Chapter 3

CLARA STONE POV:

The apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. Every polished surface, every piece of art, every thread of the expensive rugs screamed Jakob's lies. I walked through the rooms, a ghost in my own home, the silence amplifying the echo of their cruel laughter.

Later that evening, the front door clicked open. Jakob' s familiar, confident footsteps echoed in the foyer. My heart didn't flutter; it seized, a knot of ice in my chest. I forced a smile onto my face, a brittle masquerade.

"Clara, my darling," he called out, his voice smooth as silk, utterly devoid of the venom I' d heard just hours ago. He walked into the living room, shedding his expensive jacket, his eyes sweeping over me with a possessive gaze. "You look... pensive. Long day?" He leaned in to kiss my forehead, and I flinched internally, fighting the urge to recoil. His touch felt like a violation.

"Just tired," I murmured, pulling away subtly. "The gala preparations, you know."

He nodded, already distracted. "Right, the gala. It' s going to be spectacular. The pinnacle of my career." He walked to the bar, pouring himself a drink. "Here, you look like you need something to unwind." He held out a crystal glass, filled with a pale, amber liquid. "A special blend. Helps with sleep."

My eyes narrowed imperceptibly. A special blend. My gut screamed. My mind flashed back to Alden' s words: "We drug her champagne." Was this it? So soon?

"No, thank you," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "I' m not really in the mood for alcohol. Just tea."

Jakob' s smile didn' t falter, but a subtle hardening entered his eyes. "Nonsense. You' ve been stressed. One small nightcap won' t hurt. Come on, for me." He pressed the glass into my hand, his grip firm, leaving no room for refusal.

My hand trembled slightly as I lifted it. The scent was sweet, cloying. I took a small sip. The liquid slid down my throat, coating it with a strange, metallic aftertaste. A wave of dizziness, subtle at first, then more pronounced, swept over me. My eyelids felt heavy.

"That' s better," Jakob said, his arm sliding around my waist. The touch was repulsive. "You' ll sleep like a baby. We have a big day tomorrow."

He led me to the bedroom. I felt like a puppet, my limbs heavy, my mind foggy. I dimly registered him helping me into bed, his soft murmurs, then the darkness descended, thick and suffocating.

I stirred, floating in a haze of confusion. My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes. My body felt heavy, alien. A sense of unease, a feeling of being watched, prickled my skin. I tried to move, but my muscles felt like lead.

Then I heard voices. Muffled at first, then clearer. They were coming from the living room. Jakob, Alden... and others.

I forced my eyes open. Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the room in shades of silver and grey. Slowly, painfully, I sat up. My gaze fell on the small, framed photo on my bedside table-a picture of Jakob and me, smiling, arm in arm. I snatched it, my fingers tracing the outline of the frame, and felt a tiny, almost imperceptible bump on the back.

My heart pounded. I flipped the frame over. Glued to the back was a miniature camera lens, barely larger than a pinpoint, wired to a tiny transmitter. My blood ran cold. They were watching me. Not just tonight, but always. This wasn't just a hidden USB drive; it was systematic surveillance.

A surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp, cut through the fog of the sedative. I needed to see. Needed to know. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers clumsy. With shaking hands, I carefully detached the device, then, using a QR code found on its side, I connected it to my phone. A live feed flickered to life. My breath hitched.

The camera was positioned perfectly, capturing the entire living room. Jakob was there, his face flushed with wine, a triumphant smirk plastered across his face. Alden sat opposite him, cool and collected. And then, I saw them. Two other men, faces vaguely familiar from company events, laughing, their eyes predatory. And a woman. A beautiful, striking woman with sharp features and a cold glint in her eyes. Jakob' s cousin, Lydia. I' d always felt an odd tension from her, a thinly veiled animosity. Now, I understood.

"She' s out cold, right?" Lydia asked, her voice sharp. "That sedative you gave her last night was strong enough to fell an ox."

Jakob chuckled. "Oh, she' s out. She' ll be sleeping until noon. Wouldn't want her interrupting our little... gathering."

My stomach churned. So it wasn' t just the nightcap. It was a prolonged, calculated incapacitation. And they had been doing this for a while. The constant fatigue, the headaches I'd dismissed as stress.

"The 'liability file' is ready," Alden stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "All the evidence of Clara' s 'corporate espionage' – doctored emails, fabricated transfers to offshore accounts – it' s all set. Timed to drop right after the gala, after the acquisition is finalized."

"Excellent," Lydia purred, her eyes raking over the room, over my things, with undisguised contempt. "And the child? The little inconvenience?"

Jakob waved a dismissive hand. "Irrelevant. I told her I didn' t want kids. She pushed for it. Her problem, not mine."

"But it complicates things," Marcus, one of the two men, interjected. He was eyeing the camera, a smirk on his face. "A pregnant woman being framed? Not a good look for the brand, Jakob."

Lydia leaned forward, her voice a low hiss. "We have a plan for that too. After the gala, after she' s publicly discredited, a little... 'accident' will take care of the rest. A fall, perhaps. Or a sudden, tragic illness. Nothing traceable."

My blood froze. They weren't just planning to ruin me. They were planning to kill me. And my baby.

"And then," Marcus said, licking his lips, his eyes fixed on the camera lens, "once she' s 'gone,' her assets can be liquidated. And what about... her body?" His voice was suggestive, chilling.

Jakob laughed. "Marcus, always the opportunist. We' ll discuss that later. There' s a certain clientele interested in... unique experiences. High-end, discreet. You know the type."

A new man, tall and muscular, with cold, unblinking eyes, stepped into the frame. He carried a small, medical-looking bag. "The sample for the 'test' is ready," he said, his voice flat.

"Ah, good," Lydia said, a predatory glint in her eyes. "Our little artist needs to be... prepared. We need to ensure she' s ready for the bidding."

Bidding? My mind reeled. What bidding?

"The 'victim auction' is gaining traction," Alden informed Jakob. "Clientele are highly interested in a woman of her... background. An artist, sensitive, recently disgraced. Adds to the allure, apparently."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Victim auction. They weren't just killing me; they were selling me. Selling my body, my very being, to the highest bidder for their depraved entertainments.

"And the ultimate humiliation," Lydia added, a triumphant smile spreading across her face, "is that she' ll never know. We' ll wipe her memory, make her compliant. A blank slate for their pleasure."

The man with the medical bag approached the camera, his hand reaching out. I watched in horror as he carefully extracted some of my hair from the bed, then took a small swab from my cheek. My heart pounded, a frantic drum against my ribs. They were collecting my DNA. My very essence, to be packaged and sold.

"She' s completely under," he confirmed, his voice clinical. "No memory of this will remain. We' ll ensure she' s perfectly compliant for the main event."

Jakob and Alden exchanged a triumphant look. "The gala," Jakob said, raising his glass. "The perfect stage. Her grand finale, before her new... career begins."

My vision swam. My body felt cold, clammy. I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle a scream. The horror was too immense, too profound. They were not just betraying me; they were erasing me. Erasing my identity, my will, my very existence.

A sudden noise from the hallway. Jakob's head snapped up. "Someone' s coming!"

Panic flared through me. I fumbled to disconnect the camera, to hide the device. My fingers were clumsy, numb with terror. I stuffed the camera back into the photo frame, replacing it on the table just as the bedroom door creaked open.

Jakob stood there, his eyes scanning the room. My heart hammered. I forced my breathing to even out, my eyes to close, feigning deep sleep.

He walked over, his shadow falling over me. I felt his presence, cold and menacing. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. "Sweet dreams, Clara. Enjoy the last few nights of your freedom." He straightened, then left, pulling the door shut behind him.

I lay there, rigid, listening to the muffled voices from the living room slowly fade, then the front door clicking shut. They were gone.

Slowly, deliberately, I opened my eyes. The adrenaline coursed through me, burning away the last vestiges of the sedative. I was awake. And I was no longer afraid. Only cold. And calculating.

I reached for my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. I needed more than just a camera. I needed everything. I located Jakob' s personal safe, hidden behind a false panel in his study. The combination, a date he thought only he remembered, was etched into my memory. Our first date. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth.

Inside, among stacks of legal documents and foreign bonds, I found another phone. Not his sleek business phone, but an older model, discreetly tucked away. I knew Jakob. He always had a burner. I powered it on. No password. He truly believed he had nothing to hide from me.

I scrolled through the apps. Normal stuff, then a hidden folder. I tapped it. A series of encrypted messaging apps appeared. My breath hitched. I clicked on the most frequently used one. A group chat. Labeled: "Victim Auction."