her furniture. "Though she'll need proper... refinement... to be worthy of my son."

The bids keep rising, numbers that sound like monopoly money to my chemo-fried brain. Each sum makes my father's smile wider, prouder. When did I become his most valuable asset? Probably around the time I stopped being able to do fouettés without my heart trying to stage a rebellion.

"Four million," the Russian declares, his accent thick as fur. "In my country, we know the value of beautiful things. And how to keep them."

I fight the urge to touch my neck where my pulse races beneath my skin. Do they see how my hands shake? Can they tell that every breath is a negotiation with this corset and my treacherous body?

Then Antonio stands, and everything else fades like stage lights dimming. His gaze drops to my lips, and stupid, traitorous me—I part them. For a moment, I'm back in that practice room, his eyes following my every move, his hands on the piano keys making music I could float to. But that was before. Before the fire. Before betrayal. Before cancer made me into someone even I don't recognize.

“Five million,” he drawls, his lips curving into a smirk. “A small price to make sure no one else gets delusions of grandeur—or hands they can’t keep to themselves.”

Connor chokes on his drink, laughter spilling out despite the tension. “Goddamn, Antonio. Only you could make five millionsound like a down payment on a threat.” He leans in, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But you still have to win the tournament, mate. Careful, or that bravado might bite you in the ass.”

Antonio's smirk widens, a dark promise in his eyes. “Let it try,” he replies. “I’m already planning the ass-kicking.”

The Colombian, his eyes already shifting between me and the redhead like he's planning his collection sighs. “Shit. I guess it’s just you, Red Hair, today.”

“Anyone else?” My dad’s voice is icy.

One by one, four others match it.

Henrik, with his cold smile. The Russian, voice heavy with promise. The French mother, her fan a weapon of refinement. And the Irish.

The room is in an uproar. Men argue, tempers flare.

Antonio doesn't move at first. He sits there, staring at me. Then, ever so slightly, he lifts his glass towards me in a silent toast, the crimson liquid catching the light like fresh blood.

"Very well," my father finally speaks, relishing the attention and the spiraling numbers. "Tomorrow will be the tournament. May the best man win."

Tomorrow could be the first day of my new life or the sealing of a twisted, dark fate. As the spotlight fades, the magnitude of what's just happened begins to set in.

Five men, five million dollars, one tournament.

Five chances for a future I didn't choose but have to face. Five different ways to cage a bird.

CHAPTER 11-ANTONIO

The Irish bastard stands,all theatrical grace. "Gents, as much as I'd love to continue this little soirée..." His eyes slide to the blonde at the bar—the one he brought with her—like she's already his next meal. Sure. "Rest." Right.

---