Mister Billionaire's Treasure

The moment consciousness returned, I knew something was wrong.

A suffocating darkness swallowed my vision, thick and absolute, and for one horrifying second I thought I had lost my sight. My chest rose sharply as panic punched through me, but when I tried to blink the darkness away, all I felt was rough fabric scraping against my eyelids. A blindfold. Someone had tightly wrapped a cloth around my eyes, pressing painfully against my temples until sweat began trickling from my forehead down to my cheeks.

My breathing turned uneven.

I stayed motionless, forcing myself to listen.

There were sounds everywhere. Loud music pounded from somewhere beyond the walls, so heavy that the vibrations seemed to crawl beneath my skin. Between the beats came bursts of laughter, the clinking of glasses, muffled voices, and occasional whistles that sounded as if some kind of celebration was happening nearby. Yet despite the lively noise, the room around me felt nothing but hostile. The air smelled foul, a mixture of cigarette smoke, strong alcohol, and something damp that had long been trapped in closed corners. It was cold enough to make my bare arms shiver.

Bare arms?

My brows knitted, but before I could process that detail, a dull ache throbbed at the back of my neck. I inhaled sharply and tried to move, only to realize my body felt stiff, as though I had been sitting in one position for hours.

Memory came back in jagged flashes.

I had just clocked out of the bar after my shift. I remembered stepping outside with my bag hanging over my shoulder, already planning how many hours of sleep I could still steal before class. Then a car had stopped beside me. Black. The door swung open. Hands reached out. I had no time to scream before someone yanked me inside.

There had been too many of them.

I remembered kicking, biting, and cursing until something hard struck my neck.

After that, nothing.

A dry laugh nearly escaped my lips, but it died before it could form.

"Well done, Ruchee," I muttered bitterly to myself. "Kidnapped on a weekday. Very productive."

Humor had always been my emergency exit whenever life cornered me, but this time even sarcasm tasted shaky.

I swallowed hard and tried to think.

Why would anyone abduct me?

If they wanted money, then they were doomed to disappointment. My wallet usually held enough to buy instant noodles and exactly one emotional breakdown.

If they wanted beauty, then I sincerely questioned their standards.

If they wanted my body... I grimaced.

No. I refused to finish that thought.

The only valuable thing I owned was my overworked brain, and unless kidnappers had suddenly developed an interest in unpaid tuition and academic stress, I could not imagine why I was here.

Slowly, I tested my limbs.

My hands were free.

My feet too.

Only my eyes had been restrained.

That single discovery poured a thread of courage into my veins. Whoever brought me here either underestimated me or thought I was too weak to fight back.

Either way, they were stupid.

I raised both hands and fumbled behind my head until my fingers found the knot. It took several tries because of how badly my hands trembled, but eventually the cloth loosened and slid down into my lap.

I blinked repeatedly against the sudden light.

The room around me came into focus little by little, and the first thing I noticed was the color. Gray walls, black floor, dark furniture, dim chandelier. Whoever designed this place clearly had a personal feud with brightness.

Across from me stood a large steel door. Beside it was a circular glass table, polished enough to reflect the weak light above. Other than that, the room was empty, stripped of anything comforting.

No windows.

No decorations.

No softness.

Just enough space to keep someone waiting.

A prison disguised as luxury.

I pushed myself to stand, but my knees almost gave out beneath me. I steadied myself against the wall, breathing slowly until the dizziness passed. Only then did I become aware of the strange coldness brushing against my skin. My fingers instinctively moved to my shoulders, and the moment they touched thin lace, every nerve in my body froze.

I looked down.

For several seconds, I simply stared.

Black lingerie.

That was all I was wearing.

A piece of lace clung shamelessly to my body, exposing far too much skin and barely covering me down to my upper thighs. It looked expensive, indecent, and deeply insulting.

My face burned.

Then anger came.

A furious, scorching heat that rushed from my chest to my fingertips.

Someone had changed my clothes while I was unconscious.

Someone had touched me.

I clenched the blindfold so tightly in my hand that my nails dug into my palm. "Whoever did this," I hissed through gritted teeth, "I swear I will personally escort them to hell."

Pacing helped me breathe, so I began moving around the room despite the weakness in my legs. My mind was racing too fast, jumping from fear to rage to confusion and back again. Every possibility I considered only made things worse.

Had I been trafficked?

Was this ransom?

Black market?

Organ sale?

The ridiculousness of my own thoughts would have been laughable if I were not standing half-naked in a room that smelled like criminal decisions.

I stopped pacing when the image of my younger sister flashed into my mind.

My stomach dropped.

She would be waiting for me.

By now she was probably calling my phone, messaging me, checking the time every few minutes with that worried crease between her brows. I had promised her I would go straight home after work. I always went straight home.

I pressed a hand over my mouth.

No. I could not disappear like this.

She had no one else.

I had no one else.

The steel door stood only a few steps away, and desperation shoved me forward. I was about to try the handle when it suddenly opened on its own.

The burst of music from outside hit me like a slap.

It was deafening now, joined by cheers, whistles, and the shrill screech of a microphone.

Two men entered.

Both were tall, broad, and built like they had never lost a fistfight in their lives. They wore black shirts that stretched over tattooed arms, and on each visible patch of skin was the same design, a serpent winding itself around a sword.

Subtle. Very subtle.

The man with a scar across his cheek looked at me first, and his eyebrows lifted. "So you're finally awake."

I folded my arms over myself, more for dignity than modesty. "Judging by the lingerie, I assumed this was a hotel package."

The other man snorted, though he quickly covered it with a cough.

Scar Cheek shot him a glare before returning his attention to me. "Save the jokes and come with us."

"With you?" I repeated, glancing from one tattooed giant to the other. "That invitation lacks details. Is there food? Compensation? A written apology?"

The second man clearly had less patience. He stepped forward and caught my shoulder.

"Move."

I jerked away from his grip. "Touch me again and you lose the hand."

His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Scar Cheek barked sharply, "Careful!"

The warning was immediate enough that Tattooed Giant released me as though my skin had turned electric.

Scar Cheek lowered his voice, though his eyes flickered nervously. "The boss said no marks. If she gets injured, we're the ones getting buried."

Silence settled for a heartbeat.

I stared at them.

There it was.

Fear.

Not in me.

In them.

These men, who looked capable of snapping necks for recreation, were terrified of someone else.

Boss.

The word settled heavily in my chest.

I lifted my chin, refusing to let them see the panic creeping up my spine. "Since both of you seem dedicated to being mysterious, maybe answer one simple question. Why am I here?"

Neither man spoke.

Scar Cheek merely stepped aside and gestured toward the open doorway.

From outside, a man's amplified voice rang above the music.

"Prepare the next item."

My pulse stopped.

Item?

The two men avoided my gaze.

And in that instant, a sick certainty crawled through me.

I was not here as a guest.

I was not even here as a hostage.

I was something else entirely.

Something being presented.

Something being sold.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The question came out sharper than I intended, though the fear behind it was impossible to hide.

The two men each took one of my arms, their grips firm but strangely cautious, as if I were some fragile object they had been ordered not to damage. The care in their handling did not comfort me. If anything, it made the dread in my stomach spread faster. People only handled things that carefully when those things were expensive.

I swallowed against the sudden wave of nausea rising in my throat.

My head had been spinning since I woke up, but now the dizziness seemed worse. The loud music pounding outside the room mixed horribly with the stench of smoke and alcohol drifting in through the open doorway. I had spent months working in a bar, so I was no stranger to liquor and late-night chaos, but this place felt entirely different. The smell here was heavier, dirtier, as though every sinful thing imaginable had soaked itself into the walls.

"Just walk," the scarred man muttered when I resisted.

His voice held impatience, yet underneath it was something close to unease.

I could have fought. I could have kicked, screamed, bitten, clawed. But my body was not cooperating with the rebellion screaming inside my mind. Weakness kept settling deeper into my limbs, making each breath feel heavier than the last. For now, I let them drag me forward while I silently searched for any chance to escape.

The moment we stepped outside the holding room, blinding lights flashed across my face.

My eyes narrowed.

What waited beyond the steel door was not the underground dungeon I had imagined.

It was a nightclub.

A massive one.

Colored lights spun wildly across the ceiling while deafening music vibrated through the floor. Men and women packed the place shoulder to shoulder, moving like drunken waves beneath the pulsing glow. Some were dancing on elevated platforms, some were shouting over drinks, and others were pressed against walls with mouths fused together as though they had forgotten there were people around them.

I stared in disbelief.

For one absurd second, I wondered if I had somehow been kidnapped into the world's worst after-party.

The men kept leading me forward.

I forced my weak legs to move with them, trying to ignore the humiliating awareness of black lace against my skin. Every passing glance from strangers felt like dirty fingers crawling over my body. Men's eyes lingered too long. Women looked at me with curiosity, pity, or amusement. Not a single person seemed surprised to see a half-dressed woman being escorted through the crowd.

That realization chilled me more than the air-conditioning.

This was normal here.

Whatever this place was, people were used to scenes like this.

The music became more suffocating as we pushed deeper through the sea of bodies. Cigarette smoke curled above our heads like poison trapped beneath the lights, and with every breath I took, my dizziness worsened. The room seemed to sway left and right, though I knew it was only me.

I needed to stay conscious.

I needed to find an exit.

I scanned every corner desperately, hoping to see a door, a staircase, anything that looked remotely like freedom. Instead, all I saw was decadence wrapped in filth. A woman laughed breathlessly while perched on a stranger's lap. Another man was pinning a girl against one of the pillars, his hands roaming shamelessly over her exposed skin. Everywhere I looked, there were bodies colliding, mouths devouring, hands claiming.

I had worked in nightlife long enough to know bars came in different classes.

Mine served drinks and overpriced cocktails.

This one served human dignity on a silver platter.

"This place is revolting," I muttered under my breath.

Neither of the men answered.

We continued walking until we reached what looked like the main exit, though two figures blocking the doorway made me question whether the word exit held any real meaning in this building.

A woman was leaning lazily against the wall, her dark hair falling over one shoulder while a man stood scandalously close behind her. His hands were still resting at her waist, and judging by the satisfied smile on her lips, we had interrupted something neither of them had any shame about.

The woman glanced at us and arched a brow. Her eyes slid over me, slow and assessing, before a smirk tugged at the corner of her painted mouth.

"Well," she drawled, "is this tonight's special delivery?"

I stiffened.

Scar Cheek checked his watch before giving her an irritated look. "Maze, move. It's time."

So her name was Maze.

Fitting. She looked exactly like the kind of woman who could lead men into destruction and enjoy watching them get lost.

She clicked her tongue dramatically and peeled herself away from the man behind her. "Interrupting me in the middle of entertainment should be a punishable offense."

"The boss will give us all the punishment we need if we're late," the other man replied.

That single sentence erased Maze's teasing smile almost instantly.

Interesting.

Even she feared this mysterious boss.

Her gaze returned to me, and this time there was unmistakable curiosity in it. "So this is the one?"

I hated the way she said the one, as if I were livestock being inspected.

Before anyone could answer, I felt another pair of eyes on me.

I turned.

The man beside Maze was staring.

Not at my face.

Lower.

Humiliation struck me so hard I nearly stopped breathing. I folded my arms tighter over myself, but the flimsy lingerie offered no protection from his shameless gaze. Heat stung the corners of my eyes, and for one terrible second I thought I might cry.

I bit the inside of my cheek until the urge vanished.

No.

I would not cry here.

I would not let these people feast on my fear.

Maze seemed to notice my discomfort because she rolled her eyes at the man and shoved his shoulder. "Control yourself. She's not for you."

Not for you.

The words did nothing to reassure me.

If anything, they made everything worse.

The door in front of us creaked open.

Cold air spilled out from the other side, carrying with it a completely different sound. The music from the nightclub dimmed behind us, replaced by a distant murmur of voices and the metallic echo of a microphone.

My body tensed.

Whatever lay beyond this door was where they had truly been taking me all along.

Suddenly, the weakness in my limbs intensified. My knees buckled, and the floor tilted beneath me. I caught myself before collapsing, but black dots had already begun dancing across my vision.

This was no longer simple dizziness.

Something was wrong with me.

Very wrong.

I sucked in a breath and tasted something bitter at the back of my throat.

Drugged.

The realization hit like ice water.

They had put something inside my system.

No wonder my body felt detached, my thoughts sluggish, my strength draining away with every passing minute.

I tried to force myself upright, but my muscles no longer listened the way they should. Voices around me became muffled, as though I had been plunged underwater. Maze was saying something. One of the men cursed. The open doorway in front of us blurred into a smear of silver light.

Then I heard footsteps.

Slow.

Measured.

Different from everyone else's.

A strange silence seemed to ripple through the people around me, and even through my fading senses, I felt it, the sudden shift in atmosphere, the kind that happened when someone important arrived.

I fought to keep my eyes open.

Through the haze, I saw only a tall figure in a black tuxedo approaching us.

His face was nothing but a blur.

Yet somehow, his presence felt terrifyingly clear.

Power.

That was the only word my fogged mind could cling to.

The men holding me straightened immediately.

Maze lowered her head.

Even the nightclub noise behind us seemed to fade into nothing.

He stopped in front of me.

I wanted to step back.

I wanted to ask who he was.

Instead, my knees finally gave in.

Just before darkness swallowed me whole, I felt a hand catch my waist, steady and unhurried, followed by a low voice brushing against my ear like a promise carved from danger.

"Endure it a little longer," he murmured. "Soon enough, you'll be exactly where I want you."

And then I lost consciousness.

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.