Going Mad For Maddox

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

KODI

MY HEART HAMMERS in my chest, my palms slick with sweat as I dig my fingernails into my thighs, hoping for the pain to calm my racing pulse so I'm able to think.

To think of a way to get out of this nightmare.

The lights are too bright, and I stand there, trembling, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, wanting to cover my cleavage as if that might shield me from men's lust-filled gazes.

God, the room was like gilded cage, opulent and oppressive all at once. Gold trim adorned the walls, intricate chandeliers hung above, their crystal teardrops scattering light across the polished floors. It was all so extravagant, so calculated, and yet I felt like the only thing in the room that didn't belong, making the room  feel more suffocating than it already was.

Men leaned back in their chairs, their faces shadowed and unreadable, save for the glint in their eyes when they looked at me.

My heart pounds like a trapped bird in my chest.

"And now, gentlemen," suddenly a deep voice rang out, smooth and practiced, "our next offering."He gestured toward me as though I were some prized object—a painting, a relic. My name wasn't spoken. To them, I was nameless, just a lot number, a commodity, something to win and play with.

The auctioneer continued, describing my body as if I couldn't hear, as though my presence was only physical, my mind inconsequential. I clenched my fists at my sides, the nails biting into my palms. I wanted to scream, to run, but my legs felt rooted to the stage, as though they'd turned to stone.

"Let's start the bidding, shall we?" He shouts, voice was cheerful.

My breath hitches when a man in the back raises his hand, nonchalantly, as though he were buying a movie ticket.

I scanned the crowd, my gaze darting from face to face, searching for something—mercy, understanding, anything—but all I found were cold, appraising stares. I felt stripped bare, not just in body but in spirit.

The numbers climbed higher, their voices calm, unhurried, detached. Each bid was like a nail in a coffin, sealing my fate, and yet I couldn't bring myself to cry. There was a fire in my throat, but I swallowed it down, refusing to let them see me break.

The auctioneer stood at the center of the stage beside me, his voice a practiced melody of charm and authority. He gestured with his hands as he spoke, showcasing me as if I were some rare jewel.

"Gentlemen," he began, his tone casual, too casual for what's happening, "c'mon now, what we have here is a true rarity. Graceful, unspoiled, and with a fire in her eyes—just look at her! An exquisite addition to any collection."

I wanted to recoil, to scream that I wasn't some thing to be bought and owned. But my throat was dry, my body frozen, as though every word he said drained the life from me bit by bit.

I glanced out at the crowd again, desperately hoping to catch a flicker of compassion, of hesitation—but I found none. The men lounged in their seats, some leaning forward slightly as they appraised me. Others swirled amber liquid in crystal glasses, their conversations carrying on, low murmurs that felt louder than thunder in my ears.

The next bid came quickly, a sharp voice cutting through the haze. "Fifty thousand."

I flinched. The auctioneer smiled, his teeth gleaming in the light, and nodded. "A strong  bid! Do I hear sixty?"

A hand went up to my right, and I turned my head sharply, almost without meaning to. Sixty thousand.

The number hit like a slap.