Chapter 1 Sold to the Stranger

The chandeliers above Isla Hart glittered like constellations, bathing the velvet-draped ballroom in an opulent, golden glow. But the light didn't reach her. Not truly. Not where she stood-center stage, alone, elevated like a prize, a possession.

A lamb wrapped in silk, dressed for slaughter.

Her gown clung to her like a whisper she never consented to. Satin. Backless. Red, like sin. The neckline plunged lower than dignity allowed, and her heels wobbled on the polished marble floor as her trembling legs begged for escape.

But there was no escape.

Only the stage.

The men.

And the voice that had just labeled her as Lot #73.

> "Virgin. Twenty-two. Educated. Beautiful."

Her father's words, fed to the announcer like credentials. Isla's stomach twisted. She wanted to scream, wanted to run, wanted to tear the dress from her body and the spotlight from her skin.

But she had already tried to run.

And the bruises on her arms beneath the sleeves reminded her what happened when she tried.

The room was full of men. Men in masks. Men in tailored suits. Men whose eyes glinted behind anonymity and power. Their voices were low, murmuring, hungry.

The announcer stepped forward, lifting a gloved hand.

"Gentlemen," he purred into the microphone, "our final offering tonight is something truly rare. Untouched. Untamed. A purebred rose in a world of weeds."

The crowd chuckled.

Isla's fists clenched behind her back, her nails biting into her palms. Rage flared in her throat, but she swallowed it. Rage wouldn't protect her. Nothing would.

> Not even her father.

"You'll thank me one day," he'd said just hours ago.

"He's saving our legacy, Isla. You'll live like a queen."

A queen in a cage.

...

The velvet curtain behind her drew open slowly, revealing her fully to the bidders.

A thousand eyes locked on her.

The moment was frozen in silence-sickening, suffocating silence until someone in the crowd let out a low whistle.

Isla didn't flinch. She kept her chin high, even as the shame crawled over her skin like heat from a flame.

"Let's begin at one million dollars," the announcer said. "Shall we?"

A voice rang out:

"One point five!"

Another:

"Two million!"

"Two point five!"

"Three-"

The numbers climbed. Her heart dropped.

Every bid was a nail in her coffin.

Every voice sealed her fate.

She searched the room, desperate to find one face-just one-that looked human. But they were all wearing masks. All faceless monsters in silk and steel.

All except one.

In the back of the room, beneath a spotlight that didn't touch him, sat a man without a mask.

He didn't bid.

Didn't shift.

Didn't speak.

He simply watched.

His eyes-pale blue, cold and cruel-pierced straight through her. He looked at her not with lust. Not even amusement.

He looked at her like he already owned her.

---

"Five million!" someone shouted.

The announcer raised his brow. "Five million! Any other takers?"

The man in the back leaned forward slightly.

"Ten."

Just one word. Spoken calmly. With no flair. No flourish.

But it shattered the room.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Isla's breath caught in her throat. Every heartbeat thudded painfully in her ears.

Ten million dollars.

The announcer sputtered. "T-Ten million? Do I hear eleven? Anyone?"

No one dared.

Not when they saw who had spoken.

Not when they realized who the man was.

Even Isla knew the name.

> Damien Blackwood.

Media titan. Real estate tycoon. Billionaire. Brutal. Private. Untouchable.

And now-her highest bidder.

"Going once... going twice..." the announcer said, voice thick with disbelief.

A final pause.

"Sold."

The gavel slammed down.

It sounded like a prison door.

---

They led her off stage in silence.

The hallway behind the ballroom was cold and narrow. Guards flanked her on either side, their expressions blank. A man in a gray suit handed her a thick envelope and a silver pen.

"Sign," he said, not bothering to look at her.

The contract shook in her hands.

It wasn't long. A single page. All the details had already been arranged behind closed doors. All she had to do now was obey.

"Sign it," came a voice behind her. Deep. Smooth. Absolute.

She turned.

Damien Blackwood stood at the end of the hall, his towering frame draped in black. No tie. Collar open. Hands in his pockets. Power radiated off him like heat from an open flame.

He looked like the devil. And she had just been sold to him.

Her pulse thudded.

He walked toward her slowly, each step deliberate.

His voice was low when he stopped in front of her. "This isn't a fairy tale, Isla. You're not Cinderella. I'm not your prince. You were bought. To pay a debt."

Her voice shook. "Then why ten million?"

His eyes darkened.

"Because I don't like to share."

He reached for her hand. Not to hold it. To guide it. He placed the pen between her fingers and angled it toward the page.

"You sign," he said softly, "or I erase your father's name from the world."

She stared up at him, breath catching.

"You'd really do that?"

"I've done worse."

She should've screamed. Should've fought. But what was the point?

Isla Hart didn't exist anymore.

She was an asset. A pawn. A woman sold to a man who didn't believe in love, only control.

Her fingers moved.

She signed.

Each letter sliced into the paper like a blade across her freedom.

---

When it was over, he took the contract, folded it once, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

She stared at him.

"What now?" she asked quietly.

He turned.

"Now," he said over his shoulder, "you will learn the rules."

He didn't wait for her to follow.

She followed anyway.

Because there was nowhere else to go.