GABRIEL’S POV
The evening had been perfectly ordinary until my laptop chimed at exactly 9:47 PM. I was sitting at my mahogany desk, red pen in hand, grading the latest batch of essays on Victorian social commentary. Most were predictably mediocre, though one student had shown surprising insight into Dickens' use of industrial imagery.
The wine was helping. A 2015 Bordeaux that had cost more than most people spend on groceries in a month. I took another sip and marked another comma splice when the email notification popped up on my screen.
The sender's address made me pause: [email protected]. I knew that address. It belonged to an exclusive network of wealthy men who shared certain... refined tastes. I'd been added to their mailing list six months ago by Marcus Blackwood, an old colleague from Harvard who'd made his fortune in pharmaceutical patents.
"You'd find our gatherings intellectually stimulating," he'd told me over dinner at his club. "Very sophisticated clientele. Very... exclusive entertainment."
I'd attended exactly one event. The conversation had been sharp, the wine exceptional, but the entertainment had left me feeling vaguely disgusted with myself and humanity in general. Still, I'd kept receiving their invitations. Insurance, perhaps. Or morbid curiosity.
The subject line made my hand freeze halfway to the wine glass: Final Virgin Lot Confirmed — L.M.
I stared at the words for a long moment. These people dealt in fantasies, in carefully constructed illusions of innocence and desire. Their "lots" were usually experienced professionals playing roles. But this subject line felt different. More... authentic.
Against my better judgment, I clicked open the email.
Gentlemen,
We are pleased to confirm our final addition to Monday evening's exclusive presentation. Lot Seven represents a truly rare opportunity - genuine article, verified authentic, academically accomplished.
Preview materials attached. Bidding begins at $10,000.
As always, discretion is paramount.
Regards, L.M.
There was an attachment. A single photograph.
I clicked on it expecting another professionally staged glamour shot, another young woman playing dress-up for wealthy men's fantasies. Instead, the wine glass slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers and exploded against the hardwood floor in a shower of crystal and dark red liquid.
Staring back at me from the screen was a face I knew intimately. Wide brown eyes that had looked up at me just that morning in my lecture hall. Soft features that belonged to the girl who sat in the third row, taking careful notes on everything I said. The same girl who'd stumbled through an analysis of Tess of the d'Urbervilles with surprising passion hidden beneath her nervousness.
Ava Moreau.
My hands were shaking as I scrolled through the rest of the profile. Twenty-one years old. Literature student. No prior experience with "exclusive services." Medical verification attached.
It was her. My student. The girl whose essays showed flashes of brilliance buried under layers of self-doubt. The girl who blushed every time I called on her in class, who looked at me like I held all the answers to questions she was afraid to ask.
She was going to be auctioned off to the highest bidder in three days.
My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus Blackwood.
Did you see the final lot for Monday? Exquisite. You should come. Consider it a dark curiosity.
I stared at the message, my mind reeling. Marcus knew I'd be interested. He'd seen me watching her, perhaps. Or maybe he just thought a literature professor would appreciate the irony of a student being sold like something out of the novels we studied.
"Dark curiosity," he'd called it. As if Ava was some exotic artifact to be examined and consumed.
I called him back immediately.
"Gabriel!" Marcus's voice was warm, pleased. "Didn't expect to hear from you so quickly. You seemed rather... put off by our last gathering."
"Things change," I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the rage building in my chest.
"Indeed they do." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Something about this particular lot caught your attention?"
"Academic curiosity."
"Of course." He chuckled. "Well, you'll want to come prepared. From what I hear, there's going to be significant interest. The verified authenticity is rare in our circles."
"What kind of interest?" I asked, though I dreaded the answer.
"The expensive kind. Word is already spreading through the network. Could easily go for six figures if the right bidders show up."
Six figures. For Ava. For my student who wrote passionate analyses of literary heroines while living on ramen noodles and financial aid.
"Who else is coming?" I tried to sound casual.
"The usual suspects. Richard Ashford will definitely be there - he has a thing for college girls. Jonathan Pierce mentioned he might attend. Oh, and David Chen said he's flying in from Seattle specifically for this one."
My blood turned to ice. I knew these men. Richard Ashford owned half the real estate in the city and had appetites that ran toward the brutal. Jonathan Pierce collected beautiful things and broke them for sport. David Chen had been sued three times for assault and settled out of court each time.
Any one of them could win her. Any one of them could take her innocence, her trust, her light, and extinguish it forever.
"Gabriel? You still there?"
"Yes," I managed. "I'll be there."
"Excellent! Bring your checkbook, old friend. This one's going to be special."
After he hung up, I sat in my study staring at Ava's photograph on my laptop screen. She looked so young, so innocent. The photographer had captured something essential about her - that combination of intelligence and vulnerability that made her so compelling in class.
In seventy-two hours, she would stand on a platform while men like Marcus bid on her like she was a piece of art.
I thought about Richard's hands on her skin. Jonathan's cruel smile as he took what he'd bought. David's reputation for leaving marks.
The thought made something violent and primal rise in my chest. These men saw women like Ava as objects to be consumed, discarded, forgotten. They would hurt her, break her, leave her as another casualty of their boredom and wealth.
I couldn't let that happen.
I wouldn't let that happen.
Whatever it cost, whatever I had to do, whatever lines I had to cross - no other man was going to touch her. The moment I saw her face on that screen, I knew with absolute certainty that I would burn everything down before I let someone else claim her.
Ava might think she was making this choice freely, but she had no idea what world she was stepping into. She didn't understand the kind of men who would be bidding on her, what they would do to her, how they would destroy everything pure and bright about her.
But I did. And I would protect her from them, even if it meant protecting her from herself.
Ava Moreau belonged to me now.
She just didn't know it yet.