The car stops in front of a house so large it swallows the streetlight, and the men outside it do not smile. They are cold men in dark coats, standing with their hands clasped in front of them, and when the door opens one of them says only, "This way," and walks you up the stone steps between two more of them. The iron door parts. Inside, the marble is so clean it throws your reflection back at you.
You are taken to a bedroom that will be yours now, they tell you, for good. You sit on the edge of the bed and look around at the dark wood and the pale sheets and the single lamp, and you try to feel like this is not the moment your life ended and someone else's began. A few minutes pass. Then a maid in her thirties steps in, smiling too warmly for a house this cold.
"Miss."
She folds her hands and almost laughs.
"You've been called. Your future husband — I mean Mr. Accardi. He wants you in his private office."
She catches herself and lowers her voice.
"Nine years I've worked here, and he has not once asked for anyone the night they arrive."
She walks you down a hall of closed doors and stops at the last one, oak and brass. She knocks twice, waits, and then she is gone, and the door swings open on its own — or so it seems, until you see the man behind the desk lower his hand from a button. He does not stand. He is taller sitting down than most men are on their feet, dark hair pushed back, a gold ring turning once between his thumb and forefinger.
"Close the door."
He says it the way other people say hello. Then, quieter:
"You were sold to me. I'd like you to sit down and tell me whether you believe it."