Chapter 3 The Highest Bid

When consciousness slowly returned, the first thing that reached me was the sound of clinking glasses and low conversations blending into one unsettling murmur. Men were talking somewhere beyond my line of sight, some laughing in deep satisfied tones, others speaking with the ease of people gathered for leisure. There was no pounding nightclub music this time, no flashing lights, only the contained noise of an audience waiting for something to begin.

My head throbbed the moment I tried to lift it. A sharp ache spread from my neck down to my shoulders, and I sucked in a breath, only to realize that even the smallest movement felt unnaturally difficult. My body was weak, far weaker than it should have been, as though all strength had drained from my limbs while I was unconscious. Instinctively, I tried to move my arms, but the sudden metallic rattle above me made my eyes widen in alarm.

Cold steel cuffs encircled both of my wrists and held them high above my head. I was pinned upright against a metal frame, my ankles restrained just enough to keep me from making any proper attempt to run or kick. I pulled once in panic, but the rough scrape of the chains against my skin sent a sting so painful that I immediately stopped. Red marks had already formed around my wrists, and the sight of them made the reality of my situation settle heavier inside my chest.

I forced myself to breathe more slowly, though panic was already spreading through me like poison. Thick black curtains surrounded me on almost every side, hiding whatever lay outside except for faint strips of golden light leaking in from the front. It took me another second to realize that my narrowed vision came from the mask fastened over the upper half of my face. Whoever arranged this had taken the trouble not only to chain me in place, but to dress me for display.

The black lace lingerie still clung to my body, humiliatingly thin and useless against the cold air. I felt exposed in a way I had never experienced before, and the realization that I had once again been moved while unconscious made my stomach twist.

Something was terribly wrong.

The dizziness had not fully left me. Beneath the panic and humiliation was that same floating weakness from earlier, the sensation that my body was no longer entirely under my command. My thoughts were slower, my muscles sluggish, my breaths uneven. There was no denying it anymore. They had drugged me, and whatever was in my system had not yet worn off.

I shut my eyes briefly and tried to gather the scattered pieces of memory. I remembered the two tattooed men dragging me through the nightclub, Maze opening another door for us, and the moment my knees had nearly given out. Most of everything after that was blurred, but one image remained strangely vivid in my mind: a tall man in a black tuxedo walking toward me with measured calm, as though everyone else in the room bent around his presence. I still remembered his voice too, low and composed, the kind of voice that made disobedience feel dangerous.

Before I could think further, a microphone screeched to life somewhere beyond the curtains.

The crowd answered with cheers.

Every muscle in my body tightened.

The voice that followed belonged to a man whose tone was far too cheerful for my liking, polished and practiced like a professional host entertaining wealthy guests. He welcomed everyone with the same excitement one would use for a prestigious event, and as he continued speaking, my eyes slowly moved over my own restraints, the black curtains, the spotlight seeping in from the front, and the lace covering almost nothing of me.

A cold realization formed in my chest with terrifying clarity.

This was a stage.

And I was whatever they had gathered to see.

I stared down at the chains biting into my wrists, trying to reject the conclusion that was forcing itself into my mind, but the announcer's next words destroyed the last of my denial. He spoke of a special presentation, of something rare, valuable, and worth every cent that would soon be offered. The audience reacted with eager whistles and amused chuckles, and the eagerness in those voices made my blood run cold.

They were waiting for a person.

They were waiting for me.

My breathing became shallow as horror crept over every inch of my skin. I had not been kidnapped for ransom. I had not been taken because of some personal grudge. I was here for one reason only, and it was so monstrous that my mind resisted accepting it.

I was being auctioned.

A weak laugh almost escaped me, but it came out sounding broken. The idea was too absurd, too inhuman, yet there was no longer any room to pretend otherwise. I was chained in lingerie behind curtains while wealthy strangers sat outside with drinks in their hands.

There was no other explanation.

The front curtain began to rise, and I felt my entire body go rigid.

Light spilled over me first, bright enough to make me squint. Then, as the curtain lifted completely, the full sight of the hall unfolded before my eyes and stripped every remaining breath from my lungs.

It was enormous.

A circular chamber designed with obscene luxury, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, polished black floors gleaming beneath layers of golden light, and rows of velvet seats ascending around the central stage where I had been placed like a centerpiece. Every seat was occupied by men in expensive suits and elaborate masks, some swirling wine in crystal glasses, others leaning back with the detached ease of people who had done this too many times before.

All of them were staring at me.

Not one pair of eyes held sympathy.

Their gazes traveled openly over my body, over the chains, over the lingerie, and the hunger in those looks made my knees tremble. I had never felt so stripped of dignity in my entire life. It was as if my existence had been peeled down to skin and price.

The announcer stepped into view at the side of the stage, smiling broadly into his microphone as if nothing about this was grotesque.

He introduced me to the crowd with details that made the hall erupt into louder whistles. A hardworking college student. Untouched. Fresh. Every word that left his mouth made me feel less human. I bit my lower lip hard, trying to suppress the tears threatening to spill, but humiliation and terror were becoming impossible to hold back.

The bidding began at five hundred thousand dollars.

The first few offers came almost immediately, shouted from different corners of the hall in voices filled with amusement. Five hundred fifty thousand. Six hundred thousand. One million. The numbers climbed with terrifying speed, and each increase made the room louder. Men who had never met me, men who did not know my name beyond what was spoken for their entertainment, were tossing away amounts of money larger than anything I could imagine as if they were selecting wine.

I could only stare.

The absurdity of it mixed violently with fear. I wanted to scream that I was a person, not a commodity. I wanted to beg them to stop looking at me as though I were some exotic animal they could own. Yet my throat felt too tight for any sound to emerge.

The numbers continued to rise until they no longer sounded real to me. Millions turned to billions, and eventually the announcer lifted a hand, repeating the latest offer of one hundred billion dollars with dramatic satisfaction.

I thought perhaps that would be the end of it. No one in the hall seemed eager to challenge such a monstrous amount, and for one brief second I foolishly believed the nightmare had reached its highest point.

Then a deep voice cut cleanly through the silence.

"Eight hundred billion."

Every head in the room turned.

Mine did too.

At the far end of the hall, standing near a towering black door, was a man dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo. A silver mask concealed the upper half of his face, but even at a distance there was something about him that instantly separated him from every other person in the room. He stood with one hand inside his trouser pocket while the other lazily held a glass of red wine, his posture so calm that it made the impossible number he had just spoken sound almost casual.

No one protested.

In fact, the reaction of the room was far more telling than the bid itself.

The men who had been shouting prices moments ago had gone unnaturally quiet. Some shifted in visible discomfort. Others lowered their eyes altogether.

They were afraid of him.

The man slowly tilted the wine glass between his fingers, never once removing his gaze from me. Even from across the hall, I could feel the unsettling steadiness of that stare. It was not the hungry lust the others carried. It was something colder, more deliberate, as if he had already decided my fate before entering the room.

The announcer attempted a strained laugh, but it dissolved when the man spoke again.

"If that amount seems lacking," he said in a voice smooth enough to make my skin tighten, "then let us save everyone's time."

He lifted the glass to his lips, took an unhurried sip, and lowered it.

"Twelve zeros."

A stunned gasp rippled across the chamber.

My mouth parted, but no sound came out.

A trillion.

For me.

I should have been incapable of understanding it, yet what shook me was not the number itself. It was the terrible certainty settling in my chest as I stared at him.

I had just been bought by the only man powerful enough to silence an entire room full of monsters.

And something in the way he looked at me told me this was not an impulsive purchase.

He had come here for me.