Sera
They told me not to look anyone in the eye. But I did. I could not just lower my head.
I stood under lights too bright to hide under. Stripped of everything except the rag they called a dress—thin, torn at the sides, neckline pulled so low I kept crossing my arms just to feel like I had armor. I hated it. Every inch of exposed skin felt like a violation. Like their eyes could crawl inside me and leave bruises. This was no dress. Just something to seduce my buyer and get a high bidding. I felt humiliated.
The chain at my ankles clinked when I shifted. The one at my wrists was too tight. They were heavy but atleast they were an excuse not to dance to them.
I'd been Lot 43 for exactly twenty-six minutes.
The man with the microphone—slicked hair, gold cufflinks, dead eyes—read off my description like I was a meal. He read it with expertise .Hed done this for long.
"Eighteen. Virgin. Multi-lingual. Docile temperament. Ideal for personal or corporate service."
Lies.
I'd rather choke on my own name than serve anyone again.
A man in the crowd—some overfed bastard in a velvet blazer—lifted a paddle. "Four million."
Another voice. "Six."
Then "Eight."
"Eight and a half."
I kept my head up. Not because I was brave, but because I had nothing left to lose. My body wasn't mine. But my spine? That, I could keep straight.
The air shifted before he even stepped inside.
A cold hush swept through the room, silencing murmurs, stilling hands mid-toast. I didn't know who he was yet. But I felt him—like the way animals sense storms before they come.
And then I saw him.
Black suit. Tailored within an inch of cruelty. He moved like he didn't need to make space; space made itself for him. Tall, calm, and carved from stone. His presence sliced through the room—quiet power, effortless dominance. Like this whole twisted auction existed for his amusement.
I couldn't stop staring.
Not because I was drawn to him. Because I couldn't afford not to be.
His eyes found mine, sharp and silver, not cold like ice—but colder. Like the kind of cold that burns.
He didn't blink. Didn't leer like the others. He looked at me like I was data to process, a risk to calculate.
I wanted to look away. I didn't.
Because the moment I did, he'd win.
And somehow, I already knew—he never lost.
He raised a hand. "Ten million," he said, like it meant nothing.
The whole room froze.
No one raised a paddle. No one spoke.
"Sold to Mr. Cassian Virelli."
Chains clicked. The auctioneer smiled too wide. A guard came to escort me down.
He touched my arm, and I flinched.
Cassian Virelli. That name meant something. I'd heard it whispered in the halls where girls prayed not to be noticed. Ruthless. CEO. Power broker. The kind of man who crushed people with a look—and forgot their names before the dust settled.
But I wasn't going to be one of his ghosts.
When I was close enough, I met his eyes. Gray, glinting with frost. He didn't blink.
"You don't own me," I said, voice low, raw.
He tilted his head.
"You're right," he said, like it was nothing.
For half a second, I almost believed it.
Then he leaned in just enough for me to feel his breath against my cheek.
"Not yet."