The room reeked of perfume, cigars, and money.
Velvet drapes shielded the walls like secrets, and gold chandeliers cast a glow that could not hide the filth beneath the glamour. Laughter echoed—low, predatory, rich. Eyes watched, not with kindness, but with calculation.
Alethea Vione stood at the center.
Barefoot.
Breathless.
Branded as nothing but entertainment for men whose hearts had long turned to stone.
She wore a silk slip, white like surrender. Her hair, a river of ink down her back. Her eyes—though dulled by pain—still held something rare. Dignity. A trace of fire not yet extinguished.
"Lot Number 17," the host announced, his voice smooth and cold. "Virgin. Educated. Obedient."
The men began to raise their paddles.
"$200,000."
"$300,000."
"$500,000."
She closed her eyes, every number feeling like another chain around her soul.
From the corner, one man leaned forward—tall, sharp-suited, with a gaze that could cut through steel. Bram Albert. CEO. Royal blood. No mercy.
"$1 million," he said flatly.
The room fell silent.
Alethea didn't flinch. She had no tears left. Her body belonged to them now.
But her soul?
They'd have to bleed for it.
The car smelled of Italian leather and danger.
Alethea sat in silence, wrists cold from the silver cuffs that still wrapped around her like mock jewelry. The man beside her didn't speak. Bram Albert, the man who had bought her, leaned back with the air of someone who owned empires—and now, a woman.
"I don't tolerate disobedience," he said without looking at her. "Smile when spoken to. Stay silent when not."
Alethea said nothing. Her silence was her last rebellion.
He turned to her, his eyes scanning her like a predator assessing prey. "You should be grateful. I could've left you there for the wolves."
"I was already with the wolves," she whispered.
A pause. His jaw clenched. She saw a flicker—curiosity? irritation? It didn't matter. She was a trophy, not a person.
The mansion that awaited her was carved from white marble, but its beauty was hollow. Servants bowed. Doors opened. Not for her—but for him.
She was escorted to a room. Not a cell, but not freedom either. Clean sheets. Silk curtains. And security cameras on every wall.
"You live here now," Bram said. "You eat when I say. You sleep when I allow. You breathe, if I let you."
She finally looked at him. "And if I don't?"
His smirk was cruel. "Then I'll remind you what you cost me."
As the door shut, locking her in, Alethea sank onto the bed. Not crying. Not breaking. Just... calculating.
One day, he would pay.
All of them would.
The next morning, Alethea was awakened by the sound of the door unlocking.
A man entered—not Bram.
He was younger, dressed in a charcoal suit with sharp eyes and a calm presence. His name was Evan Rosenthal, one of Bram's business partners, known for his clean reputation and philanthropic work—an oddity in this rotten empire.
"I brought breakfast," he said softly, placing a tray of warm food on the table. "I doubt you ate anything last night."
She didn't respond, only stared at him.
"You don't trust me," he continued. "Good. That means you're still thinking."
She sat up, eyeing him warily. "Why are you helping me?"
Evan hesitated. "Because I know what they're doing to you is wrong. And because I saw you before they did."
That caught her attention. "Where?"
"Paris. Two years ago. You were painting in Montmartre." He smiled slightly. "You wore a red scarf. I never forgot your eyes."
Her breath caught in her throat. She remembered Paris. Freedom. Color. Dreams.
"You work with him," she whispered.
"I do," he admitted. "But I don't belong to them. I never did."
Their eyes locked. For the first time in days, she felt something unfamiliar: hope.
"I'll find a way to help you," he said, voice low. "But you need to survive first. Can you do that for me?"
Alethea nodded, slowly.
Just like that, a new player entered the game. And unlike the others, this one didn't want to own her.
He wanted to save her.