Prisoners Of Love

Liana Cruz had never believed in fate-until the night it sold her to the highest bidder.

The room was cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Liana stood barefoot on a small, raised stage, surrounded by faceless shadows cloaked in smoke and whispers. A red velvet blindfold covered her eyes, but she didn't need sight to know what kind of eyes watched her now-hungry, powerful, and cruel.

Her wrists were bound in front of her with a silver ribbon, tight enough to leave soft red marks on her pale skin. The silk dress they forced her to wear clung to her trembling frame, the slit riding high on one thigh as if she were merchandise. Which, in this moment, she was.

Her pulse beat wildly in her ears, loud enough to drown out most of the murmuring around her, but she caught snatches-words she never wanted to hear again.

"Is she the virgin?"

"Too thin, but exotic face."

"She looks scared. I like that."

The voice of the auctioneer rose above the crowd, smooth and unfeeling.

"Lot Number Seventeen. Nineteen years old. Educated, obedient, untouched. A rare jewel indeed."

Liana's knees buckled slightly, but she forced herself to stay upright. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her fall.

They had taken everything-her phone, her clothes, her dignity. All that remained was the fire burning behind her ribs. A quiet defiance she refused to surrender, even if no one could see it anymore.

"Starting bid: One million dollars."

A hush fell over the room, and then the bidding began.

"One point two," a man barked, his voice slurred with drink.

"Two million," said another, laughing like it was a game.

Liana's stomach twisted.

She felt like she might vomit.

Then came a silence that felt different-sharp, tense. It came just before a voice she would never forget, not even in the quietest corners of sleep.

"Five million," said the stranger.

It was calm. Cold. Deep. As if carved from marble and shadow.

The room stilled.

Gasps. Murmurs. Someone chuckled nervously.

"Sir, perhaps you'd like to-"

"Five. Million," the man repeated. "Withdraw the rest."

No one else spoke. Not even the auctioneer dared push.

A moment later, the gavel fell like thunder on the wooden podium.

"Sold."

And just like that, Liana Cruz was no longer a person.

She was a possession.

---

She didn't know how much time passed before she was pulled from the stage. Her legs were too weak to hold her. She didn't resist when the strong arms lifted her, but she tensed at the feel of warm breath near her ear.

"I just bought you," the voice murmured, barely louder than a whisper. "And now you belong to me."

Liana's whole body went rigid.

It was him. The man with the voice like frost and fire.

"Put me down," she hissed, struggling in his grip. "I'm not yours. I don't care how much money you threw at those monsters-"

"You'll speak when spoken to," he cut in, his tone sharp but unnervingly calm.

She opened her mouth to argue again, but something about his grip stopped her. He wasn't touching her violently-yet somehow, it was clear he could. He carried her like one would carry a fragile box that might shatter or explode.

"Let me go," she growled, teeth clenched.

A low laugh escaped him, but it held no joy.

"You want to run?" he said softly. "Fine. But know this-if you escape, the next place you'll be auctioned will make this look like a charity ball."

She stilled.

Because she believed him.

He carried her into a long corridor, lit by golden chandeliers and framed paintings of men who looked like they never smiled. The air smelled of money and blood.

He didn't say another word until they reached a sleek, black car waiting at the back of the estate. A man in a suit held the door open, not once meeting Liana's eyes.

Inside, the air was heavy with silence.

The stranger-her buyer-sat beside her, legs crossed, fingers steepled under his chin. He had removed her blindfold just before entering the car, and now she could see him clearly.

He looked... too perfect.

Dark hair, sharply cut. Piercing grey eyes. Clean-shaven jawline and a mouth set in a permanent frown. He wore black-of course-and sat like someone used to commanding rooms and people without ever raising his voice.

Liana had never seen a man look so dangerous without even moving.

She tore her gaze away, disgusted at the flutter in her stomach. It wasn't attraction. It was fear. It had to be fear.

He studied her for a long while before speaking.

"You're not what I expected," he said quietly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry I'm not your perfect doll," she spat.

"Good. Dolls don't survive in my world."

She looked at him sharply. "Then why buy me? What do you want from me?"

His eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't answer.

Then he said, "Revenge."

---

Liana stared at him, heart hammering again.

"Revenge?" she echoed. "I don't even know you."

"No," he said, eyes locked on hers, "but your family does."

She flinched.

He leaned back, watching her as if expecting something-recognition, maybe. But her mind raced blank. Her mother was dead. Her father had disappeared years ago. She had no brothers, no real family to speak of.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "Who are you?"

He gave her a long, unreadable look before finally answering.

"My name is Damian Blackthorn."

The name hit like ice water.

Her heart skipped.

The Blackthorns were more rumor than reality. A family whispered about in criminal circles, said to control more than half of the illegal trades running through the city-arms, secrets, and blood.

She swallowed.

"You think someone in my family hurt you?"

"I don't think," he said coldly. "I know."

He turned to the tinted window, ending the conversation as swiftly as it began.

Liana sat frozen in the silence that followed, her heart thudding like a drumbeat in a cage. She didn't know what was worse-the fact that she'd been bought like property... or the fact that she might truly be a prisoner of a man who didn't want her love or obedience.

Only her pain.

And now, fate had chained them together.

The car rolled to a stop in front of something that could only be described as a fortress.

Liana had seen mansions on TV, but this was beyond anything she could've imagined - black iron gates taller than most buildings, security cameras tucked under marble gargoyles, and walls so high they seemed to touch the sky. The estate behind them was cold, modern, and heartless, like its owner.

She didn't say a word as they passed through the gates, but she gripped her dress tightly, knuckles turning white.

Whatever was coming, she had to survive it.

The car door opened. Damian stepped out first, then turned and offered a hand.

She stared at it like it was a knife.

"I can walk," she said.

"Then walk," he replied flatly, lowering his hand.

Liana slid out, her bare feet touching the gravel. She winced, but didn't complain. She wouldn't let him see her weakness. Not again.

Two men in black suits stood at the door. One of them - a younger man with sharp eyes and a scar along his neck - gave her a brief glance before nodding at Damian.

"Everything's ready, sir."

"Good," Damian said. Then, to her: "Follow me."

He didn't wait for her to obey. He turned and walked through the door like a man who had never once needed to look back. Liana hesitated, just for a moment, but followed. She didn't have a choice.

Inside, the mansion was made of shadow and silence. High ceilings, dark wood floors, walls lined with cold artwork. Not a picture of family in sight. It felt more like a museum for broken things than a home.

She was led up a winding staircase and down a long hall. He opened a door to the left and stepped aside.

"This is your room," he said simply.

She walked in slowly. To her surprise, the space was... beautiful. Warm cream walls. A soft four-poster bed. A wardrobe full of clothes. A bookshelf lined with classics. Even a window overlooking the garden, though it had bars barely visible from the inside.

It was a cage. A beautiful, well-kept, golden cage.

She turned on him. "What do you want from me, really?"

"I already told you," Damian said. "Revenge."

"I don't even know you."

"But you'll remember. Soon." His voice dropped. "And until then, I'll make sure you never forget me."

He turned and walked out.

The door didn't slam.

It locked.

---

Liana sat on the bed for what felt like hours.

She tried to think, to piece it together.

Damian Blackthorn. A name wrapped in whispers. And now... her captor?

Revenge for something her family did?

It made no sense.

She had grown up poor, struggling to survive with a mother who bounced from man to man. Her mother had died when Liana was fourteen. Since then, she'd scraped her way through school, college, and three part-time jobs.

There was nothing special about her.

Nothing worth five million dollars.

Unless...

Unless her past held secrets even she didn't know.

A quiet knock interrupted her thoughts. She flinched.

A woman entered - maybe in her forties, dressed in a simple gray uniform. She carried a tray of food and set it on the desk.

"I'm Eva," the woman said gently. "You'll eat, shower, rest. He expects you to be ready tomorrow."

"Ready for what?"

Eva didn't answer.

She gave a tight nod, then left, locking the door behind her.

Liana stared at the tray. Steamed rice, chicken, a soft slice of cake. Too much food for someone who had been treated like property.

She didn't trust it.

But her stomach growled loudly.

She ate anyway.

That night, she stood at the window, her forehead pressed against the cold glass. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world moved on - parties, laughter, normal things.

But she was no longer part of that world.

She was a prisoner.

Not just in a room.

But in a story she didn't remember writing.

---

Downstairs, Damian poured himself a drink and watched the security screen showing her room.

He didn't smile.

He didn't blink.

"She doesn't remember," he said aloud.

The scarred man behind him nodded. "Should we proceed anyway?"

"Yes," Damian said coldly. "We don't need her memory. Just her blood."

Liana woke with a start.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, soaked in sweat, though the room was cool and silent. The sheets clung to her legs, twisted from tossing. She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, trying to catch her breath.

The dream still pulsed in her mind.

A man in fire.

A woman begging.

A silver ring dropped into blood.

She had never seen those images before... and yet, they felt familiar. Too familiar.

She climbed out of bed and stumbled to the mirror above the dresser. Her reflection looked worse than she expected - sunken eyes, pale skin, hair tangled around her shoulders. But something else caught her attention.

She leaned in closer.

Just below her collarbone, to the left, was a small birthmark. A crescent shape, barely visible unless you looked closely. She'd had it her whole life.

Only... in the dream, the woman had the exact same mark.

She backed away from the mirror, shaken.

What was happening to her?

---

The door clicked open before she could gather her thoughts.

Damian stood there, dressed in a black button-down shirt and dark gray slacks. His presence filled the doorway like a thundercloud.

"You're awake."

"Barely," she muttered, hugging her arms.

"You'll want to be fully conscious for today," he said, stepping aside. "Come."

She didn't move.

"I don't take orders."

He didn't flinch. "You do now."

"I'm not afraid of you," she lied.

His eyes met hers-unblinking, unreadable.

"Good," he said after a moment. "Fear would ruin the lesson."

---

He led her down a long corridor lined with ancient portraits. Their painted eyes followed her as she walked, every step echoing through the marble floor like a warning. At the far end was a door made of dark oak and iron.

He opened it.

The room inside was nothing like the rest of the house. It wasn't modern or cold. It was... old. Stone walls. A fireplace with fading embers. A long table covered in books, documents, and something wrapped in red velvet.

"Sit," Damian said.

She didn't move.

He waited. Calm, patient.

Eventually, curiosity betrayed her. She sat.

He pulled a chair across from her and unwrapped the velvet cloth on the table. Inside was a single object:

A dagger.

Or rather... an artifact. Silver, curved, inscribed with markings that pulsed faintly under the dim light. The metal looked ancient-and alive.

"What is that?" she whispered.

"An answer."

"To what?"

Damian didn't reply. He reached into the table drawer and pulled out a thin file. He placed it before her.

Her name was on it.

"Liana Elena Cruz," he said, opening it. "Born in Mexico City. Mother: Mariela Cruz. Father: Unknown. You lived in foster care after your mother's death."

"Why are you telling me this?" she demanded, throat tight.

"Because you're not who you think you are."

She froze.

"You were never supposed to live a normal life," he continued. "Not after what your bloodline did."

"My bloodline?"

He placed a photograph on the table.

It was old-sepia-toned. A woman who looked exactly like her, in a dress from another era, standing beside a man whose face was blurred by time. But the mark on her collarbone-the crescent moon-was clear.

Liana stared.

"No. That's not me."

"Her name was Elena Cruz. She lived a hundred and twenty years ago. She betrayed the Blackthorn family. My family."

"That's-impossible."

He slid the dagger closer.

"She took something from us," he said quietly. "Something sacred. Her blood opened a door. And yours will close it."

"What are you talking about? Are you insane?"

Damian leaned closer.

"You don't have to believe in fate," he said, "but fate believes in you."

---

Liana stood abruptly, the chair scraping back.

"This is crazy. You think I'm some... reincarnation of a woman who hurt your ancestors? That's why you bought me?"

He stood too, slowly.

"I didn't buy you for revenge alone," he said. "I bought you because you are the key. You carry her soul, her blood, and her power."

"I don't believe in any of this," she snapped.

"You will."

"How do you even know I'm the one?"

He looked at her, then nodded toward her shoulder.

"The mark. The dagger reacted to it the night you arrived."

Liana staggered back. "You tested me?"

He didn't deny it.

"You'll understand soon. There are pieces of your memory hidden. Dreams, instincts, pain you've never explained. The truth is buried in your blood."

Her voice dropped, hoarse with disbelief. "And what are you going to do with me?"

Damian's gaze softened just a little - just enough to confuse her.

"I don't want to hurt you, Liana," he said. "I just want what was stolen."

"And if I refuse?"

His eyes darkened. "Then fate will decide... and fate is rarely kind."

---

That night, Liana sat alone again in her room, the dagger's shape burned into her memory.

The dream returned, clearer this time.

The woman who looked like her stood at the edge of a cliff, holding the dagger in her hand. A man - Damian's face, but younger - stood behind her, reaching out.

"I'm sorry," the woman whispered in the dream, tears on her cheeks. "This is the only way."

She dropped the dagger.

The sea below swallowed it.

The dream faded.

Liana gasped awake.

Her heart whispered a terrifying truth:

Maybe she did believe in fate after all.