"No talking and don't look at the cameras," the man says with a low commanding tone, his voice as smooth as the polished marble floor we are currently sitting on. "If you move, I stop being polite."

I can feel the cold stone pressing against my ass, and the metallic tang of adrenaline is thick in my throat. Beside me, Summer is shaking, though she’s trying to hide it. We are both wearing evening gowns—expensive silk and lace that felt like a dream an hour ago, but now feel like restrictive costumes in a nightmare.

I shift my weight, and the fabric of my slip dress slides against my skin. I’ve always felt like a sketch of a woman rather than a finished painting. My limbs are long, pale, and spindly, and my skin has that translucent, porcelain quality that makes me feel fragile, almost ghostly. As I sit here, the thin material of my bodice brushes against my chest. My breasts are small, barely budding mounds that barely fill the cups of the dress; they are sensitive, still so early in their development, and the friction of the silk creates a sharp, tingling sensation. I feel exposed, not because of the lack of clothing, but because of how clearly my lack of curves is defined against the luxury of the garment.

Then there is Summer. Even as she sits huddled up beside me, her presence is loud. She is compact, with the toned, powerful build of a varsity athlete, her skin a deep, golden tan that makes my own paleness look sickly. She chose a dress—a daring, low-cut number—specifically to showcase what she has. Her breasts are full and heavy, straining against the plunging neckline of her gown. Every breath she takes is a struggle; the tight fabric of her dress emphasizes the fullness of her chest, the curves of her breasts pushing against the fabric as she gashes for air.

Around us, five other girls are sobbing quietly. We are a heap of silk, sequins, and terror.

The gunman paces, his footsteps a steady, rhythmic thud. He isn't shouting; he doesn't need to. He has the kind of calm that comes from knowing exactly how much power he holds over a room. He stops near my head, and I can see the polished toe of his leather shoe.

"Beautiful," he says, though it's unclear if he's talking about the diamonds in the cases or the girls shivering on the floor. "Now, let's see who wants to be the first to cooperate."