Sebastian

Vincent burst onto the scene within seconds, dragging her out of the elevator, his fist coiled mercilessly in her hair. I should have felt nothing. She was not the first slave, and she would not be the last. Yet, inexplicably, his cruelty stirred something hot and sharp inside me—anger.

I strangled the feeling down and followed Daniel into the ballroom. I had intended to make my exit quickly, but certain matters needed settling. Obligations often forced me to linger longer than I wished, and I despised every moment spent chained to appearances.

Soon after, I was seated upon my throne when Vincent entered, still clutching the girl as if she were nothing more than a hound on a leash.

The crowd reacted in its usual duality—slaves shrank trembling into shadows while the elite chuckled, eyes gleaming with twisted amusement.

Her eyes, however, did not tremble. They wandered the hall, fleeting, until they caught on Xavier. He smirked at her knowingly, and I saw it then—I had been right. She was the one who had held his attention earlier, when he dared to converse with me.

Then her gaze found mine. Nervous, determined, almost daring. Our eyes locked, and that was when my plans shifted. My desire to leave dissipated like ash in the wind.

Vincent’s men forced her onto the stage, strapping her in a bowed position against the table. Still, she stared at me, unwavering. It bordered on insolence. And insolence has a cost.

Vincent raised the cane. The first strike cracked against her flesh. Red blossomed where pale skin tore, blood surfacing like holy defiance. Yet she did not scream. She did not sob. Even as the lashes multiplied, she clung to her defiance as though it were armor.

My interest, against reason, deepened. Most slaves break quickly. She did not. Where others withered, she gestured in silence: try harder.

But I did not want her dead. Not yet.

I winked. At last, she averted her eyes, her face flushing crimson. Shy, despite her fire. The juxtaposition was more intoxicating than any wine.

My heart struck faster. Heat pooled in my veins, not lust but something stranger, more dangerous. Vincent’s endless whipping grated at me, and I halted him with a word. His spatting with Xavier frayed my patience further, until my decision crystallized.

“I will buy her.”

The words silenced the hall. Even the chandeliers seemed to quiver with stillness.

Shock etched itself across her face. She understood nothing of this game. She could not know that I had never purchased a slave before. She was the first—and perhaps the only. That made her mine in a way the others could never be.

Vincent, predictably incapable of resisting profit, accepted swiftly. And with that, her fate moved into my hands—her life, her body, her very soul.

I dismissed my lingering matters to Daniel with a flick of my wrist and rose. Curiosity burned hotter than duty. The lamb intrigued me; I wished to see if she had teeth.

As always, my men flanked me like phantoms, while two others dragged her behind us.

The private elevator ascended without interruption. The sixty-sixth floor belonged wholly to me—an empire compressed into a single suite, reserved eternally. Suite 666. A number some whispered with fear, but to me, it was fitting—a mark of dominance, wealth, permanence. The most expensive sanctuary in the city. A cage gilded with power.

The elevator whispered open. I drew out a gold card, slid it across the lock, and entered.

She had not spoken once. Only observed. Her gaze darted, restless, half-animal, as though she measured every corner, every escape point. She looked like a stray struggling to sniff out freedom. I smirked. Futile. She was not escaping me.

“Inside,” I ordered, pushing the bedroom door open with my thumbprint. My men dragged her in, then retreated at my gesture.

Now we were alone.

I had not bought her for pleasure. That I could claim whenever I wished. No—it was something else. This… unfamiliar pulse she ignited in me every time her eyes touched mine. Alien. Intrusive. Maddening.

Her gaze clung to me still. Relentless. Like fire pressing against skin. I shrugged off my coat, heat prickling beneath it. Perhaps too demonstratively, for she suddenly lunged—not toward me, but toward the fruit basket.

She seized a knife, raising it between us with wild defiance.

I only sighed. Loosened my tie. Unfastened a button.

And then her voice thundered.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU PEOPLE THINK OF YOURSELVES?!” Her chest heaved, words pouring jagged and raw, like a damruptured. “YOU THINK BECAUSE YOU HAVE MONEY, BECAUSE YOU HAVE POWER, YOU CAN DO ANYTHING! HOW PITIFUL! SELLING AND BUYING HUMANS LIKE CATTLE! HOW PITIFUL! YOU THINK A WOMAN IS NOTHING BUT THREE HOLES TO FILL! BUT SHE IS A DAUGHTER. A SISTER. A MOTHER. YOU DON’T SEE THAT. BECAUSE YOU’RE MONSTERS. ALL OF YOU. HEARTLESS, SOULLESS MONSTERS!”

Her tears streaked blood and dirt, her face collapsing under the weight of truth, but her eyes—her eyes still flamed.

And for a rare, precious moment, I was silent. Because she had spoken the world’s ugliness in its purest form.

Finally, I broke it with a murmur. “Prove me.”

Her brow furrowed, her grip on the knife trembling.

“What… what am I supposed to prove to you?” she asked, her voice cracking open something delicate in the space between us. Hope. A dangerous thing.

“That women are worth more than three holes,” I said softly. Deliberate. Enigmatic. Her shoulders tensed, terror stirring, but terror was not what I sought. I wanted fight.

“H-How can I?” she whispered, her last shred of strength sounding like surrender.

And I smiled, slow and cruel. The lamb had stepped into the wolf’s shadow willingly—and now, there would be no way out.

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