Chapter 46: The Auction and the Garrote
The great room had emptied of guests but not of ghosts.
Emma stood in the center of the marble floor, the blood still tacky on her throat where Moreau's fingers had dug in. The string quartet had packed up their instruments and vanished. The naked servers had melted into the shadows. What remained were the staff—the real staff, the ones who kept the penthouse running, who poured the champagne and arranged the cocaine and cleaned up the messes that men like Moreau left behind.
There were seven of them. Four women, three men. They stood in a loose semicircle, their faces carefully blank, their hands folded in front of them. They'd seen enough over the years to know that when the boss called a meeting at three in the morning, it meant something had changed.
Emma counted them. Then she spoke.
"Susan Moreau is dead."
No gasps. No cries of shock. Just a subtle shift in the air, like the room itself had exhaled.
"The Lopez Cartel has taken over operations," Emma continued. "You'll all be retained. Your salaries will increase by twenty percent, effective immediately. There will be a new manager arriving in a few days. Until then, you'll continue your work as usual."
She paused, letting the words settle. One of the women—older, grey-haired, with the kind of face that had seen everything—nodded slowly.
"The auction," Emma said. "The merchandise. The deliveries to the airstrip. None of that changes. We don't want any delays. The clients expect their property, and they'll get it."
"Understood," the grey-haired woman said. Her voice was steady. "And the body?"
"It's being handled."
Emma turned to leave, then stopped. "One more thing. The man who works the chamber. The one with the knife. What's his name?"
The staff exchanged glances. Finally, the grey-haired woman spoke again.
"John Mills. He's been with Moreau for six years."
"Where is he?"
"Downstairs. In the prep room. He always cleans his equipment after a session."
Emma nodded. "Thank you."
She walked out of the great room, her heels clicking against the marble, and took the service elevator down one floor. The prep room was at the end of a narrow corridor, its door slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
John Mills was sitting on a metal stool, his white coat discarded, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was cleaning the hunting knife with a cloth, his movements slow and methodical. The garrote lay coiled on the counter beside him, still stained dark.
He looked up when she entered. His face was unremarkable—mid-forties, thinning hair, the kind of face you'd forget the moment you looked away. But his eyes were sharp, pale blue, and they tracked her with the calm assessment of a man who'd learned to read people before they had a chance to lie.
"You're the one who was with Moreau," he said. Not a question.
"I'm the one who killed her."
John Mills didn't flinch. He set the knife down, wiped his hands on the cloth, and stood.
"Figured something like that. She was getting sloppy. Letting people close." He tilted his head. "You worked fast."
"I had help."
"The heroin?"
"The heroin."
He nodded slowly. "She always did like her toys. Kept the needle close. Never thought it would be used on her."
Emma stepped closer. The prep room smelled of antiseptic and something else—something metallic, something old. The walls were white, the floor was white, the light was white. A room designed to hide nothing.
"I watched you tonight," she said.
"Most people do."
"The two women. The redhead and the black-haired one." She paused, letting the words hang. "I watched you kill them."
John Mills watched her with those pale eyes. "And?"
"You're good." She let a smile touch her lips. "Better than most. You took your time. Made it last. Most people rush. They want it over with. But you..."
"I like to draw it out."
"I noticed." She stepped closer still, close enough to smell the soap on his skin, the faint trace of blood under his fingernails. "I enjoyed watching you."
Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise—something sharper. Interest.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Emma reached out, touched the edge of the counter where the knife lay. "The way you worked the garrote. The way you waited until she was almost gone before you let her breathe again. And then the knife work, after. The precision. The patience."
John Mills was very still. "You're not like most of the people who pass through here."
"I'm not like anyone."
He studied her for a long moment. Then he smiled—a thin, cold smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"What do you want?"
"There's a mess in Moreau's bedroom," Emma said. "Blood on the carpet, a body that needs to disappear. I'm told you handle that sort of thing."
"I do."
"Then handle it. Thoroughly. The way you always do."
John Mills reached for his coat, pulling it on over his bloodstained shirt. "And after?"
"After, you go back to work. There's an auction tomorrow night. New merchandise. The Lopez Cartel will expect the same level of service."
"Lopez." He said the name like he was tasting it. "Hector Lopez?"
"You know him?"
"Know of him. He's been trying to move into this territory for years. Moreau kept him out."
"Moreau's dead."
"So she is." He picked up the knife, slid it into a leather sheath, and tucked it into his belt. "I'll take care of the body. And the carpet. And anything else that needs cleaning."
"Good."
Emma turned to leave. Then she stopped, her hand on the doorframe.
"John."
He looked up.
"I meant what I said. About watching you." She held his gaze. "I'd like to see it again."
He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just watched her with those pale, flat eyes.
"Maybe you will," he said.
Emma left him in the prep room and walked back up the service corridor. The penthouse was quiet now, the last traces of the party fading into shadow. She passed the velvet curtain, the dark hallway, the door to the observation chamber.
She didn't go back to Moreau's suite. Instead, she found a guest room—one of the small ones, tucked away at the end of a hall, with a single window overlooking the city. The bed was made, the sheets crisp and white, the pillows arranged with military precision.
But before she went in, she doubled back.
Moreau's bedroom was exactly as she'd left it. The body was still on the floor, still staring at the ceiling, still leaking blood into the carpet. The tray on the nightstand was untouched—the bag of heroin, the syringes, the silver spoon, the lighter.
Emma crossed the room, careful not to step in the blood. She took the bag. Took three of the syringes. Took the spoon and the lighter. Then she left, closing the door behind her, and walked back to the guest room.
Inside, she locked the door. Took off her heels. Peeled off the red dress, sticky with sweat and champagne and Moreau's blood. Let it pool on the floor.
The bathroom was small but clean, with a marble shower and thick white towels. She stepped under the water, hot as she could stand, and watched the blood swirl down the drain. Moreau's blood, mostly. Mixed with her own, from the scratches on her neck. She scrubbed herself raw, her hands shaking, the water scalding.
When she got out, she wrapped herself in a towel and walked back into the bedroom. The city glittered beyond the window, indifferent. The bed waited, white and pristine.
Emma opened the bag.
The heroin was fine powder, pale brown, the kind that dissolved with heat. She measured a small amount into the spoon, added water from the bathroom tap, and held the lighter beneath it. The powder dissolved. The liquid bubbled, clear and slightly amber.
She drew it into the syringe.
The needle was thin, sharp, the kind that slid into a vein with almost no resistance. Emma sat on the edge of the bed, the towel slipping from her shoulders, and looked for a vein. Inner elbow. Easy.
She tied off with the towel's belt, slapped the inside of her arm until the vein rose, and slid the needle in.
The rush hit before she'd even finished pushing the plunger.
Warm. So warm. Like sinking into a bath that was exactly the right temperature, like being held by someone who loved you, like every good thing that had ever happened wrapped up in a single moment. Her muscles loosened. Her mind went quiet. The edges of the world softened, blurred.
She pulled the needle out, dropped it on the nightstand, and lay back on the bed.
The ceiling was white. The sheets were cool. The high was perfect.
And in her mind, the images began to play.
The redhead. Her face going purple. Her eyes bulging, her mouth wide, the silk gag soaked with spit. John Mills, standing behind her, his hands steady on the garrote. The way he'd leaned in close, his lips almost touching her ear, whispering something Emma couldn't hear. The way he'd pulled the wire tighter, then looser, then tighter again. Drawing it out. Making it last.
Emma's hand drifted between her legs.
She was wet. Soaking. The memory played on, looping, intensifying. The black-haired woman. The needle in her neck. The knife splitting her skin, opening her chest, folding her body like origami. John Mills' hands, steady, precise, patient. The way he'd looked at his work like it was art.
Emma's fingers found her clit.
She circled it, slow, the way John had been slow. The way he'd taken his time with the redhead, the way he'd made her wait. Emma had watched from the other side of the glass, Moreau's fingers inside her, and she'd come when the redhead died. But this was different. This was her own hand, her own choice, her own pleasure.
She thought about John's face. That flat, pale gaze. The way he'd looked at her like he was assessing her, like he was deciding whether she was worth his time.
She thought about what it would be like to be on that table. To have his hands on her, his knife on her skin. To feel that precision, that patience, that cold, absolute control.
She came hard. Her hips bucked, her breath caught, her cunt clenched around nothing. The heroin had made everything soft, made everything warm, and the orgasm rolled through her like a wave that wouldn't break. Longer than usual. Deeper. More.
When it was over, she lay there, panting, her hand still between her legs.
The high was still there. The warmth. The peace. She hadn't felt this good in weeks. Months. Maybe ever. The heroin had smoothed the edges of everything—the kill, the blood, the fear. It had made the memories bearable. It had made the pleasure sharper.
She pulled the blanket over herself, not bothering to clean up. The syringe rolled off the nightstand, clinked on the floor.
She didn't care.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, Emma slept. Truly slept. No dreams. No nightmares. No waking at every sound.
Just darkness, and warmth, and the quiet hum of a body finally at rest.
When she woke, the sun was streaming through the window. She didn't know what time it was. Didn't care. Her mouth was dry, her head was thick, and her body felt like it belonged to someone else.
She sat up, looked at the syringe on the floor, and smiled.
Then she reached for the bag.
Time to get ready.
The airstrip was waiting. The clients were coming. And John Mills—the man with the knife, the man with the patience, the man who made death last—would be there too.
The thought of him sent a fresh pulse of heat through her, even now, even with the sun in her eyes and the taste of last night's heroin still coating her tongue.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood. The towel had fallen away sometime during the night, and she was naked, her skin still carrying the faint imprints of Moreau's fingers on her throat. She caught her reflection in the dark window—a woman she barely recognized, hollow-eyed and sharp-edged, someone who had killed and fucked and come while another human being choked to death.
She didn't look away.
The closet in the guest room was stocked—Moreau had prepared for everything, it seemed, even for the possibility of a guest who needed to disappear into a new identity. Emma rifled through the hangers until she found something that would work.
A black dress. Silk. Backless. The kind of dress that made a statement without saying a word. It would cling to her hips and leave her shoulders bare, and every man at the airstrip would look at her and wonder what she looked like underneath.
She laid it on the bed and walked to the bathroom.
The shower was hot enough to scald, and she stood under it for a long time, letting the water beat against her shoulders, her back, the sore spot on her neck where Moreau had tried to crush her windpipe. The blood from last night had dried in places she hadn't noticed—under her fingernails, in the creases of her palms, behind her left ear.
She scrubbed until her skin was pink and raw. Then she stepped out, wrapped herself in a towel, and went back to the bedroom.
The bag of heroin was still on the nightstand. The syringes, too. She looked at them for a long moment, then turned away. Not now. Later. When the night was over and the airstrip was behind her and she could afford to let go again.
She did her makeup in the small mirror above the dresser. Dark eyes, red lips, a sweep of blush across her cheekbones. War paint. The kind of face that said don't fuck with me without ever speaking a word.
She slipped into the black dress. It fit like it had been made for her—maybe it had, maybe Moreau had kept a wardrobe for women who looked like Emma, women who came and went and never stayed. The silk whispered against her skin, cool and slick. No bra. No underwear. Just skin and silk and the promise of something underneath.
She found a pair of stiletto heels in the closet. Black, patent leather, four inches high. She stepped into them, adjusted her posture, and looked at herself in the mirror.
Perfect.
The word tasted like ash in her mouth, but she smiled anyway.
From her purse—the one she'd brought last night, the one with her phone and her wallet and her real passport hidden in the lining—she pulled out two pill bottles. Xanax. Oxy. She shook out two of each and swallowed them dry, chasing them with a sip of water from the bathroom tap.
The pills would smooth the edges. They would make the next few hours bearable. They would turn the airstrip into a stage and the clients into actors and the merchandise into props. They would let her watch without feeling, or feel without watching, or do whatever it was she needed to do to get through this.
She grabbed her phone. One text from Caron.
"Car waiting downstairs. Don't be late."
No greeting. No sign-off. Just the clipped efficiency of a woman who had already moved on to the next problem.
Emma didn't reply.
She took the elevator down to the lobby, where a black sedan idled at the curb. The driver was a man she didn't recognize—thin, dark-skinned, with the flat eyes of someone who'd seen too much and cared too little. He opened the door for her without a word.
The city slid past the windows as they drove. Sunrise had burned off the haze, and the streets were bright and empty, the kind of Sunday morning that made everything look clean. Emma watched it all without seeing it.
The airstrip was outside the city, tucked between the hills and the ocean, a private field that Moreau had used for years. The tarmac gleamed in the morning light, and the jets were already there—three of them, sleek and white, their engines idling, their stairs lowered.
The buyers were gathered near the terminal building, a low-slung structure of glass and steel that looked more like a luxury lounge than a waiting area. Emma stepped out of the car and walked toward them, her heels clicking on the concrete, the silk of her dress catching the breeze.
She counted them as she approached. A single man, fortyish, in a grey suit that cost more than most people's cars. Two women, a couple, holding hands. Another man, older, with a paunch and a sweaty face. And then—
A family.
Husband and wife. The man was tall, distinguished, silver at the temples. The wife was blonde, pretty, wearing a sundress that showed off her legs. And with them, two children. A boy, maybe sixteen, with his father's jaw and his mother's blue eyes. A girl, younger, maybe fourteen, with a blond ponytail and a dress that matched her mother's.
Emma stopped walking.
The wife slut from the auction—the one with the wedding ring still on her finger—was being led across the tarmac by one of Moreau's men. Her wrists were bound behind her back, and she was naked except for a thin silver collar around her neck. The tag read M-12.
The family watched her approach.
The father spoke first. "Is this the one?"
"Yes, sir," the handler said. "Trained. Obedient. Clean bill of health."
The mother stepped forward, tilting the woman's chin up with her finger. "She's pretty. The children will like her."
The boy said nothing. He just stared at the woman's body with an expression Emma recognized—hunger, barely concealed.
The girl giggled.
"Can we see her work?" the mother asked.
The handler nodded. He pushed the woman to her knees. Then he nodded at the boy.
The boy stepped forward. He was young, but he wasn't shy. He unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock, and held it in front of the woman's face. She didn't resist. She just opened her mouth and took him in.
Emma watched.
The boy fucked her mouth with slow, deliberate strokes. His sister giggled. His mother watched with approval. His father just stood there.
The woman took him deep. She didn't gag. She didn't stop.
Emma felt the heat build between her legs. The pills were working—everything felt soft, blurred, far away, but the arousal was sharp and immediate. Her nipples hardened against the silk of her dress. Her cunt clenched around nothing.
The boy came. His hips jerked, his breath caught. The woman swallowed.
Then the mother stepped forward.
"Now the girl," she said.
The boy stepped back, tucking himself in. The girl stepped forward. She was young—too young, Emma thought, though the file said eighteen, they were all eighteen, always eighteen, that was the rule.
The girl lifted her dress. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.
She straddled the woman's face. The woman's tongue found her cunt.
Emma's hand drifted to her thigh. She pressed her palm flat against the silk, feeling the heat of her own skin underneath.
The girl came quickly, with a high, breathless cry. Her mother applauded. Her father nodded. The boy just watched.
Emma's orgasm hit her without warning—a sudden, sharp clench that made her gasp and press her thighs together. She rode it out in silence, her face perfectly composed, her eyes never leaving the scene.
When it was over, the family led their new property toward the jet. The woman walked with her head down, her wrists still bound, her collar catching the light.
Emma wanted one.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and clear. She wanted a pet. Someone to own. Someone to train. Someone who would kneel when she said kneel and come when she said come and never, ever question her.
She wondered if Hector would let her have one.
The thought lingered as she turned away from the tarmac, as the jets began to taxi, as the buyers and their merchandise disappeared into the bellies of the planes. She would ask him. When she was finished here. When she had proved herself. She would ask him, and maybe he would say yes.
Maybe he would let her have someone of her own.
The thought warmed her more than the heroin ever had.