They were about to sell me to the highest bidder.
Lilian's heart pounded like a war drum inside her chest.
The opulent ballroom, bathed in golden light, felt suffocating. The towering chandeliers dripped with crystals, casting fractured rainbows across the velvet-lined walls—but to her, it felt like a gilded cage. The air was thick with the scent of wealth—cigars, aged whiskey, and expensive cologne—but beneath it all, the unmistakable stench of something rotten clung to the atmosphere.
This was not a place of freedom.
It was a place where souls were bought and sold.
And tonight, she was the prize.
Lilian's stomach churned as she stood on a raised platform, the center of every hungry gaze in the room. Men in tailored suits leaned back in their chairs, swirling whiskey in crystal glasses, their sharp eyes scanning her like merchandise. They weren't looking at a girl. They were looking at a possession.
Some leaned forward, smirking to one another. A man in the second row puffed his cigar, letting the ember glow as his gaze slid down her figure. Another licked his lips, whispering something to the man beside him that made him chuckle darkly. The air vibrated with unspoken hunger.
Her father had done this.
The thought alone sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her.
A lifetime of debts, failed schemes, and reckless gambling had led him here—to the point where selling the only thing he had left of value was his final, desperate solution. He had promised it was the only way to keep them both alive, but as she stood beneath the suffocating glow of chandeliers, trembling under the scrutiny of predators, she wondered if death wouldn't have been the kinder fate.
She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the silk fabric of her crimson gown.
The color of blood.
She wanted to run. To vanish. But there was nowhere to go.
And then—her gaze caught on a shadowed corner at the back of the hall.
Her father was there.
Slumped in his chair, shoulders heavy, eyes avoiding hers as if the shame alone might burn him alive. Around him, a few men in expensive suits leaned toward each other, smirking and murmuring cruel jokes about "the man who couldn't even keep his own daughter." The mockery slithered through the air, reaching her like poison.
A tall man in a black tuxedo—the auctioneer—raised his hand.
"Gentlemen, we have reached the final bid of the evening."
A hush settled over the room.
Lilian's pulse roared in her ears.
"A rare gem—young, untouched, and the perfect addition to any collection," the auctioneer said, his tone dripping with false reverence.
"Buy her tonight, and she's completely yours for one year. Believe me, gentlemen—she's worth every cent you spend. And after that year… you will gain back far more than you paid tonight."
Her stomach twisted violently.
A collection? Like she was some priceless painting? A thing to be displayed?
Her nails dug into her palms. She would not cry.
She had learned the hard way—pleading only made the wolves hungrier.
The bidding began.
"One million."
"Two million."
"Five million."
A chair scraped across the marble as someone leaned forward, grinning like a man who'd already won.
Her breath came in short, shallow bursts. The numbers climbed, each bid a tightening noose around her throat.
"Seven million."
"Eight million"
Her vision blurred at the edges. She scanned the room desperately, searching for someone—anyone—with a trace of humanity in their eyes. But the deeper she looked, the more she realized…
There was none.
And then, she saw him.
Killian Blackwood.
A shadow in the back of the room. Unmoving. Watchful.
Unlike the others, he wasn't smirking. He wasn't whispering. He didn't even shift in his seat. He merely sat there, one arm draped over the chair, his icy blue eyes locked on her with unreadable intensity.
A predator surveying his prey.
Lilian had heard whispers of his name before tonight.
The ruthless billionaire.
The king who needed no crown.
The devil himself.
A man who didn't need to bid in an auction like this. He could take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
Yet he sat there, silent.
Waiting.
The auctioneer cleared his throat, hesitating.
"Shall we continue?"
A pause.
A heartbeat.
Then Killian leaned forward.
His voice, when it came, was calm—smooth as silk, cold as death.
"Ten million."
The room went silent.
Even the man with the cigar froze mid-puff.
Lilian's breath hitched.
The gavel came down.
"Sold."
---
The limousine was impossibly quiet.
Lilian sat stiffly in the plush leather seat, her hands trembling in her lap. The vast space between her and Killian felt suffocating, a chasm she dared not cross.
He sat across from her, one hand lazily wrapped around a crystal glass of whiskey he hadn't touched, the other resting on his knee.
He didn't look at her.
Didn't acknowledge her.
As if she wasn't even there.
Yet his presence pressed against her—silent, intense, inescapable.
She clenched her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms. The silence was unbearable.
"What happens now?" she asked, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Killian finally lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable.
"You'll do as you're told."
Lilian's stomach twisted.
"And if I refuse?"
A flicker of amusement ghosted across his face before vanishing.
"You won't."
Her jaw tightened.
"You don't own me."
His gaze darkened, the air around them shifting, crackling.
"Didn't you hear the auctioneer?" His voice was soft, deceptively calm. "I paid for you."
Something inside her cracked.
"You paid for a number. Not a person."
Killian let out a quiet chuckle—dark, low, devoid of humor.
"You're naïve if you think there's a difference."
The car slowed. Through the tinted windows, massive wrought-iron gates loomed ahead, creaking open to reveal a long, winding driveway leading to a mansion that looked more like a fortress. Cold. Imposing. Utterly inescapable.
A home fit for a king.
But to her, it looked like a prison.
The driver opened the door.
She hesitated.
Killian's fingers wrapped around her wrist.
Her pulse skittered wildly at the contact. His grip was firm, unyielding.
"If you run," he murmured, voice brushing over her skin like velvet laced with steel, "I will find you."
A shiver crawled down her spine.
"And when I do..." His thumb brushed over her wrist—not soft, not gentle—just a warning. "You'll wish I hadn't."
Her breath caught.
Then he let her go.
"Out."
Heat flared in her chest. He hadn't even looked at her when he said it.
Like she was nothing.
Like she was just another purchase.
---
The grand foyer swallowed her whole.
Marble floors gleamed beneath her feet, reflecting the golden glow of chandeliers hanging from impossibly high ceilings. The walls were lined with priceless paintings, but she barely noticed them.
Because her mind was fixated on him.
Killian.
He stood beside her, removing his cufflinks with slow, deliberate movements. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, suffocating.
A presence stirred.
A middle-aged woman approached, her expression warm but professional.
"Mr. Blackwood, welcome home."
Killian nodded, barely acknowledging her.
"Clara, this is Lilian. She'll be staying here."
Clara's gaze flickered with understanding.
"Of course, sir."
Lilian's stomach knotted.
"What exactly do you expect from me?" she whispered.
He didn't look at her.
"Obedience."
Her breath stilled. Something about the way he said it—quiet, certain, inevitable—felt like a lock clicking shut.
And despite the fear curling in her chest, she felt it.
The pull.
The silent war neither of them was ready to fight.
But one they both knew was inevitable.
And as she followed him deeper into the mansion, Lilian realized something far more dangerous than fear had begun to take root.
She wasn't sure she wanted to escape him.
Not yet.