Now, Call Me Mother

"Please, Thaddeus—don’t do this. I’m begging you."

I gasped as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of my arm, his grip so tight I felt my heartbeat thrumming against his palm.

He didn't just lead me; he dragged me. My heels skidded against the polished marble of the Ivory Club, the friction sending vibrations of terror up my legs.

"Shut up, Veronica," Thaddeus hissed, his breath hot and smelling of cheap gin and expensive desperation.

He leaned in, his eyes bloodshot and darting around the room. "You’ve spent three years living off the Hudson name while giving me nothing in return. Now, you’re finally going to be useful."

"I gave you my life!" I choked out, a sob catching in my throat as we reached the heavy velvet curtains of the main stage. "I stayed while you gambled everything away! Please, let's just go home. We can talk to my father—"

He stopped abruptly, spinning me around and slamming my back against the cold stone wall. He laughed, a jagged, ugly sound that made my skin crawl. "Your father? The man who hasn't answered your calls in years? No, darling. You’re my only asset left. Fifty million in debt doesn't disappear with 'talk.' It disappears with a high-end transaction."

With a violent shove, he forced me through the curtains.

The light hit me like a physical blow. A thousand crystals in the chandeliers refracted the glare, blinding me as the hushed murmurs of the elite rose into a crescendo of curiosity.

This was the Ivory Club—a playground for the vultures of the high world, and I was the meat.

Thaddeus stepped to the podium, his posture shifting instantly. He smoothed his tuxedo, a smug, drunken arrogance washing over his face.

He looked at the crowd—the men with their heavy gold watches and the women with their judgmental glints—and he smiled like a man who had just won the lottery.

"Gentlemen! Ladies!" He slammed the gavel down, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Tonight, we have a rare item. A masterpiece of flesh and blood."

I stood there, my hands trembling at my sides, the restrictive silk of my gown feeling like a straightjacket. I tried to turn, to run, but Thaddeus’s hand shot out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me back toward the center of the stage.

"Look at her," he shouted, gesturing to me with a sneer. "Veronica Hudson. She looks like a saint, doesn't she? So pure. So untouched." He leaned into the microphone, his voice dripping with venomous lies.

"But let me tell you, I’ve spent three years 'training' her. She’s a masterpiece in the bedroom. She’s been taught exactly how to please a man of status. She’s innocent to the eye, but she’s a demon under the sheets."

A wave of cruel, low laughter rippled through the hall. My stomach turned. Liar. He had never touched me. Not once. He had spent our entire marriage calling me "boring" and "repulsive" because I wouldn't bow to his pathetic whims.

"Ten million!" a voice barked from the darkness of the front row.

"Fifteen!" another yelled.

"Only fifteen?" Thaddeus mocked, his face flushing with greed. "For this? You haven't even seen the best part."

He turned to me, a sadistic glint in his eyes. I saw it coming a second too late. His hand reached out, grabbing the delicate lace at my collar. With a violent, sudden yank, he didn't just tear the dress—he destroyed it.

The fabric shrieked as it gave way, the bodice ripping down past my waist, exposing me to the cold air and the hungry eyes of the crowd.

"No!" I screamed, my hands flying up to cover my breasts, my face burning with a shame so deep I felt I might die on the spot.

"Let them see what they're buying, you bitch!" Thaddeus snarled. Before I could shield myself, he grabbed both of my wrists in one hand, wrenching them behind my back.

He forced my chest forward, exposing my nakedness to the entire room while he held me pinned, helpless and sobbing.

"Look at her shake!" he roared to the audience, his eyes wild with a sick triumph. "Does that look like fifteen million? She’s the best sex toy you’ll ever buy! Who wants to be her next master?"

"Twenty million!"

"Thirty!"

"Thirty-five!"

The room was a chaos of shouting and lecherous grins. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears streaming down my face, my body heaving with sobs of pure, unadulterated hatred for the man holding me. I wanted him dead. I wanted the world to end.

Then, the air died.

The shouting didn't just stop; it evaporated. A heavy, suffocating silence slammed into the room, so thick it felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the hall.

The massive oak doors at the rear didn't open—they felt like they were blown back by a sheer force of will.

A man stepped into the light.

He was a predator in a world of scavengers. He was massive, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, draped in a black suit so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. But it was the mask that stopped hearts—a haunting, polished silver mask that covered his face, leaving only two burning, obsidian eyes visible.

The crowd parted like water before a shark. No one spoke. No one even dared to breathe.

Thaddeus’s grip on my wrists faltered. I felt him begin to shake. The smugness vanished from his face, replaced by a pale, flickering cowardice. "Who... who are you?" he stammered, his voice cracking. "The bid is at thirty-five—"

The man didn't stop until he reached the edge of the stage. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at Thaddeus. His gaze was a laser-focus, a possessive, terrifying hunger locked onto me.

He spoke. The voice was a low, resonant rumble that felt like a physical weight on my chest.

"Fifty million."

The room stayed silent. Not a single person dared to outbid him—or even look him in the eye. A panicked murmur broke the stillness, passing through the back rows like a contagion.

“Romanov,” someone breathed, the name carrying the weight of a death sentence. “It’s Maxwell Romanov.”

My heart didn't just skip; it stopped.

'Maxwell Romanov?'

I knew that name. Everyone knew that name, though I only ever saw it in blurry paparazzi shots or heard it whispered in connection to accidental corporate collapses and the kind of wealth that could buy a small country.

"Fifty... fifty million?" Thaddeus gasped, his greed fighting with his terror. "Sold! She’s yours! Just... just give me the—"

"Quiet," the man commanded.

He stepped onto the stage. Each footfall sounded like a gavel on a coffin. Thaddeus scrambled backward, literally tripping over his own feet to get away from the man in the silver mask.

I was still standing there, my dress in ruins, my body trembling so hard I thought I would collapse. Maxwell Romanov stopped inches from me. He was a force of nature—terrifying, beautiful, and overwhelming.

He didn't look at the torn fabric. He looked into my eyes. For a second, the shame vanished, replaced by a strange, magnetic pull that made my heart race for a different reason.

He reached out, his gloved hand moving with agonizing slowness. He didn't grab me like Thaddeus did. He touched my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip.

Then, he leaned down.

His lips didn't hit mine. He pressed them against the side of my neck, his hot breath searing my skin.

"You're mine now," he whispered, his voice dark and heavy with total ownership. "And I don't share my property."

Before I could breathe, he swept me up. One arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. He didn't ask; he took. He turned his back on the crowd and Thaddeus, carrying me in a bridal style that felt less like a rescue and more like a capture.

I buried my face into his neck, the scent of expensive leather and cold rain filling my senses. Behind us, the hall remained in a stunned, terrified silence as the man in the silver mask walked out with his prize.

He reached the threshold of the massive oak doors when he stopped. The sudden halt made my heart hammer against my ribs, my fingers curling instinctively into the lapel of his coat.

He didn't turn around completely. He simply shifted his head, looking back over his shoulder at Thaddeus, who was still standing on the stage, trembling and clutching the gavel like a lifeline. The silver of the mask glinted one last time, cold and predatory.

"Expect a visitor tommorow, Thaddeus," he said, his voice a low, vibrating chord that seemed to rattle the very floorboards. "I will send someone to your house to deliver your fifty million."

The car was waiting, and as the doors closed, the reality set in. Thaddeus was gone. But I had just been bought by a monster far more powerful than a coward with a gambling debt.