SOLD TO THE RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE KING

The silk of the dress felt like sandpaper against Brittany’s skin. It was too thin, too red, and far too expensive for a girl who had spent the last four years counting pennies to buy milk in bulk.

"Chin up, 402," a man hissed from the shadows of the wings. "The bidders like it when you look like you have a little fight left in you. Makes the breaking part more fun for them."

Brittany didn't look at him. She couldn't. If she caught her reflection in the gilded mirrors of the backstage hallway, she’d see the ghost of the girl she used to be. The girl who had dreams. The girl who hadn't been sold like a piece of livestock by her own blood.

"My father…" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Is he safe?"

The man laughed, a dry, wheezing sound. "Hughes is fine. He’s already at the bar, probably betting the first installment of your sale price on a horse race. Move."

He shoved her. Brittany stumbled out onto the stage, the sudden glare of the spotlights blinding her. The room was a sea of black tuxedos and sparkling diamonds. The scent of expensive cigars and aged scotch hung heavy in the air, cloying and suffocating.

She felt like a deer in the crosshairs.

"Lot 402," the auctioneer droned, his voice amplified by the speakers. "A rare find. Old money pedigree, pristine record. We’ll start the bidding at five hundred thousand."

The numbers started flying. It was surreal. Six hundred. Eight hundred. A million.

Brittany’s gaze swept the front row. Her breath hitched. Xander Thorne was leaning back, a smirk playing on his lips as he raised a hand. He was her father’s biggest creditor—a man who enjoyed cruelty more than profit.

"One point five," Xander called out, his eyes raking over Brittany with a hunger that made her stomach churn.

She closed her eyes, praying for the floor to swallow her. Think of the kids, she told herself. Think of Leo, Mia, and Noah. This is for them. Just one year. You can survive anything for one year.

"Two million," a voice boomed from the back, cutting through Xander’s smugness.

The room went silent. Necks craned.

Brittany’s eyes snapped open. A man was standing in the shadows of the mezzanine, silhouetted by the exit sign. Even from this distance, the sheer power radiating off him was palpable. He stepped forward into the light, and Brittany felt the world tilt on its axis.

Houston Vane.

He looked older. Harder. The boyish charm she’d once adored had been replaced by a lethal, razor-sharp edge. His suit cost more than the house she grew up in. His expression was a mask of pure, unadulterated boredom.

"Two point five," Xander snapped, his face reddening.

"Three," Houston countered immediately. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. He wasn't even looking at Brittany. He was looking at Xander like he was an insect he was about to crush.

"Three point five!" Xander growled.

"Five million."

The auctioneer paused, his gavel hovering. "Five million from Mr. Vane. Going once… going twice…"

Bang.

"Sold. To Houston Vane."

The applause was polite, restrained. To these people, it was just business. To Brittany, it was a death sentence.

Two guards escorted her off the stage and into a private room in the back. It was filled with plush leather furniture and a mahogany desk. She stood in the center of the room, her hands trembling so hard she had to hide them in the folds of her dress.

The door creaked open.

Houston walked in alone. He didn't say a word. He walked to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of bourbon, and downed it in one go. Only then did he turn to look at her.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"Five million dollars, Brittany," he finally said. His voice was like low-grade thunder. "That’s a lot of money for a girl who disappeared in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye note."

Brittany swallowed hard, her throat feeling like it was full of glass. "Houston, I—"

"Don't," he barked, the word hitting her like a physical blow. "You don't get to use my name. Not anymore."

He walked toward her, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood. He stopped just inches away, his shadow looming over her. The scent of him—cedarwood and cold rain—hit her like a memory she’d tried to drown.

He reached out, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His touch was icy.

"You look pathetic," he sneered, his dark eyes scanning her tear-stained face. "Does Hughes know how much of a disappointment you’ve become? Or was he too busy gambling away your dignity to notice?"

"He’s sick, Houston," she whispered, her pride stinging. "He needed the money for the treatments."

"He needed the money for the tables," Houston corrected, his grip tightening slightly. "And you, ever the martyr, decided to throw yourself onto the pyre. How touching."

He let go of her abruptly, as if she had burned him. He pulled a folded document from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the desk.

"Sign it."

Brittany moved to the desk, her legs feeling like lead. "What is it?"

"A contract of ownership," he said, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. "You’ll live in my house. You’ll attend every event on my arm. You’ll play the role of my devoted fiancée until I’ve squeezed every bit of PR value out of this scandal. And in return, I pay your father’s debts and keep him out of a shallow grave."

Brittany scanned the lines. Clause 4: No unauthorized contact with the outside world. Clause 7: Total obedience to the Head of Household.

"One year?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"One year," he confirmed. "After that, I never want to see your face again. You’ll take whatever pittance I give you and vanish for good this time."

Brittany thought of the small apartment. She thought of Talia, the neighbor who was watching the triplets right now, probably wondering why Brittany wasn't back yet. She thought of her children's faces. If she didn't sign this, Xander would find her. And Xander wouldn't just want a "fiancée."

She picked up the pen and scribbled her name.

Houston stepped forward, snatching the paper before the ink was even dry. He looked at it, a dark, satisfied smirk twisting his lips.

"Welcome to hell, Brittany."

"Why did you buy me?" she asked, her voice stronger now, fueled by a flicker of the anger she’d buried. "If you hate me this much, why not let Xander have me?"

Houston took a step closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Because Xander would just use your body. I want to use your soul. I want you to wake up every single day and remember that you belong to the man you destroyed. I want to watch the light go out of your eyes, inch by inch."

He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. "Let’s go. My car is waiting."

"I need to stop by my apartment first," she said, panic rising in her chest. "I have… things. Personal things I need to pack."

Houston stopped and looked her up and down, a cruel laugh escaping his throat. "You have nothing, Brittany. Everything you owned before tonight belongs in a dumpster. From now on, you wear what I tell you, eat what I tell you, and sleep where I tell you."

"Houston, please—"

"The triplets," she almost screamed, but she bit her tongue just in time. The secret was the only thing keeping her children safe. If Houston knew… if he knew he had heirs, he’d take them. He’d rip them away from her and raise them in his cold, heartless world. Or worse, he’d hate them because they were hers.

"Please," she amended, her voice a broken plea. "Just an hour. I have medicine. Important medicine."

Houston’s eyes narrowed, searching her face for a lie. For a split second, she saw a flash of the old Houston—the one who would have moved mountains to keep her safe. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a wall of granite.

"No," he said flatly. "You’re in my world now. And in my world, you don't get to ask for favors."

He dragged her through the back exit, the cold night air hitting her like a slap. A black SUV was idling at the curb. A man stood by the door—Hughes. Her brother.

"Brittany!" Hughes started toward her, his face a mask of guilt and relief. "I'm so sorry, I—"

Houston stepped between them, his hand resting on the hilt of a decorative cane he hadn't used earlier. "Back off, Hughes. You got your money. She’s mine now. If I see you within a mile of her, the deal is off and I’ll have your legs broken myself."

"Houston, he’s my brother!" Brittany cried, reaching out.

Houston didn't even turn around. He shoved her into the back seat of the SUV and slammed the door, locking it electronically.

As the car sped away from the auction house, Brittany pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Her phone was in her purse, which had been confiscated. She had no way to call Talia. No way to tell her children she wasn't coming home tonight.

Houston sat beside her, the space between them vibrating with tension. He pulled out his phone, his thumb scrolling through a news feed.

"Pamela is waiting at the estate," Houston said, his voice clipped. "She’ll show you to your room. Don't speak to her unless she speaks to you. She doesn't like you any more than I do."

"Pamela?" Brittany whispered. "Your mother is there?"

"She’s thrilled to see the girl who broke her son’s heart crawling back for a check," Houston said, finally looking at her. The malice in his eyes was blinding. "It’s going to be a long year, Brittany. Try not to kill yourself in the first week. It would be a waste of five million dollars."

Brittany turned away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had to find a way to get a message out. She had to get to her babies.