CHAPTER 26

E verything’s black.

I’m sitting upright in a hard chair. Something soft tickles my cheek, then brushes over my nose and forehead.

“She’s all done up.” Tori’s voice comes from near my left ear.

I open my eyes.

Tori’s dead. I killed her.

Instead of the rosy face I’m half-dreading, half-hoping for, Vince’s face swims into focus in front of me, peering at me intently. “There’s those pretty blue eyes.”

Vince looks different. There’s a bandage over his eye… Oh. Right. I stabbed him in the face. If he hadn’t jerked back, I would have jammed that burn-blade straight through his eye socket and into his goddamn brain.

Because there is no job on Oralia.

I’m the job.

I want to hurt him in the face some more.

I swing my right fist toward his bandaged eye.

He catches my hand. “Don’t be like that, DJ Girl.”

I throw an uppercut with my left, aiming for his jaw. Whoa. My left arm feels different. Stronger. Faster .

Unfortunately, Vince is also fast. He shifts to avoid my fist, denying me the satisfaction of connecting it with his face, then grabs my left hand, too.

“I thought you and I had something good going on.” He’s standing over me, holding both my wrists.

I spit in his face. “I hate you! You’re a murderer!”

“Shut her up,” Carlson tells Vince, sitting at a bank of portable screens against the far wall. “We’re about to go live.”

We’re in a small room with no windows and no furniture besides the folding table Carlson’s sitting at with those screens, and a small, ornately carved pedestal table next to me with, of all things, a polished cherrywood violin resting on its surface.

Behind Vince, a camera tops a tall tripod, pointed in my direction. Two bright white lights with diffusers shine at me from either side. A microphone juts toward me from another spindly stand.

“What the hell is going on?” I look from the equipment to Vince.

“We’re broadcasting a live demonstration,” he says. “Bidders need to see what they’re putting up money for. And you do look expensive. Though, between you and me, I preferred the blue hair and piercing.” He winks.

I look down. A pale pink silk evening gown falls over my bent knees and pools on the floor. A pink satin rose blooms at the ankle of a black stiletto that couldn’t be more different from my combat boots if it tried. Long, ebony strands of hair slide over my shoulder and fall to my waist as I lean forward to look at the shoe. “What the hell kind of—”

“You’re going to be performing for an audience tonight, DJ Girl,” Vince interrupts. “You remember your last concert?”

The rave blinks into my mind. Vibrating bass. Mashing bodies. But Vince half turns, releasing one of my wrists to gesture at one of Carlson’s monitors. A video plays on the screen. One I’ve seen before.

A little girl stands front and centre on a gleaming stage, an arrangement of seated musicians behind her. A violin rests between her chin and shoulder. She sways, eyes softly closed as she bows her instrument, fingers vibrating on the strings. She’s decked in pink ruffles and ribbons. A hairband of pink roses holds back a waist-length waterfall of raven-black hair. White socks bordered with roses fold over her ankles, brushing the straps of black Mary Janes.

“Our bidders are watching your previous performance as we speak.” Carlson glances at me over his shoulder. “I remember that concert. I was there. Your father loved to placate the grandparents by showing off his little musical prodigy, didn’t he?”

The little girl on the screen finishes. Eyes still closed, she slides her violin from her shoulder and tucks it under her bow arm, just as she’s been taught. She bends at the waist, bowing to the audience. Ebony hair falls forward. The audience rises to their feet, clapping. The little girl straightens. She opens sapphire blue eyes and smiles, skin creamy and dimpled, cheeks as pink as the roses in her hair.

“So fucking cute,” Vince says, turning back to me.

He’s still holding one of my wrists, but I take the opportunity provided by the slit in my skirt to lift a stiletto-heeled foot and shoot a front kick toward his gut. Vince sidesteps and my kick meets air, causing me to slide forward awkwardly on the metal chair.

“You were a lot more docile in your younger days, eh, DJ Girl? You’re so much more fun like this. Shame you’re about to become somebody’s obedient little puppet again. I’d much rather keep you and have you obey my orders.”

“I’ll never obey you, you sick jackass.” I throw another punch with my free arm. Vince catches it, like I expected. I use the leverage of his hands holding mine to pull myself up out of the chair and jam my knee into his groin.

Vince groans and swears.

I know I’m not getting away. I just want to hurt him. Because he’s an asshole and because my heart aches for Mitchell and Sam and because I’m as angry and helpless and betrayed as I was on the day I found out how my dad was using me. Only this time, I’m not going to swallow my anger and play along.

“Broadcasting live in three…” Carlson warns.

Vince curses again and pulls something dark and floppy out of his back pocket. He hooks it over his head and pulls down. It’s a black mask, like a ski mask but with plastic-covered eye holes and some kind of small speaker sticking out in place of a mouth.

“Two…”

I take the moment Vince’s hand is occupied to throw a jab at his gut. He grunts, but it doesn’t seem to do much damage to his stupid rock-hard abs.

“One…”

I’m still scrapping with Vince when the broadcast goes live.

“Keep at it,” Vince says through his mask, and I realize the speaker-thing over his mouth is a voice modifier. “This is just the right attitude for our demonstration.” He catches my next punch and twists me around so he’s holding me in front of him, hugging my back against his chest. My arms are pinned. We’re facing the camera.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces as I repeatedly stomp my stiletto into his boot. “We’re honoured by your attendance this evening. As you know, you’re bidding tonight on the custody of the beautiful and talented Miss Giovanna Medici-Cruz.” I slam my head backward, but he angles his face out of my way. “As you can see, she’s a feisty one. Which is why we’ve installed modifications that will allow the winning bidder to keep her under control. ”

What the hell is he talking about?

Vince lets go with one arm to reach into his back pocket.

I twist and squirm. “Let me go, you bastard.” I wrench my body left and right as I glower at the camera. “Fuck you all. Whoever thinks they can buy me, I’ll make your life a living hell. You’ll wish you never—”

A high-frequency beep stings my ears three times in quick succession.

“Stop moving,” Vince says calmly.

I stop.

What the fuck?

I want to wrench and squirm, but my body refuses to move.

Refuses to obey me.

…Obey…

Oh God. Vince’s earlier comments play back in my head. I’d much rather keep you and have you obey my orders…

“No…” I breathe.

“Reality sinking in, Princess?” Vince is still holding me from behind, talking in my ear like he’s my boyfriend whispering sweet nothings while we pose for a red carpet photo-op.

I shake my head. “No. You can’t have. That’s…”

Vince leans close to my ear. “That’s right, Princess. You get it now, don’t you? We’re auctioning you off along with a sweet compulsion package. Highest bidder not only gets to keep you, they control you. And whoever controls you controls House de la Cruz.”

“No.”

But Vince is right. I see it all too clearly now. They’ve installed a compulsion chip in my brain. Of course they have. Compulsion implants are expensive, dangerous, and their use is punishable by death. But none of that matters to the people with my dad’s kind of power. No, bidders will be only too happy to have their dirty work done for them.

Real terror trembles through me as the extent of my helplessness sinks in. This is worse than what I ran from. Even worse than being a child trapped in the custody of the man who murdered the only people who loved me. Worse because, instead of playing along out of denial, confusion, or fear, I’ll be playing along because I physically can’t disobey.

This time around, my own body won’t be my own. I’ll be like those soldiers-turned-dope-whores for the Federation. Only I’ll be surrounded by glittering fool’s-gold luxury, slowly dying on the inside instead of dying quickly on a battlefield.

“Nothing personal, DJ Girl. Just business.” Vince’s mouthpiece nuzzles against my ear and for a moment I’m too defeated to squirm away. “But God, I’m jealous of the bastard who gets to order you around. The things I’d make you do…” He shakes his head with a chuckle that’s half-ru eful, half-gloating. Then he steps aside so he’s standing next to me instead of behind, releasing me except for a light touch on my upper arm.

No. Fuck this. I won’t allow them to control me.

I jerk my arm out of Vince’s grasp, not sure if I want to use my moment of freedom to punch him in the face or knock down the stupid camera that’s reflecting my helplessness back at me in its mocking mirrored eye.

Maybe I can push Vince into the camera and knock down two birds with one stone. I angle my body and, elbow-first, throw all my weight at him.

The high-pitched beep assaults my ears again. I stumble mid-charge, and Vince catches me, clicking his tongue with an obnoxious tsking sound.

“Behave like a proper young lady.”

Against my will, I straighten, smooth my long black hair over my shoulder, and clasp my hands together in front of my skirt. Inside, I’m seething, but the string of curses boiling within refuses to rise to the surface.

I see myself on one of Carlson’s monitors, serene in bias-cut pink silk with a rose pinned over my ear. I’m the elegant, grown-up version of the little girl in the video.

How lovely. A work of art.

Carlson’s hands fly over a keyboard and several touchscreens, doing whatever’s needed to host the virtual auction for my life. I want to dive at him, smash his screens, get my hands around his neck and squeeze with every ounce of my strength, but Vince’s command to behave won’t let me do a damn thing.

The rage seething inside me might make me implode.

“Very good, Giovanna,” Vince says. Even with the warped voice and the mask, I can tell he’s smirking under the fabric. Instead of going for his eye, I should have cut that stupid smirk off his face. “Will you please give our audience a brief description of yourself, including your name, age, assets, and accomplishments. Any details our bidders might find valuable.”

I turn demurely toward the camera against my own will. “My name is Giovanna María Medici de la Cruz.” My voice comes out smooth and pleasant, tinged with the upper-class accent I worked so hard to erase in the Underground. “I’ll be twenty years old next week. As soon as my thesis is approved, I’ll be graduating from Varus Skyside Academy with a double degree in organic chemistry and interplanetary trade. I play multiple instruments proficiently, and I compose and perform electronic music. I’m fluent in Standard, English, and the Romance languages of Old Earth, and I also speak conversational Varunese.”

I sound like a perky contestant in a beauty pageant. I want to barf. But my stupid mouth keeps moving.

“I’m heir to the de la Cruz fortune, currently in trust. Next week, I will become the legal head of House de la Cruz. I am also the sole heir to House Medici.” The way I smile at the camera, you’d think I was proud of those credentials. Proud of being heir to all that corruption and greed.

“Thank you, Giovanna. You’re so well-mannered under the right conditions.” Vince turns back to the camera. “Miss Medici-Cruz will be performing a violin solo for your enjoyment this evening. Bidding will open with the first note, and close on the last. Please be prepared to move quickly. She is a valuable prize indeed.”

People are going to bid on me. Bid to own me.

The raging volcano inside me burns so hot it hurts, but none of the fire breaks through the surface. I want to explode. But I stand silent in my pretty pink dress, with my pretty hands folded and my pretty face placid, just like I was trained to do as a child.

“Giovanna, would you please play the piece you performed so beautifully in the recording we just viewed?”

With every ounce of willpower in me, I try to dig my heels into the floor. But my stilettos click, click, click obediently to the little pedestal where the violin waits. My arms lift the instrument from the table against my will. Silk swirls against my legs as I return to my place in front of the camera.

It’s been nearly a year since I touched a violin. And I haven’t played the piece in the video—the last piece I performed for my grandparents—since their deaths. I swore I would never perform the Starlight Serenade again. But my rogue arms lift the instrument to my shoulder. My chin rests without my consent upon cool, smooth wood. My right arm moves into position and begins to bow.

Sound pours from the violin.

It’s beautiful, and I hate it. I wish I could shred the notes, throw them to the floor and stomp on the melody. But it resonates from my instrument, perfectly gilded. Perfectly lovely. A work of art.

“We have a flurry of bids coming in, ladies and gentlemen. Bidders’ identities are confidential, of course, but I will divulge that many preeminent Houses are vying for our beautiful heiress, and it looks as though a wedding could be on the horizon if our current high bidder takes home the prize. She would certainly glitter on the arm of any eligible heir.”

I startle inwardly at the comment, even though outwardly my fingers don’t miss a beat as they dance over the strings.

Arranged marriages are common among the ruling families, but I hadn’t truly expected a House to bid on a puppet wife for their heir. It would be beyond disgusting.

Mitchell was right. I am na?ve. Why would I put something like that past my father’s peers?

Plenty of Noble Houses would kill to have House de la Cruz under their thumb. A marriage alliance would make their sudden rise in power seem legit, since alliances between influential houses are usually cemented with a wedding.

Afterward, the most delicate unions are sealed with the creation of a lab-born child, officially uniting the two Houses through their combined DNA. Mutual interest in the survival of shared offspring is one of the only ways to guarantee that a truly tenuous agreement will be kept. My own parents’ marriage was sealed with my conception—the blending of Medici and de la Cruz DNA in my body ending a generations-long feud over control of Varus’s resources. And once I was born, it didn’t matter how awful my dad showed himself to be. My poor mother was forced to stay with him for the sake of her child’s—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The truth of just how bad this is hits me so hard I’d stumble if my body would obey me.

If a bidder who wants to marry me to their heir wins this auction, they’ll have my DNA harvested and a lab baby conceived the moment they get their hands on me. By making me the mother of their next heir, a House could force my obedience even if the compulsion mods failed. Force my family’s continued allegiance even if something happened to me. If I ever caused trouble, they could kill me off and still possess the heir to both the Cruz and Medici dynasties .

The thought of a baby, my baby, stuck in the same role that nearly destroyed me shreds me inside.

I’d stop playing, curl up on the floor, and die if I could. But I keep on playing my pretty song for the cameras.

This is it. My fate.

I’ll be the mother of an innocent as caged and helpless as I was. A child born already drowning in blood, weighted with the guilt of the sins placed on their shoulders before they were old enough to understand. Destined to grow up as a pawn. A mere pebble in a game of Hex Chess that’s completely out of their control.

I’ll be the smiling gilded figurehead of a House that continues to sacrifice millions of lives for power. I’ll watch with tears inside and a fake smile plastered on my face for the rest of my life. This is my future, the future of my children, the fate of the Federation.

I play on as regret roils inside me.

I could have worked to change the terrible practices of the Houses from within. Fought for the rights of the Varunese miners. Maybe even learned about PharmaServe’s role on the warfront from a place where I could have affected it’s involvement.

I could have done something.

Mitchell is proof that I had a better option. He was just as disillusioned with his family’s heritage as I was, just as horrified with his father’s role in what the military was doing. When he felt guilty and helpless and betrayed, he didn’t run away from the problem, didn’t hide behind a high. He found a way to make a difference in the lives of the people who were suffering. To do good.

He’s only the son of a general. He could never have changed the unchangeable machine, not like the heir of the Highest House could have done. Like I should have done. But Mitchell still changed the worlds one life at a time.

He changed Sam’s life. He changed mine.

I could have been like him, could have changed lives.

If I hadn’t hidden behind drugged indifference.

If I hadn’t run away.

If I hadn’t been such a selfish, weak-willed coward.

I was twelve years old when I snuck home from boarding school early for the holidays and appeared, unexpected, at my grandparents’ estate, intending to give them a happy surprise.

Instead, I stumbled on my father holding them at gunpoint. I probably couldn’t have stopped him from pulling the trigger. But I could have called him out for what he did. Refused to stay silent. Or I could have pretended to play along and then gone to my mother’s House with the truth. Mobilized them. Used just a fraction of the power that Vince and Carlson are using to manipulate my purchase price now.

I could have done something. Taken some small step .

Tears blur my vision as I continue to play, body out of control but emotions still my own. They fall and splatter like drops of blood on the deep russet wood of the violin as my heart breaks.

The tears aren’t only for me. I’m crying for Mitchell, the good-hearted captain with the sunburst eyes. For Sam, the happy, healthy kid who had a future ahead of him. I’m crying for Ballga, who loved her family as fiercely as a lioness protects her kittens. I’m crying for the lives of the Varuns and the Children and the front-line soldiers I might have saved if I hadn’t been so goddamn selfish.

Because Mr. Lee was righter than he ever knew. A girl like me could have changed the world. But I didn’t see it. And now it’s too late.