Chapter 2: The Auction Ariel

~ Scarlett ~

Pain was the first thing that returned. A dull, thumping ache at the back of my skull and the fierce, burning sting on my left cheek where my uncle’s hand had cracked across my face.

Then came the voices. Hushed, clinical, and completely detached.

"Lineage is unknown. She was brought in by an anonymous seller. But if you ask me, she looks elite. Humph! Someone must’ve been very bad”. A woman's voice said, the rhythmic clicking of a pen against a clipboard echoing nearby.

“She’s listed for debt payment."

"Look at that hair though," a man replied, his fingers suddenly gripping my jaw, turning my head roughly to the left. "Natural fiery red. And those eyes... when she was half-conscious earlier, they were bright turquoise. She’s going to fetch a fortune."

"Dress her in the blue chiffon," the woman ordered, unbothered. "We’re presenting her as The Auction Ariel"

My eyes snapped open.

Blinding white vanity lights scorched my vision. My surroundings blurred before sharpening into a dressing room lined with mirrors, rack upon rack of translucent dresses, and other young women sitting in silence as makeup artists painted their faces like porcelain dolls.

I scrambled to sit up on the plush velvet bench, but my limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the lingering poison of the chloroform.

Looking down at myself, a gasp caught in my throat.

They had already changed me. A light, ocean-blue chiffon dress draped across my body, almost translucent under the harsh lights, split high at the thighs. Gold cuffs bound my wrists, linked by a delicate golden chain that jingled with every slight shudder of my hands. My red hair had been pinned and braided into an elaborate, crown-like style that pulled at my scalp.

"Where... where am I?" My voice came out as a raspy, broken whisper. "What is this?"

The woman with the clipboard didn't even look up. "Save your breath, sweet face. You’re up in two minutes."

The door to the dressing room slammed open, and two burly men in black suits stepped inside. Before I could process the terror rising in my chest, they grabbed me by the arms, hauling me to my feet.

My bare soles slipped on the polished floor, my knees buckling, but they dragged me forward like a ragdoll.

"Let me go!" I fought, thrashing against their grip, the gold chains rattling loudly. "My uncle—Richard Hawthorne—you don't understand, he lied! I'm not a debt payment! Let me go!"

They ignored my screams as if I were speaking a foreign language.

They hauled me down a dark, narrow corridor until we reached a set of heavy velvet curtains.

Beyond them, a low, ominous rumble echoed like the sound of hundreds of deep, cultured male voices chatting, the clinking of champagne glasses, and a sharp wooden gavel striking a podium.

"Look fragile, darling," the woman called out from behind us. "Men pay double when they think you’re about to break."

The velvet curtains parted.

Blinding, searing spotlights slapped me in the face as they shoved me out onto a round, elevated marble stage.

A sudden, collective gasp rippled through the dark, amphitheater-like hall.

Surrounding the stage were rows upon rows of elevated velvet booths filled with men in expensive tuxedos. Their faces were obscured by the darkness, but their eyes… hungry, predatory, calculating were pinned entirely on me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our next lot is a rare masterpiece," the auctioneer's voice boomed over the speakers, slick as poison. "Straight from the high-society bloodlines, we give you... The Ariel of the Show!"

My breath hitched. Realization slammed into my chest like a freight train, knocking the very air from my lungs.

The charity gala. The locked room. The shadow in the dark.

Richard hadn't just banished me. He hadn't just taken my father's shares. He had sold me. He had arranged for me to be snatched from my own bed and put on a block like livestock to ensure I would never speak, never challenge him, and never touch a single cent of my father's empire.

He traded my life.

My knees finally gave out completely. I collapsed onto the cold marble stage, the heavy gold chains clinking against the floor.

I didn't cower. I didn't hide my face. I forced my head up, my jaw tight, letting my eyes burn into the darkness of the crowd. Tears of pure, unadulterated rage and grief welled in my eyes, spilling over my burning cheeks, but I refused to bow my head.

"Shall we open the bidding at five hundred thousand dollars?" the auctioneer called out cheerfully.

"Six hundred thousand!" a voice barked from the third row.

"Eight hundred thousand!"

"One million!"

Paddles snapped up like vultures circling a dying animal. The crowd buzzed with excitement, men leaning forward in their seats, admiring the fiery red hair, the blue silk, and the raw, unfiltered fury bleeding from my tear-stained face.

"Two million!"

"Five million!"

My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I thought it would crack open. This was it. I was going to be bought by some gross, shadowy monster. I was going to be locked in another cage, used, discarded, and forgotten while my mother died alone in a hospital bed.

"Ten million!"

"Fifteen!"

The numbers climbed out of control, the room turning feral. I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers digging into the marble until my nails nearly split, bracing myself for the final strike of the gavel.

Then, a voice cut through the air.

It wasn't raised. It didn't shout. It was a low, dead-calm rumble that sliced straight through the noise, dropping from the shadow of the highest, most exclusive private VIP balcony.

"One hundred million dollars."

The entire hall went dead silent.

The auctioneer’s gavel froze mid-air. Men turned in their seats, staring up toward the top booth in complete, paralyzed shock. Nobody moved. Nobody dared to breathe.

My eyes snapped open. I strained against the glare of the lights, staring up at the balcony.

I couldn't see his face—only the towering, powerful silhouette of a man draped in a dark suit, leaning lazily against the iron railing. His presence alone seemed to suffocate the entire room, heavy and lethal.

"O-One hundred million," the auctioneer stuttered, wringing his hands. "Going once... going twice..."

CRACK.

"Sold to the gentleman in Box One."

The stage lights killed instantly, plunging me into darkness as guards rushed the stage to pull me up. But even in the dark, I could feel those eyes from the balcony burning straight into my soul.

I wasn't saved. I had just been claimed by something far more dangerous.