C6 - Soul-ed Mate

Fifteen minutes feels like fifteen hours when you’re awaiting your fate. The dress that I’m to wear is diaphanous white, almost reminiscent of ancient Greek clothing.

It makes me feel more like a sacrifice for the gods—or for the Minotaur in the maze. I’m relieved that Jihyo has left undergarments as well—a white panties, made of the same satiny material as the dress.

At least if someone moves the dress aside, if Taehyung demands that I take it off, I’ll have something else to cover me. Except if that were true, she wouldn’t have bothered to paint my whole body.

I pace the room, frustrated that I can’t ask her more questions, that she didn’t give me more direct answers. At this point I’d even take Yoongi’s company over the shameful silence.

A buzz comes from my small clutch, the one I planned to wear with my evening gown. Now I see how foolish that would have been, as if I were a guest at this party.

No, I’m the main course.

The screen blinks with a new text message.

Jimin, I need to talk to you.

My heart pounds. It’s Namjoon. I haven’t spoken with him since he broke up with me. There were some things I left at his apartment near campus, but none of that mattered once Dad got hurt.

My fingers feel clumsy against the screen.

JM : I’m busy. This is important, he writes. I miss you. I made a mistake.

Anger.

Denial.

Heartbreak.

I felt all those things in the wake of his breakup. I have no idea how to handle this text weeks later, especially as I stand in the Inferna, about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

JM : It’s too late.

NJ : Don’t say that. We can talk about this. Where are you?

Suspicion reaches for me like a cold, dark hand.

JM : I’m out. Where are YOU?

NJ : Your house. No one is answering the door.

Oh my God, he’s at my house. In the listless days following the breakup I would have given anything to hear that knock, to see his face. To have him say that it was a mistake. I can’t forget that Namjoon is a rich man, and unlike Hoseok, his trust fund isn’t tied up with a stingy stepbrother.

No, he doesn’t need anyone’s approval—not legally. Though most of the time he asks his dad for advice. And his dad would have told him to drop me like a hot potato.

What would have happened if Namjoon and I were already married when my father got convicted?

Would Namjoon have stood by me then? It doesn’t matter, because he didn’t stand by me when it counted. The letters blur in front of me, but I force the tears back.

I won’t mess up Jihyo’s beautiful work.

I’m sorry. It’s really over.

More than just my engagement. My life. My future? I shove the phone back into my clutch. Did I make a mistake? My heart pounds. I imagine calling him, confessing everything, begging him to come rescue me from this tower.

I can’t really trust him, can’t even love him, but maybe love doesn’t matter in the face of cold practicality. In the face of familial duty. And if love doesn’t matter, then maybe I should accept Uncle Yunhyuk’s offer.

Safety, security. Isn’t that worth something?

God, that’s worth everything.

A knock comes at the door. My gaze darts to the whitewashed panels, wishing there was a peephole. It feels like flipping a coin—on the other side, will there be Jihyo’s sensual advice?

Or will there be Yoongi’s dark threats?

I know which one is safer for me, which one I should want, but as the coin rotates in the air, as I reach for the doorknob, it’s Yoongi that I want to see. Not Namjoon. And not Jihyo either.

But, It’s the man from last time, the one with pale reddish hair and pale eyes at the door. He’s handsome in that stocky, filled-out way, but I can’t get past the coldness of his eyes. They’re light blue, but they look like ice.

He raises one tawny eyebrow, challenging me. “They’re ready for you. I’m to bring you downstairs.”

And I realize what his job is tonight, guarding me. Keeping me from leaving. It’s the same reason he was lurking in the hallway last time. Making sure I don’t run away before I fulfil my end of the bargain.

They’re right to suspect me, because my doubts rise up like a black cloud. And my father cheated Min Yoongi. That’s how I got into this mess. They would doubt my word.

You ought to be running far away.

That’s what he told me last time, but I know without trying now that he wouldn’t let me leave. Too late to call Namjoon to save me. Too late to accept Uncle Yunhyuk’s proposal. Fear is a cold grip on my heart.

“You’re wrong,” I tell him. “They won’t take the money out of my skin.”

They won’t hurt me. I won’t let them. I’ll play Jihyo’s game, like she taught me. I’ll make them desperate for more, even though I’m the one who feels desperate right now. He gives me a cruel smile.

“Be glad I’ve got no plans to bid on you.”

“What do you have against my father?”

His hand.

My arm.

He doesn’t grip me hard, not deep enough to bruise, but I’m trapped.

“He fcuked over a lot of people in this town,” he says. “Including me. He got his, though, didn’t he? Pissing through a tube now, isn’t he?”

My eyes widen. “Did you touch him?”

“I didn’t hurt the fcuker, but I wanted to. A lot of people did. Be careful who you trust, boy. There’s plenty who want to do the same to you.”

!~~~~!

Taehyung’s voice is loud and booming, the perfect auctioneer. I can hear him clearly from behind the velvet curtains. He greeted me briefly to make sure I was ready for him to introduce me.

That was the word he used—introduce.

Not sell or pimp. Nothing dirty, even though that’s what this is.

“Welcome, distinguished gentlemen—and a few lovely women. As people of discerning taste and elevated interests, I know you’ll agree with me that today’s auction is the event of the year. The object of our desires is waiting right now, but before I bring him out, I want to tell you a little bit about what your hard-earned money will be purchasing.”

The low murmur of voices, the clink of crystal.

How many people are out there?

“This particular plum is ripe and ready to be picked,” Taehyung continues, his tone far too pleased with himself. “I expect he’ll be the perfect color when you open him up, juicy and sweet.”

There’s laughter in the audience, male and drunk.

“It’s not only his body you’ll be purchasing, though, but his mind—his ingenuity, his spark. I have here a letter of recommendation from his high school English teacher.” There’s a pause with a shuffle of paper. “A student of outstanding merit and exceptional integrity. And above all, a fertile mind that begs to be filled. For someone so small he indeed has big dreams and big mouth.”

There’s a smattering of laughter, and I flush with shame. That’s not what Mrs. Jo wrote in my recommendation letter to college.

“Here’s another one, this one from the faculty advisor for the National Honour Society for Omegas.” Another pause, lengthier this time.

Expectation fills the air, thickening it.

“His thirst for learning is surpassed only by his desire to help others. I’ve never had a student with such a wholesome…heart. And the absolute sweetest…temperament.”

More laughter.

I’m not sure what’s more humiliating—the sexual innuendo in the fake letters? Or the fact that he’s mentioning the real faculty members at my high school academy who wrote recommendation letters for me.

Taehyung isn’t reading the actual contents, but he must have read them himself to know who they’re from.

My teachers were so supportive, so encouraging. And for what? So that I could stand in the center of rich men and be sold like cattle.

Of course I know who’s next. Mr. Park was the world history teacher and the sponsor for the chess club.

Chess is a game of status and power. Of war. It’s a game of human nature, Jimin.

I joined the chess club, not because I cared about human nature at the time, but because Dad played with me every week. It had been the only way to win his approval, the only way to reach him. It didn’t hurt that Mr. Park had warm brown eyes.

Under his gentle tutoring I developed a major crush on him. He was nothing but proper with me, but I had the kind of teenage dreams that would have been humiliating to admit.

“And last, but certainly not least, we have the sponsor for the chess club, who says in his letter: ‘Jimin’s midget presence at the weekly meetings was inspiring for all the other members. I’m sure the memory of him will continue to motivate the other students, who always admired him for his prodigious and impressive…talent.’”

The men respond with applause and hoots, shouting their praise for my talents. My stomach turns over, and I clutch my hands at my middle. I haven’t eaten anything all day, which is the only reason I don’t throw up all over the dark marble floors.

Dad taught me chess. And these men are laughing, laughing at it. Laughing at me.

Don’t they realize that the letters are fake?

Don’t they care?

There are toasts to my many large attributes, to the sweet taste of my ambition. And I realize that it doesn’t matter to them, whether the letters are true or not.

It’s all a big joke.

My entire life, a joke.

Taehyung speaks over the crowd, quieting them.

“Due to the rare nature of the object of this auction, I had to keep his identity a secret. Once you see him, I’m sure you’ll understand why. And I think I’ve kept you waiting long enough. What do you say?”

The roar that follows makes me shrink back, away from the velvet curtain. I bump into the man with pale eyes, who stands with his arms folded, his gaze merciless.

I swallow hard, almost lightheaded with panic. The small part of me that’s still sane knows that Taehyung is whipping them into a frenzy on purpose, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

I’ll be in the centre of that thinly veiled violence.

“Come on out, darling,” Taehyung says, his booming voice grasping hold of my throat.

I’m paralyzed.

Heart, legs, eyes.

Can’t move a thing. Not even my lungs can draw breath. Black spots dance in front of my eyes.

Am I going to pass out? Then hands push me firmly, inexorably, from behind. I stumble forward.

The velvet curtain parts in front of me, and then I’m through the breach, standing on some kind of raised platform, looking out at a sea of faces. My mind catalogs them with chilling indifference—men in suits, ties loosened or missing, some sleeves rolled up. They sit on leather chairs strewn throughout the room, reclined, their comfort a stark contrast to my own terror.

My chest rises and falls with frantic breaths. Some of the men in the room I recognize, having met them at parties with my father, with Namjoon. They gave me genial smiles, seeming almost grandfatherly. They asked me about school, about my plans for the future.

Now their eyes widen with shock—and something else. Vicious pleasure. Other faces I don’t recognize. They blur together. Through the darkness I find a pair of steady golden eyes, and only then can I take a deep breath.

Cool air fills my lungs, almost painful after panting in fear for so long. Yoongi leans against the back wall, all casual elegance and effortless power.

I don’t know whether he means to give me strength, but I take it anyway, drawing myself up straighter.

I can get through this.

I don’t have a choice.

My vision clears from the frantic blur it had been, allowing me to pick out specific faces. The sweet smell from cigars. The sharp note of whiskey. Undertones of male sweat and excitement. Then I look at the side of the room, and everything freezes.

The whisper is torn from me, despairing.

“Uncle Yunhyuk.”

!~~~~!!!!~~~~!