Erika

Vincent dragged me out of the elevator by my hair, his fist clenched tightly around the strands, forcing me to follow wherever he pleased. He didn’t slow down, didn’t allow me even a second of relief. Instead of returning to the banquet hall through the same corridor, he headed toward another set of elevators.

Meanwhile, a man in a bodyguard uniform passed us in a hurry, leading a group of armed guards toward the other elevator—the one where that man from earlier was already waiting. In an instant, they surrounded him and seized the entire area as if they had rehearsed it a thousand times.

Vincent shoved me inside another elevator, cursing under his breath the whole way. His grip on my hair never loosened, no matter how much I stumbled or begged with my eyes. I had no idea where he was taking me.

"I'm going to skin you alive in front of everyone in the banquet," he spat, seething with fury. "Then maybe these worthless slaves will finally learn something from you… You have no idea what you’ve done tonight, Erika. You’ve dug your own grave, you stupid bi*ch."

His words were laced with venom, his expression twisted with rage, while I was no more than a ragdoll being dragged at his side. My knees hit the ground more than once, and each time he yanked me back up by my hair.

By the time we reached the banquet hall, my heart had sunk into my stomach. The slaves froze in horror when they saw my condition, while the nobles looked entertained, sneering like they had just been handed a fresh evening spectacle.

Vincent shoved me forward and onto a small stage. This time, a table had been placed at the center. His bodyguards bent me over it, and despite my desperate writhing, they outnumbered me three to one. My wrists were tied to the table’s carved niches, leaving me completely defenseless.

That was when humiliation scorched me more fiercely than the pain. I was still only wearing a man’s shirt—so short it barely covered my thighs. Now, bent over in front of everyone, the nobles could clearly see the rest of me, my bare legs and undergarments exposed to their mockery.

I tried to lift my head, to find something, someone—only to see Xavier sitting above in the gallery, a sinister smirk plastered on his face.

But what made my blood run cold was not Xavier. It was who sat beside him.

On the majestic chair reserved for the “King of Mafia” himself, was the very man I had tried to take hostage earlier in the elevator. My lungs forgot how to breathe.

His eyes bore into mine with cold curiosity—dangerous, unreadable, completely devoid of mercy. The sight of him churned my stomach, and my throat dried until I could hardly swallow.

And in that moment, staring back at him, I knew. Tonight was my last night alive. Whatever awaited me, I was not walking out of this banquet hall.

But if death was my destiny, then I would face it with grace. I would not cower, I would not beg.

I straightened as much as my restraints allowed and met his gaze with the same coldness he offered me. He narrowed his eyes. I mirrored him. Our silent war hung between us, unbroken, until—

CRACK.

A sharp lash tore into the back of my thigh. I gasped despite myself.

"Lower your eyes, bi*ch!" Vincent snarled, his voice more beast than man. Rage dripped from him—rage that made sense. After all, the stunt I had dared to pull on Xavier tonight would cost him dearly. Perhaps everything. Maybe even his life.

But instead of fear, the thought twisted into a small, dangerous amusement inside me. If Vincent had to pay with his blood—good. My lips involuntarily curved into a smirk.

"I said LOWER your eyes, wh*re!" Vincent bellowed, more desperate now.

I ignored him and kept glaring at the Mafia King. That act alone drove Vincent further into madness. His cane came down again, slicing into my skin. Hot blood trickled down my leg. The pain was unbearable—but I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

So I bit down on my cries, clenched my jaw, and endured.

He lashed me again. And again. His strikes lost rhythm, fueled only by frenzy. My skin burned and bled, but my eyes remained fixed on the Mafia King above.

And then—he winked.

I faltered. For the briefest second, the world tilted. Was I seeing things? Did he—actually wink at me?

A second wink followed. He was toying with me. Heat rose in my chest, not from shame but from confusion I couldn’t dare unravel here. Instinctively, I lowered my gaze, cheeks burning despite the blood and bruises.

"You’re ruining a product, Vincent."

The man’s deep voice rolled through the marble walls like a tidal wave. Every word froze the air.

Vincent’s cane stopped mid-swing. He hesitated, then dropped it to his side, scowling. "She deserves it, Master," he defended nervously.

Before Vincent could continue, Xavier cut in sharply, his voice like a lash of steel. "I paid three million for her, and what do I get in return? A slap?! No. I want my money back. With a penalty. And I’ll never buy from Vincent again." His anger was real, alive, and dangerous.

Vincent’s face paled. "I—I can’t, Master. I barely made anything tonight. Six million? That’s impossible. And besides, nobody will buy her after this disgrace. She’s worthless now, a liability! A—a curse!"

To my surprise, the Mafia King leaned back casually in his seat, then spoke again. "I’ll buy her."

His words struck me like lightning. The entire room went silent.

"I’ll buy her," he repeated, his gaze never leaving me. "Name your price, Vincent. Pay Mr. Williams his refund, with penalty. And hand her to me."

The words rippled through the hall like an earthquake. Everyone fell quiet, the nobles craning forward, the slaves trembling.

Vincent weakly shook his head, torn between greed and fear. "Master, she’s not tame. She’s stubborn, reckless—"

"She’s not meant for taming," the Mafia King cut him off coldly. "Just give the price. Sign the papers. Return Williams’ money."

Vincent’s lips quivered. Then, driven by the black hunger in his eyes, he whispered, "Fifty… fifty million, Sir… And of course, I’ll repay Mr. Williams his six."

Without hesitation, the Mafia King gestured to a bodyguard. A chequebook was placed in his hands. He signed smoothly, elegantly, like even fifty million was pocket change, then handed it off to be delivered to Vincent.

Vincent stammered as he accepted the cheque with trembling hands.

The Mafia King made one final signal, and another guard stepped forward to untie me. My bonds fell loose, my bloodied wrists free at last—but my freedom was an illusion.

Because in a single night, I had been sold, escaped, caught, and sold again.

And whatever awaited me next in the hands of the Mafia King… my destiny would never be the same again.

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