"Starting price: five million euros."
The voice echoed like a hammer smashing against my skull from the inside.
Five million.
For whom?
For what?
I tried to swallow, but my throat was bone-dry. The smell of this room was wrong—a sickening blend of expensive cologne, aged alcohol, and something metallic... like old blood that had been scrubbed away but the stench never truly faded.
The stage lights were blindingly bright. Glaring directly into my face until I was nearly blind.
My wrists were bound tightly in front of my body. The coarse ropes chafed my skin raw, stinging every time I tried to move. My ankles were tied too, loose enough to let me stand, but tight enough to ensure I couldn't run without falling like a crippled animal.
"Five million euros for the eldest daughter of the Valente family."
My name wasn't mentioned.
Only my status.
The eldest daughter.
Like I was nothing more than an item specification.
The room in front of me was pitch-black, but I could make out the silhouettes of men lounging in leather chairs. Clad in black suits, arms crossed, some holding small bidding paddles. Their faces half-hidden in the shadows.
Someone chuckled softly.
"Her father died far too soon," another voice remarked. "What a pity."
My heart stopped for a fraction of a second.
What did that mean?
My father was a regular real estate developer. He built office buildings, not cartels. He didn't have shadow-faced enemies like these men. He never—he couldn't have—
"Six million."
My hands clenched into tight fists in front of my stomach.
"This is illegal!" I screamed, my voice cracking, sounding far hoarser than I imagined. "What do you think this is?! A charity auction?!"
Several heads snapped toward me.
An amused murmur rippled through the dark. Someone in the corner even slow-clapped, as if I had just entertained them with a pathetic joke.
"Hasn't she been briefed?" a man from the front row asked.
"No need," the auctioneer replied into the microphone at the edge of the stage. His suit was light gray, his smile as thin as a razor's cut. "Spontaneous reactions always drive up the market value."
Market value.
I drew in a sharp breath. My chest tightened painfully.
"My father is a businessman! If this is about money, my family can pay!" I yelled again. My voice trembled. Dammit. Don't shake. Don't.
The laughter in the room grew louder.
"Eight million."
The numbers were climbing too fast.
Why? Why did they want me?
I bit my lip hard until I tasted the metallic tang of blood. Don't cry. Not now. Not in front of these psychos.
The tears fell anyway.
Not out of fear. But out of sheer rage. Because they spoke about my father as if he were part of this sick, twisted game.
"My father isn't a criminal!" I snapped, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. "You have the wrong person!"
The man with the microphone smiled wider. "Oh, Miss Valente... this world is far darker and much smaller than you think."
What did that mean? Why was he looking at me like I was the most ignorant fool in the room?
"Nine million."
My hands were going numb. With my stiff, bound fingers pressed against my chest, I looked down and twisted a loose strand of hair near my face. A stupid habit when I was nervous. My hair was plastered to my temples with cold sweat.
"Ten million."
The room went dead silent for a second.
Ten million euros. For me.
I wanted to vomit. Whoever was willing to pay that much couldn't possibly have good intentions. The stage lights felt like they were roasting my flesh.
I lifted my chin, forcing myself to stare into the abyss ahead.
"If you think I'm going to submit, you're dead wrong," I hissed viciously, my voice cracking but echoing throughout the room. "I will be the most expensive, most agonizing purchase of your miserable lives."
A few men laughed. Someone wolf-whistled.
Then—
"Twelve million."
The voice was utterly calm.
Not loud. Not trying to be intimidating.
That was exactly what made the entire room fall into sudden, suffocating silence.
That tone... it was too effortless. As if twelve million euros was nothing but a tiny speck on his daily grocery receipt.
I snapped my head toward the sound.
A shadow in the middle row shifted just slightly, enough to reveal a jawline I knew far too well.
No.
Impossible.
My heart was pumping blood too fast now. A high-pitched ringing pierced my ears.
The lights weren't bright enough to expose his face, but there was something about the way he sat. The way he leaned back. The way his broad shoulders were perfectly relaxed, as if he commanded the very air in the room.
"Twelve million euros," the auctioneer repeated. His arrogance had completely vanished; his voice was now steeped in profound respect and caution. "Do I hear a higher bid?"
No one answered immediately.
I held my breath.
The silhouette remained still. Calm. Like he already knew the outcome was set in stone.
And somehow—the sheer terror I felt earlier mutated.
Into something far more personal. Older. Deeper.
I stared at the shadow, my eyes straining.
Please... don't let it be him.