VELVET CHAINS
Chapter One: The Stage
The curtain whispered as it rose.
Warm light spilled across the polished floor, soft and golden, like sunset breaking over glass. He stepped through it—barefoot, silent—his ankles brushing the hem of black silk that clung to his body like spilled ink. The robe slipped slightly as he moved, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones, the pale stretch of skin where a thin silver collar shimmered at his throat.
He didn't flinch under the light.
He didn't look at them.
He walked to the center of the stage and stood still, as if he'd been carved from something too soft to last.
From behind the velvet curtains, he could still feel the last thing the handler had whispered into his ear:
> "Don't look anyone in the eye unless you want them to bid."
He hadn't answered. He hadn't needed to.
He already knew who would.
---
Across the ballroom, the shift was instant.
Chairs adjusted. Fans paused mid-sway. Wine glasses were lowered just an inch too sharply.
The boy was beautiful—but not the kind of beauty they were used to.
He wasn't decorated. No eyeliner, no chains, no bruised aesthetic of pre-owned flesh.
He was clean.
Unbranded. Untouched. Unfamiliar.
And the unfamiliar made people uncomfortable.
> "Is this a joke?" whispered someone near the back.
"Looks like a child," said another, louder. "Where's the paperwork?"
"They didn't list him. No profile."
"Must be defective."
Laughter trickled. Half-curious, half-cruel.
A man in a grey suit leaned to his partner, chuckling into a glass of amber liquor. "Too soft. He'll break before the week's out."
Another raised a brow. "What's his lot number?"
"Zero."
A beat.
"...Oh."
---
No one bid.
Not at first.
Because there was no permission slip, no assurance of quality.
Because he didn't whimper.
Because he didn't look broken enough to be interesting.
He was too still.
Too composed.
And worst of all—he didn't look at them.
---
The auctioneer cleared his throat. "This is a private consignment," he began, carefully. "No file has been submitted by the seller. No history. We are instructed to open at—"
He didn't get to finish.
Because that was when the boy looked up.
And smiled.
---
It wasn't wide.
It wasn't eager.
It was something… quiet.
Almost sad.
Almost mocking.
It was the kind of smile that didn't belong in a room like this.
It said: I know exactly what you are.
---
Lucien's fingers stopped tapping.
He'd been bored. Another auction. Another evening wasted. He'd barely glanced up when the boy entered—he'd seen too many soft faces, too many silk robes, too many trembling knees.
But this one didn't tremble.
This one didn't beg.
He smiled.
Lucien's gaze sharpened.
The boy's eyes met his.
---
"Five million," Lucien said flatly, not even raising his hand.
Gasps rippled across the room.
The auctioneer blinked. "Sir, I—yes. Five million. Do I hear—?"
"Six," came a quick reply, from somewhere to the left.
"Seven."
"Eight."
Someone whistled. "For a zero?"
"Ten."
---
The bidding climbed fast, tension knotting around each new number.
And yet the boy on stage didn't move.
Not once.
Except his eyes—soft violet, glowing under the lights—kept returning to one man.
Lucien Blackthorn.
---
"Twenty million," Lucien said, voice like a scalpel. "Final."
Silence dropped like a curtain.
No one else spoke.
The gavel struck. "Sold."
---
And still, the boy smiled.
Not with victory.
With certainty.
---
[END OF CHAPTER ONE]