Chapter 4

CLARA STONE POV:

The words "Victim Auction" seared themselves into my mind, burning away any last flicker of doubt. My fingers, surprisingly steady now, tapped the chat icon. The screen flooded with messages, each one a fresh stab to my heart, a new layer of horror.

It was a bidding war. For me.

"Jakob, is she softened up enough yet? Heard she' s been drugged for days."

"The artist' s despair adds a unique flavor. What' s the opening bid?"

"I' m in for 5 million. I prefer her when she' s... compliant."

My breath hitched. Five million. For me. For my broken, compliant body. My identity, my soul, reduced to a commodity, a twisted trophy for depraved men.

I scrolled further, my eyes flying over the grotesque messages. There were detailed discussions about my "specifications," my "condition," the specific "fantasies" of the bidders. One message, from a user identified only as "The Collector," made my blood run cold. It outlined a "pre-gala booking" for a private session.

Pre-gala booking. I remembered the man with the medical bag, the one who took my samples. My memory from my drugged state was hazy, but a primal scream ripped through my silent mind. They had already used me. While I was unconscious. The horror was an icy vise around my chest.

"Don' t worry, gentlemen," a message from Jakob read, his username "The Master" appearing at the top of the chat. "She' s almost ready. The grand finale is at the gala. After that, she' s all yours. The highest bidder will have her within 24 hours. Consider her a limited-edition, freshly broken work of art."

A new bid flashed across the screen: "7 million from The Baron. He insists on a 'virgin' experience, memory wiped, completely docile."

Jakob' s reply was swift and chilling. "Consider it done, Baron. Alden is personally overseeing the 'recalibration.' She' ll be utterly blank slate. A perfect companion."

Memory wiped. They weren't just selling me; they were erasing me. Erasing Clara Stone. My art, my memories, my very essence. I would be a shell, an empty vessel.

Then, Lydia, her username "The Empress," chimed in: "The little inconvenience has been dealt with. No more messy distractions. An ultrasound image was... problematic. It has been taken care of."

My eyes darted down. Below her message, a small thumbnail image. I clicked it.

It was an ultrasound photo. My ultrasound photo. The tiny, blurry image of the life I had once carried within me. And scrawled across it, in bold red letters, was a single, mocking word: "VOID."

My chest seized. My baby. My child. They hadn' t just intended to kill it; they had already done it. While I was drugged, while I was unconscious. The sedatives weren't just to make me sleep; they were to ensure my compliance as they murdered my unborn child.

A guttural cry clawed its way up my throat, but I bit it back, tasting blood. My body trembled, every nerve ending screaming in agony. This wasn' t just a game to them. This was unimaginable evil.

The gala. The grand finale. It wasn't just my humiliation; it was the final act before my forced disappearance, my ultimate destruction. They planned to present me, like a prize, to their depraved clientele.

A surge of cold, pure rage, unlike anything I had ever known, washed over me. It numbed the pain, sharpened my focus. They thought they could erase me? They thought they could dispose of me and my child, then profit from my despair?

No. Not anymore.

I began to work, a silent, methodical machine. Screenshots. Every single message. Every bid. Every vile plan. I transferred them to a secure cloud server, then to a burner phone I kept hidden for emergencies. I copied the stolen code, the metadata, everything. Backup after backup. Every piece of evidence they thought they had hidden, I now possessed.

The distant rumble of Jakob' s car pulling into the garage jolted me. He was back. I had minutes. I quickly deleted my browsing history, powered off the burner phone, and tucked it deep within a hidden lining in my art bag. I returned Jakob' s burner phone to his safe, leaving no trace. I smoothed my hair, took a deep breath, and forced my face into a mask of placid exhaustion.

The front door opened. "Clara, darling!" Jakob' s voice, artificially bright, echoed through the apartment. "Guess who' s back? My dear cousin Lydia! She' s flying in tonight, just for the gala. We' re throwing a pre-gala party for her. You' ll be ecstatic, I know."

My blood ran cold. Lydia, the architect of my unborn child' s murder, was here. Now.

I walked into the living room, my steps unnaturally light. "A party? Tonight?" I feigned surprise, a small, weary smile on my face. "Oh, Jakob, I' m so tired. I don' t think I can."

His charming smile vanished, replaced by a steely glint in his eyes. "Don' t be ridiculous. Lydia flew all this way. You' ll be there. You' ll be happy. You' ll be the perfect hostess. Understand?" His voice dropped, a low, dangerous growl. "Don' t make me regret my choices, Clara."

He stepped closer, his hand gripping my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. The pain was sharp, but I met his gaze, my eyes calm, devoid of any fear. He was testing me. He was asserting his control.

"Of course, Jakob," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Whatever you wish."

He released my arm, a triumphant smirk returning to his face. "Good girl. Now go. Get dressed. Look stunning. Tonight is important."

I turned, my back to him, and walked to the bedroom. My heart was a block of ice, but my mind was a whirlwind of calculations. They wanted a show. They wanted me at the gala, where they would sell me, break me, erase me.

But they had no idea. Tonight, I was merely playing my part. I was walking into their trap, yes. But I was no longer the prey. I was the hunter. And the gala would not be my grand finale. It would be theirs.