The Night She Was Taken
Six months ago, Amanda Chiller stopped screaming.
The first time her husband hit her, she cried. The second time, she begged. By the fifth, she simply stood still and took it. There was no one to call. No family to run to. No friends left to confide in. Every time she tried to speak, to fight back, the world punished her harder. So she learned to stay quiet. To endure. To believe—somehow—that this was love in its most twisted form.
But that night, something changed.
He didn't come home.
No drunken footsteps. No slurred apologies. No fists. Just silence. Hours passed. Then days. Then weeks. And Amanda realized he wasn't coming back. He had vanished, leaving behind nothing but bruises, unpaid bills, and a hollowed-out woman with a name she barely recognized anymore.
Now, in the present, Amanda trudged up the cracked pavement toward her apartment building. Her uniform from the convenience store clung to her skin, damp with sweat and humiliation. She had just been fired—again. This time, for refusing to sleep with her manager. He'd made it sound like a favor. Like he was offering her a lifeline. She'd laughed in his face. Then he'd fired her on the spot.
Her wallet was nearly empty. Her fridge was emptier. The world, it seemed, had no more use for Amanda Chiller.
As she reached the rusted gate of her apartment complex, the streetlights flickered. She barely noticed the black SUV parked across the road. She didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
Eight men in black suits emerged from the shadows like phantoms. Before she could turn, they were on her—hands gripping her arms, her waist, her mouth. She didn't scream. Didn't fight. Didn't even flinch.
Maybe this is it, she thought. Maybe they're here to end it. Maybe I'll finally be free.
She welcomed the darkness when it came.
---
The world returned in fragments—blurry lights, the hum of an engine, the sting of her wrists bound behind her. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. She blinked against the dim light, her vision sharpening slowly.
She was in a room—lavish, cold, and unfamiliar. Velvet drapes. Marble floors. A chandelier that looked like it belonged in a palace.
And then she saw him.
He sat across from her in a high-backed leather chair, legs crossed, a book resting in his hands. He didn't look up immediately. Just turned a page with the calm of a man who had all the time in the world.
Amanda's breath caught.
He was beautiful in a way that didn't seem real—white hair like moonlight, skin like silk, and eyes the color of blood. He looked like a fallen angel, too perfect to be human, too dangerous to be divine.
Their eyes met.
Silence stretched between them, thick and electric.
He closed the book with a soft snap and set it aside.
Still, he said nothing.
Neither did she.
Because somehow, Amanda knew—whatever came next, her life would never be the same.
---
Authur finally looked up from his book.
His crimson eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. He studied her like a painting—one he couldn't decide whether to admire or destroy.
"You're... beautiful," he said softly, as if stating a fact.
Amanda blinked. Once. Twice.
Then she scoffed.
"Save it," she muttered, shifting in the velvet chair. Her wrists ached from the restraints. "Men say that when they want something. You're no different."
He tilted his head, amused. "You think I want something?"
She met his gaze, her own eyes hard. "Don't you?"
A pause.
"I already have it," he said. "You."
Her breath caught.
The words weren't shouted. They weren't even said with malice. Just... calm. Certain. As if he were talking about a car. Or a watch. Or a pet.
Amanda's skin prickled. "Excuse me?"
"You belong to me," he said again, this time slower. "Legally. Contractually. Irrevocably."
She stared at him, stunned. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Authur leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. "Your husband—what was his name again? Ah, yes. Darren. He borrowed four million yen from the Grayhound family. He offered collateral."
Amanda's stomach twisted. "What kind of collateral?"
He smiled faintly. "You."
Silence.
The words echoed in her skull like a gunshot. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Then—
"Oh my God," she whispered. "That's why he never came back."
The pieces fell into place. The sudden disappearance. The silence. The debt collectors who stopped calling. He hadn't run from them.
He'd sold her.
Amanda turned her gaze back to Authur, her eyes narrowing. She tried to read him—search for a crack in that porcelain mask of his. But he was unreadable. Cold. Composed. Like marble carved into a man.
Fine. Two could play that game.
She straightened her spine, brushing her hair back with a trembling hand. Then she smiled—cold, sharp, and empty.
"So," she said, voice like ice, "what now? Am I to be sold? Passed around? Used as some... sex toy? What could your filthy mind possibly be thinking, you scum of a man?"
She expected anger. A slap. A threat.
Instead, Authur chuckled.
Not loudly. Not cruelly. Just a soft, amused sound that made her blood run cold.
"Why," he said, rising to his feet with the grace of a panther, "would my wife-to-be be used as a sex toy?"
He said it so casually. So confidently. As if it were already decided.
Amanda's heart skipped a beat.
Wife-to-be?
Her mouth went dry.
He walked toward her, slow and deliberate, stopping just inches away. His presence was suffocating—like standing too close to a fire you couldn't see but could feel burning through your skin.
"I don't share what's mine," he said, voice low and smooth. "And you, Amanda... are mine."
She stared up at him, refusing to flinch. But inside, her thoughts were chaos.
What the hell have I been dragged into?
End of chapter 1