Claiming Her.

Chapter 4.

Jasmine stepped into the grand auction hall, and the air shifted. A thick, intoxicating blend of power, desperation, and unfiltered desire clung to the walls like an invisible force. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the deep mahogany floors, their soft flicker reflecting off gold-trimmed archways and exquisite, hand-painted murals that told stories of passion and dominance. The entire room was art—crafted to seduce, to weaken, to make anyone who stepped in feel the weight of their own desires.

Besides Jasmine, Seraphina exhaled in awe. “Do you see this?” she whispered, her voice trembling with admiration. “The money poured into this place? The prestige? Imagine what it would mean to be chosen by one of them. Just a month as a submissive, and our lives would change.”

Jasmine didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t blinded by the extravagance or the allure of wealth. Her eyes wandered over the men seated elegantly in velvet armchairs, whiskey glasses in hand, their expensive suits barely concealing their hunger. They sat like kings, poised, waiting—ready to claim.

She leaned into Seraphina, her voice edged with quiet amusement. “You really think this is real?”

Seraphina glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“The bullshit about men throwing millions of euros just to own a submissive for a month?”

Seraphina chuckled. “It’s as real as it gets. And, Jasmine, trust me—this is the highest level of legitimacy you’ll ever find.”

“How do you know about…” Jasmine hesitated. Her eyes flickered around the room with a flicker of disgust. “About all this?”

Seraphina smirked, throwing a hand in the air. “I do research, Jas. I am not one to bore around with creepy insurance lifestyle.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes at Sera’s indirect tease. She straightened her posture, but the nagging discomfort in her chest refused to settle.

She had seen many men walk in already, their presence commanding, their gazes assessing, but none of them stirred anything within her. They were powerful, yes. Wealthy beyond imagination. Yet, she had no desire to submit to any of them.

Doubt crept in. Maybe this wasn’t right. Maybe selling her body to survive was a mistake. Maybe— Jasmine shut her eyes for a brief second, she threw her head backward, trying to get the thought past her head, and then—

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, cutting through her worry. “No matter the cost, you will accomplish your dream.”

Jasmine inhaled sharply. She knew her father’s words would never encourage such but she would endure. She would hold her head high and let her elegance pave her way. At least, this once.

As Jasmine’s eyes flickered across the room, the thoughts of her aunt visited and her chest tightened in discomfort.

Biterace Morotti would kill herself if she ever found out about things. Losing her aunt was the last thing she desired at the moment. Viviana had been her stepping stone from a tender age. Guiding her through life and brazing her to become the fierce lady she is today. If she ever decided not to live for her family’s revenge—she would consider living for her aunt.

“Do not tell my aunt about this,” Jasmine suddenly warned Seraphina, her voice softer this time.

Seraphina's heart squeezed and she stared at Jasmine for longer than seconds. “I’m not a snitch.”

The word cut through Jasmine like a dagger. She held Sera’s gaze for a moment longer before looking away. Indeed Sera was not a snitch, but she worried about other’s a lot more. With one or two persuade from her aunt, it would not be so hard to get her to spill the truth.

“I will be right back.” Seraphina excused herself, making her way to the bar for wine. The second she was gone, a presence filled the space beside Jasmine—a suffocating, unpleasant heat.

She turned, and her stomach twisted in instant revulsion.

A man, dressed in an impeccable navy blue suit, stood before her. He was old enough to be her father, his face marked with experience and arrogance. His eyes dragged over her with a shameless hunger, and when he smiled, it was predatory.

“Beauty.” His voice slithered with unspoken danger. “I have my eye on you. I want you as my submissive. How about that?”

Jasmine’s stomach churned. No. Never. Even in the face of poverty, she would not lower herself to a man like this.

She lifted her chin, confidence radiating through her every movement. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m not interested.”

The amusement on his face vanished. His expression hardened. “You’re not in a place to decide, young lady. I want you.”

“Well, I do not want you.” Her voice was firm, unwavering.

The air thickened. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

“Women present here today are for bidding,” the man growled, his frustration barely contained. “And I will bid for you.”

“She is not yours to bid.”

The voice sliced through the air, deep, authoritative, lethal.

A hush fell over the room as heads turned in unison.

He stepped forward—his presence alone commanding attention before his face was even revealed.

Jasmine felt it before she saw him. The shift in energy. The slow, deliberate steps of a man who never needed to rush. Power dripped from his every movement, an aura so suffocatingly dominant that the very air seemed to bend to his will.

And then, she saw him.

Jerald DeLuca.

His black suit fit him like a second skin, emphasizing every sculpted muscle, every inch of raw masculinity. His jet-black hair was slicked back, his sharp jawline casting dangerous shadows beneath the chandelier lights. But it was his eyes—deep brown intense, and unwavering—that sent an unexplainable shiver down Jasmine’s spine.

Women in the room inhaled sharply at the sight of him, their eyes filled with want, admiration, and worship.

Yet, Jasmine simply blinked, unimpressed.

She had already met him. She had already barged into his office unannounced. And now, he was here, saving her from a disgusting old man?

“Lord Lucal.” Don Francisco stammered, his entire demeanor shifting into submission.

Local? The name rang a distant bell in Jasmine’s memory, but she shoved it aside.

Jerald’s gaze finally flickered to Don Francisco, completely ignoring Jasmine.

“I have bid for her,” Jerald declared smoothly, his voice laced with absolute authority. “Make another choice.”

Jasmine’s head snapped toward him. What the hell did he mean he had bid for her?

She hadn’t agreed to anything. She had made no deals with him.

Yet, at the same time… relief swept through her. Because at least, she was free from Don Francisco.

The older man’s eyes darkened, rage flickering beneath the surface. He hated being upstaged. And Jerald? He had a habit of stealing every show.

His gaze lingered on Jasmine a second longer, resentment simmering before he forced a tight smile and bowed slightly to Jerald. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

But Jasmine could tell—Don Francisco was not a man who forgot humiliation.

Jerald didn’t even wait for her to say a word.

“You don’t need a bidder,” he said simply. “Follow me.”

His tone left no room for argument.

Jasmine, who never obeyed commands, felt her feet move before she could protest.

She told herself it was logic. Out of every man in this room, This Lucal man was the only one she could tolerate.

But deep down, she knew the truth.

It was the way he carried himself, the way his presence demanded attention.

And if she was going to subject her body to anyone—

It would be him.

Not without a fight, of course. Not without resisting at every turn.

But it would be him.

And she knew, without a doubt—

This was only the beginning.