Sold to be a Billionaires Slave

When my mother died I was left in the hands of the man she should never have married, my stepfather.

He was a drunk who worked as a construction worker but loved to gamble and soon he put us in a lot of debt. Every time he lost, he came home angrier and promised he’d change, but he never did.

Then one night, I heard him on the phone. “I’ll pay you back. I’ve got something more valuable than money.”

Something. Not someone.

Me.

By the time I realized what he’d done, it was too late. Men in black suits came for me, their hands cold on my arms as they shoved me into the back of a car. I screamed, fought, begged, but no one listened.

The last glimpse I had of my stepfather was him slouched in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t even say goodbye.

And then the car doors locked. My fate sealed.

The air inside the auction hall felt heavy, sweet with perfume and expensive cigars. The chandeliers above glittered brightly, throwing light across the stage where I stood like a lamb dressed for slaughter. My wrists were bound in silk ribbons.

“Lot number twenty-five,” the auctioneer boomed. “Young. Untouched. Obedient.”

My stomach turned. I wasn’t obedient. I was terrified.

But it didn’t matter what I was. What mattered was my stepfather’s gambling debts, and the price someone was willing to pay to make them vanish.

The bidding began.

“One million.”

“Two.”

“Two point five.”

Each number was a chain around my throat. My breath quickened. My eyes searched desperately for an escape, but the guards at my sides didn’t blink.

Then, from the front row, a voice cut through. Smooth. Low. Commanding.

“Twelve million.”

The room hushed instantly.

All eyes turned toward the man who had spoken. He wasn’t masked like the others. He was wearing a well tailored black suit with his tie undone. A glass of scotch rested untouched at his table.

And his eyes were locked on me.

The gavel came down with a slam.

“Sold!”

The word rang in my ears like a sentence passed.

The guards untied the ribbons and shoved me forward. My legs trembled. My lips parted, but no sound came out.

Closer. Closer.

The man rose slowly from his chair, unfolding to his full height. He didn’t reach for me immediately. He only studied me, his gaze sliding over me like a blade.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but there was nothing gentle in it.

“I’m Brayden Gatsby and you belong to me now.”

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice sharp.

I wanted to look away. I wanted to spit in his face. But my chin lifted and my eyes met his.

The auctioneer clapped his hands together, cheerful. “Congratulations, Mr. Gatsby. A fine purchase.”

Purchase.

The word made bile rise in my throat.

Brayden ignored him. His gaze never left me. Then he slowly removed his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. Not out of kindness, it was a claim. A brand.

“Tell me,” he murmured so only I could hear. “What’s your name.”

My lips trembled, but no sound came out. My throat was dry, strangled by fear.

His hand tipped my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“I asked you a question,” Brayden said. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Z-Zoe,” I whispered.

“Zoe,” he repeated.

The auctioneer cleared his throat. “Mr. Gatsby, the transfer will be processed immediately…”

Brayden silenced him with a single glance, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card. He tossed it onto the table. The man wasn’t just rich, he was powerful.

Without another word, his hand closed around my wrist and as we moved through the crowd I kept my head down.

The car ride was silent. I sat stiff in the leather seat the black SUV. His phone buzzed once. He ignored it. His gaze remained fixed on me, studying me like a predator studying his prey.

When the car slowed, my stomach tightened. Through the tinted window, iron gates swung open, revealing a mansion that loomed like a fortress.

The doors opened and cool night air hit my face. Brayden didn’t wait for me to move. His hand was at my lower back, guiding me forward.

Inside, the mansion was breathtaking, marble floors, chandeliers, art pieces worth more than my stepfather’s entire life.

He led me past the staircase, down a hallway lined with closed doors until we reached one at the very end.

The door opened to a room. The walls were darker here, the lighting softer. My eyes caught the strange items that laid carefully arranged on the table. leather, whips, ropes and other weird items.

Brayden closed the door behind us.

“This,” he said quietly, “is where you’ll learn what it means to belong to me.”

Fear clawed up my throat. “I don’t…”

His hand pressed to my mouth, silencing me. “Rule number one, Zoe. You don’t speak unless I ask you to. Understand?”

My wide eyes met his. I nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes, Mr. Gatsby.”

His lips curved into a dark smile. “Good girl.”

“Get on your knees,” Brayden ordered. “And pack your hair up.”

My hands shook as I obeyed, twisting my hair into a messy knot at the crown of my head. I didn’t dare look up at him.

Brayden circled me, slow and deliberate, like a predator studying prey.

He stopped in front of me. His hand gripped my chin, tilting my face upward until my eyes were locked with his.

“Tell me, Zoe,” he murmured, low and dangerous, “are you a virgin?”

My lips parted, but the word caught in my throat. His thumb brushed across my bottom lip, pressing just enough to remind me who held the power.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

A flicker of satisfaction passed over his face. “Good. Then I get to break you in.”

His belt buckle clinked, and he freed himself from his slacks. My heart pounded as he guided me closer, pressing the heavy length of him against my lips.

“Open.”

I parted my mouth hesitantly, the taste of salt filling me as his thick length slid between my lips. His hand fisted in my hair, guiding me. I gagged against him but his grip only tightened.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take me like a good slave girl.”

The tears that stung my eyes weren’t just fear, they were arousal, burning through every nerve.

When he finally pulled back, a string of saliva connected me to him. My chest heaved.

He gripped my jaw. “Get On the bed.”

I stumbled to my feet and climbed onto the mattress.

Brayden stripped his shirt fully, his muscles flexing under golden light. He joined me on the bed, pinning me with his weight. His hand slid beneath my dress, fingers tracing the trembling line of my thigh until they found the damp cotton of my panties.

“You’re already wet,” he said with quiet satisfaction. “You like being touched like a dirty whore. Don’t you Zoe?.”

I gasped when he tore them aside, sliding a finger inside me without warning. My back arched, a cry breaking free, but his mouth captured it with a hard, claiming kiss.

He pulled back only to whisper, “Say it. Say who you belong to.”

“You,” I panted. “Mr. Gatsby, I belong to you.”

He slipped his belt free again, fastening it tight across my hips to pin me in place. Then he pressed himself against me, the thick head nudging at my entrance.

And then he thrust into me, hard. Pain cut sharp, burning through me, but underneath it flickered something hotter, dangerous.

Brayden didn’t slow. His thrusts were ruthless, each one pounding me deeper into the mattress until I could hardly breathe. His hand closed around my throat, not too tight, just enough to remind me I was his.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I forced my eyes open. His gaze locked on mine, hungry.

“Good girl,” he rasped, and the pain shattered, giving way to blinding, consuming pleasure.