Chapter 1:The Auction Bride
I never imagined my freedom would be stripped from me beneath chandeliers and surrounded by champagne. But that's exactly where I am—on a velvet stage, in a red silk dress I didn't choose, with my future being sold to the highest bidder.
The room reeks of money and cruelty.
Men in dark suits sip from crystal glasses, their faces half-hidden behind gold-trimmed masks, eyes glinting with hunger. They're not here for art or charity. They're here to buy girls. Girls like me.
"Lot 39," the auctioneer announces, his voice smooth like a poisoned drink. "Virgin. Eighteen. Unclaimed. Obedient. Excellent condition."
A wave of nausea crashes through me. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying.
"She's here because her stepfather owed a debt," he continues, pacing behind me. "And we believe in fair exchanges. She's young. She's beautiful. She's... unspoiled."
He makes me sound like a vintage car.
The lights are blinding, but I can still make out the eyes. The stares. The sick anticipation.
I try to keep my legs still. They're shaking so badly that I'm not sure how I'm still standing. I clutch my hands in front of me, wishing I could vanish into the floor.
How did it come to this?
Just two weeks ago, I was sketching butterflies in my notebook, dreaming of art school. Now I'm property.
Because my stepfather—drunk, cruel, a man I never wanted to call "Dad"—got in too deep with people you can't afford to owe. People who don't forget.
He didn't offer his car. Or the house. He offered me.
And my mother… she cried. She fought. But they threatened to kill her too.
So I went quietly.
"Let's start the bidding at $100,000," the auctioneer says.
A paddle rises.
"One hundred."
Another. "Two hundred."
"Three-fifty."
"Four hundred thousand."
My ears ring as the numbers rise. The claps and murmurs are distant, like I'm underwater. I don't hear their words anymore—just numbers. As if that's all I am now. A dollar sign with skin.
One man in the front row licks his lips. Another adjusts his tie, eyes trailing down my legs like he's mentally unwrapping me.
I shut my eyes. I wish I could disappear. I wish this was just a nightmare I'd wake up from.
And then—
"Two million."
The room freezes.
Silence, thick and absolute, falls over the hall like a curtain.
I open my eyes.
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was the kind of voice that carried weight. Authority. Danger.
I follow the gasps, the parted sea of guests, to the back of the room—where he stands.
A man dressed entirely in black. Black shirt. Black tailored suit. No tie. No smile.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with raven hair that brushes his collar. But it's his face that makes my heart stop. Chiseled, sharp, and beautiful in the most dangerous way. Like a blade crafted by a god.
His eyes are cold. Jet black. And they're looking directly at me.
He doesn't blink.
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't flinch when the auctioneer stutters, "S-Sold… to Mr. Moretti!"
The name is like a gunshot in the room.
Dante Moretti.
I've heard that name whispered in corners, on the news, in stories you're not supposed to repeat. The Moretti Family runs one of the most dangerous crime syndicates in the country. They don't make threats—they make disappearances.
Dante is the heir. The next king of an empire built on blood and fear.
They say he doesn't take lovers. He takes obedience. That his women come in untouched and leave in pieces.
I just got bought by a man called The Devil in a Suit.
Two guards step forward, taking me by the arms. Their grip is firm, but not cruel. I don't fight—I'm too numb to. I let them guide me down the stairs, past the buyers, through the velvet curtains.
Backstage is quieter. Dimly lit. But I can still hear the next lot being announced behind me.
As we walk, I pass the woman who dressed me earlier. Her lipstick is redder than the dress they stuffed me in. She sneers.
"Smile, sweetheart," she says, lighting a cigarette. "You just got bought by the Devil himself. If you're lucky, he'll keep you for longer than a week."
I don't reply. I can't.
My feet move on their own as I'm escorted toward the black car waiting outside. One of the guards opens the door, and the other guides me inside.
I sit in silence, my hands trembling.
Two minutes later, the door opens again.
He slides in.
Dante Moretti.
He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at me.
I shrink into the leather seat, wishing I could melt into it.
Then, finally, he speaks. His voice is low and smooth, like velvet soaked in gasoline.
"You belong to me now."
---
My throat dries. I want to say something—anything—but my mouth won't move. Every instinct in me is screaming to jump out of the car and run, but I know better. There's nowhere to run. Not from a man like him.
He leans back in the seat, the black leather groaning under his weight. His eyes roam over me slowly—not lustfully, but like he's assessing a weapon, making sure it hasn't already been broken.
"You look afraid," he says simply, as if it's a fact. "That's good. Fear keeps people alive."
His words settle in my stomach like acid.
Outside, the city lights flash past the tinted windows, but inside the car, time slows. He doesn't speak again. He doesn't have to. His silence is heavier than words.
I try to calm my breathing, but it comes out in shallow gasps. My fingers grip the edge of the seat so tightly they turn white.
"I didn't choose this," I whisper, unable to hold it in. "I didn't—ask for this."
His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable passing through them. "Neither did I. But here we are."
That shuts me up.
Because how can a man like him—powerful, rich, terrifying—ever feel trapped?
He doesn't look away. "From this moment on, your life belongs to me. Your body, your voice, your choices. All mine. If you try to run, I will find you. If you lie, I'll know. And if you disobey…" His voice drops, dangerous and soft. "You'll regret it."
I swallow hard.
This isn't a rescue. It's a prison on wheels.
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