The crowd in the bar was nothing like the one I remembered from my last visit. The place felt darker somehow, heavier, filled with men who looked as though they’d come from entirely different worlds but shared the same dangerous purpose. A group of bikers occupied several tables near the stage, loud and aggressive. Across the room sat polished young businessmen in expensive suits, laughing quietly among themselves. An older man with silver hair and effortless elegance nursed a drink alone, radiating wealth and authority without saying a word.
Near the front sat a bearded man in an immaculate Western suit accompanied by two stern-looking companions who never stopped scanning the room. Whether they were assistants or bodyguards, I couldn’t tell.
I slipped into a booth near the back and searched for Luna, but she was nowhere in sight. There weren’t any women visible at all—not even the bartender from before. The only major change in the room was the wooden stage built along one wall beside a heavy office door.
Nearly an hour passed before the door finally opened.
Turrell stepped onto the stage, adjusting his jacket as the room gradually quieted.
“Can I have your attention?” he called.
The conversations faded. Glasses stopped clinking. Every eye turned toward him.
“I know why you’re here tonight,” he continued. “You’re here for the auction.”
The words sent a wave of nausea through me. My pulse hammered so hard I could hear it in my ears. For one brief second, instinct screamed at me to leave while I still could. Instead, I stayed frozen in my seat.
“We have five women available tonight,” Turrell announced smoothly. “Before we begin, we need to review the rules.”
The bikers groaned and laughed loudly at the mention of rules.
“Rule one: payment is cash only. No credit. No exceptions.”
Turrell slowly scanned the room as he spoke, his gaze briefly pausing on me as though he almost recognized my face.
“Rule two: all agreements are final. Once a contract is made, responsibility transfers completely to the buyer for the agreed period.”
The room grew quieter at that.
“The women understand the arrangement and the terms involved,” he continued evenly. “Some were brought here by partners, others by previous sponsors. None of that matters tonight. Whoever leaves with them becomes responsible for their care and safety.”
The bikers cheered again, louder this time. The older man remained expressionless. The bearded foreigner looked mildly bored, but his companions stayed alert.
“Rule three,” Turrell said, raising his voice over the noise, “you may meet and inspect the women before bidding begins. But there will be no private access until agreements are finalized.”
Then he turned toward the office door.
“If we’re ready,” he announced, “let’s bring them out.”
The door opened again.
Five women emerged slowly onto the stage under the harsh lights, escorted by the bartender. My breath caught the instant I saw the last woman in line.
It was my wife.