Chapter 2: The Jade of the Show

~ Avelyn ~

I woke up to voices. A man and a woman speaking in hushed tones just a few feet away.

“She’s from a good lineage. Prestigious, they said. Elvan family. CEO’s daughter.”

“Elvan’s illegitimate daughter,” the woman corrected, tapping something on a clipboard. “She’s here to pay off a debt, not for prestige. But look at her platinum hair, delicate build… I doubt they fed her but she’ll sell well.”

Sell.

I forced my eyes open. My surroundings blurred, but slowly sharpened into white lights, lace drapes, mirrors lined with bulbs, girls fixing their makeup or giggling as if tonight wasn’t a parade of chains wrapped in glitter. Workers brushed hair, strapped heels, pinned gauzy fabric in place.

And me?

I was already dressed when I looked down on myself. A flowing sky-blue chiffon draped over my body in delicate layers, almost translucent. It shimmered under the lights like water. But it didn’t hide anything. My thighs, my chest, my arms were bare. Framed in gold cuffs, neck rings, a delicate belt at my waist that jingled when I moved. My hair fell around me in soft platinum waves, shimmering under the lights.

I looked like a goddess someone caged for a show.

“She’ll go as The Jade of the Show,” the woman announced with finality.

The man scribbled the name on a list.

I sat up finally, my body still sluggish. My mouth opened but no sound came out.

What would I even say? I’m not supposed to be here?

That’s a lie. This was always the ending I was heading toward. I was just too stupid to see it or maybe I pretended to ignore it.

Time passed like I wasn’t even in it.

Girls got called out one by one. Laughter, gasps and music echoed faintly beyond the curtains. The other girls seemed excited. Not one looked my way like we were in this together.

I wasn’t one of them, clearly. I wasn’t anything, really.

A hand gripped my arm suddenly. “You’re next.”

I stood or tried to. My legs were trembling but it wasn’t from fear, but because I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

They led me to the edge of the curtain. The woman with the clipboard looked

“Look pretty, darling. These men pay more when they think you’re fragile.”

I bit my tongue hoping the pain would keep me grounded for what I was about to face. My ill fate staring at me like a fever dream. But the taste of hope still clung to the back of my throat, and I hated myself for it.

The curtain parted and blinding light instantly hit me in the face.

The stage was round and elevated with a white platform like I was some prize car to be flaunted. Surrounding it was an amphitheater-like room, layered with velvet chairs and eager, faceless men holding numbered paddles.

I couldn’t see their faces. Just the hunger in their posture. I didn’t look away. I let them stare. Let them gawk.

Their opinions meant nothing to me now. Because as I stood there in heels I didn’t choose, with gold wrapped around my body like I was nothing more than an expensive dish, all I could think was…

This is what I get.

For believing him. For thinking, just for a moment, that maybe I was his daughter.

“If you do this for me, I’ll acknowledge you.” Hah!

His words echoed, rotted, shattered inside my skull like a haunting dream. I closed my eyes to savor the taste of pain but all I could do was cry and so I cried.

Not soft, not polite. It was ugly, broken in sobs. The kind that came from the soul.

I cried because I remembered how I scrubbed the floors of his estate at nine years old, hoping if I did it perfectly, he’d call me “darling” like he did Laura.

I cried because every stolen glance, every ignored birthday, every time he turned his face when I entered the room. I still loved him through it all. Still wanted his approval like it would make the pain make sense.

Love was a cruel thing indeed.

So I cried because my mother died protecting me, and I lived every day trying to be worthy of that sacrifice, only to be sold like livestock to pay off the sins of a man who never saw me as his.

And I cried because I hated myself for crying.

The crowd murmured in excitement. I heard them. “She’s crying already.”

“Won’t last a day.”

“Delicate little thing.”

“Perfect.”

Like they were discussing flavors on a menu. Someone laughed, calling me the siren in chains. Another man said something about how he wanted to see those tears every night, how rare platinum was, how much he’d pay to own it.

I dropped to my knees not because I was weak. But because my legs gave up. Because the weight of believing was heavier than any chain they could ever put on me.

And still… I didn’t look away. I didn’t beg and cower away. I let them see me cry. I let them watch the damage of what love and hope did to me.

Because if I was going to be sold like a myth, I’d make damn sure they knew I wasn’t broken by them.

I was broken by someone I loved. Someone I hoped would love me back.

“Shall we begin the bidding at one hundred thousand?” the announcer said, bright and cheery like this was a fashion show.

Men lifted paddles. One after the other.

A few voices rose above the crowd.

“Three hundred thousand.”

“Half a million.”

“A million!”

Cheers of excitement erupted. Until…A voice stilled the air. It was low and unbothered with a dead calmness that could stop a storm.

“One hundred million.”

Silence dropped like a guillotine. Even my crying seized the moment he spoke.

I froze.

My head turned instinctively toward the back of the room. I couldn’t see a face, just a figure, seated at the highest row, slightly leaned forward in a sharp black suit.

The lights made it impossible to see anything else. But I could feel it. An overwhelming presence words couldn’t describe. Eyes like knives cutting across the distance.

And a voice like winter slipping down my spine.

In that moment, I knew one thing. I wasn’t bought.

I was claimed.