Chapter 2

The man's hand on my chin steadies my head as he ensures that every set of hungry eyes in the room as a clear view of my face. I let my expression remain unreadable, even as their gazes crawls over my skin like filth. 

The first bid comes fast. 

"Fifty thousand." A voice from the left rings out. The slicked back hair man gleams like he has already won. The expression causes my stomach to turn. 

"Sixty," another counters.

The numbers then begin to climb, being tossed around the room like poker chips at a high-end table. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. My price raises with each greed and with every call, the air grows thicker, more suffocating. 

I am nothing more than an investment to them. A possession. A thing to be bought and claimed. 

I swallow back the bile burning in my throat. 

The women seated in the room sip their expensive drinks, some feign disinterest, and others watch on with sharp and cruel eyes. They are just as complicit in this as the men, perhaps even more so. They know what happens to women like us, yet they turn a blind eye or worse helped to orchestrate it. 

And the men, they are now leaning forward. Anticipation crackles through them like a predator smelling fresh blood. Some looks smug while others look impatient. A few wears bored expressions, as if purchasing human is as mundane as if purchasing a watch. 

My fingers twitch against the silk dress. 

These fuckers think they own me. 

They have no idea the mistake they are making.

"A million dollars," the deep voice that cuts through the murmur, drag my attention forward. 

The room quiets and I follow the sound to its source. 

The man is sitting in the front row, his presence is starkly different from the others. He doesn't recline lazily in his chair, doesn't sip from a crystal glass or exchange glances with the men around him. He sits forward, his elbows are on his knees and his fingers are loosely interlocked. 

And his eyes... they are fixed on me. 

Dark. Unnervingly calm. Unreadable. 

Unlike the others, his gaze does not crawl over my body like a predator's hunger. There is no smug satisfaction, no smirk of triumph. Just quiet observation, as if he's seeing or better yet calculating something far beyond what the auctioneer is selling. 

I can't seem to look away. 

The auctioneer hesitates for a moment before regaining his composure. "Ah, a generous bid! Any challengers,"

Silence follows.

The air shifts as the other bidders exchange glances like their gauging, assessing whether or not to challenge this man. The auctioneer scans the crowd as he waits but no one says anything.

The hush stretches into whatfeels like eternity.

Then with a sharp rap of his gravel, the auctioneer cruelly seals my fate. "Sold!"

The word lands like a stone in my stomach. I don't react when the guards step forward and grab my hand. I don't struggle as their rough hands grate my bruised skin. I don't react because my time is coming.

They yank me forward and forcefully pull me down the steps. My heart beats like a soldier marching into war. Every step I take towards the man who brought me is a step into the unknown. And yet, a strange foreign sensation could in my gut but it's not fear but anticipation.

I keep my head high, my expression is composed even as I stop before him. Up close, he is even more composing. Broad shoulders fill his dark suit effortlessly, and his presence is something tangible, something that presses into the space around him like the force of gravity.

His silence though, unnerves me the most. 

Most men would have already reached for me. Grab my wrist or chin, anything to claim their prize but he simply just watches. 

Waiting. 

Accessing. 

For the first time since entering upon that stage, a flicker of uncertainty coils itself around my spine. His body radiates something dangerous--- something that makes my pulse sputters despite the unwillingness coursing through my veins. 

His voice is the final blow. It's deep, final and absolute. 

"Sit," 

It's not a demand or a threat but a command that is meant to be followed without uncertainty. 

I lower myself onto the cold marble floor beside his chair and let the slick fabric of my dress pools around me. The ground is hard beneath my knees, but I refuse to shift, I refuse to show weakness. My back remains straight, and my head is held high even as weight of unseen chains coils around my throat. 

The man says nothing else. 

He doesn't touch me. 

He doesn't look at me. 

He simply sits, with his hands across my knees as yet another girl is dragged onto the stage. 

Something curdles in my stomach, but I keep my expression unreadable. The scent of cigar, smoke and aged bourbon clings to the air, making it thick and suffocating as it wraps around me like a funeral shroud. 

The auctioneer's voice drones on. "Fifty... sixty... seventy..."

The numbers steadily climb, and the men lean forward. The girl's breath comes out in shallow, panicked grasp and her eyes dart around for a exist that doesn't exist. She can't be older than eighteen. 

I force my hands to stay still in the lap. 

Another sale. Another life sealed in a deal. 

The gavel slams down and the girl immediately gets pulled off the stage, only to be swallowed by the door the others had gone through. 

I am the only one sitting here. 

My throat tightens. A part of me wants to demand why I am still here, why I haven't been dragged through that door like the rest, but I don't. 

I was bought but yet I remain at his feet unclaimed. 

The man does not revel in the scene before him like the others do. He does not whsiper too the man beside him or raise a glass in smug satisfaction. 

He simply waits. 

For what?

For me to break?

For me to speak?

For me to beg? 

The thought coils like a knife between my ribs. 

I will not beg. 

I will not break. 

Even as the auction drags on, I hold my head high, because no matter what happens next, I won't let them see me crumble. 

*************

The gavel slams down one final time, it echoes through the grand hall like a death knell. The last girl is dragged off stage, not long after her muffled sobs are swallowed by the heavy doors and then... silence. 

A suffocating silence falls over the crowd. 

Some men shift in their seats while others stand and fix their cuffs as if they just finished a business transaction over wine. A few of the vile cast lingering glances in my direction but they don't dare to approach. 

Because I am his. Brought and paid for. 

I can feel the weight of it--- the unspoken question curling in the air like smoke around us. Why hasn't he taken me? Why hasn't he dragged me off like the others to whatever hell awaits beyond those wretched doors? 

I don't look up but I can feel them watching... waiting. 

The man remains seated and the weight of his presence continues to press against my skin like an unseen brand. 

He has not spoken since he had told me to sit here and it's driving me up the wall.

Time seems to stretch into infinity. The auctioneer approaches clears his throat as he approaches us, there is no hiding the flicker of unease in his practiced smile. "Mr. Moretti, would you like her escorted---"

A sharp look cuts him off. This Moretti man apparently doesn't need to even utter a word, just a glance makes the auctioneer steps back and mutter an apology. 

The interaction causes a dreed to creep up my spine. 

He's not just a bidder. Not just another man in suit throwing money at flesh. He holds power here. Real power that does not need to be announced--- it just simply is. 

A hand suddenly grips my upper arm, not his but one of his guards. 

"Time to move," the man grunts already roughly yanking me to my bare feet. 

I react before I can think. My fingers curl into a fist and I throw my elbow back, catching the man hard in the ribs. He lets out a sharp hiss and stumble just enough for me to twist free---

A second guard standing with the auctioneer immediately steps in. He's stronger and faster. 

I feel the pressure of his grip before I even saw him move. His hand locks around my wrist, it's unyielding and tight. 

And then he moved. Not the guard but the man who bought me. It happens so fast I barely registered it, one minute the guard has me, the next he's on the ground groaning and clutching his arm at a angle it should not be in. 

I don't see how it happens. It's just a blur of movement. A calculated efficiency that sends a ripple of tension through the room. 

The men froze. 

All the guards hesitate. 

And then finally he speaks. His voice is quiet but dangerous. "She stays with me,"

No argument. No question. Just a clear command. 

I don't know my pulse sputters or why the air feels so much heavier, suffocating, intense?

I don't move as he towers over me. His dark eyes find mine and for the first time I see something more dangerous and far from desire there. 

Possession. 

Not the kind these men here have. Not the gloating, leering, slimy kind. 

No. His kind of possession is quite something else. It's certainty as if he decided long before tonight that I was his. 

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