Erika

My cell door slowly creaked open, and 'Laila' stepped inside. I had known her from the beginning—Vincent’s favorite pet.

I couldn’t help but pity her. She had developed such a strong sense of envy that she no longer seemed aware of her own actions. Being a whore had gotten her nowhere; she was merely a puppet in the hands of others, destined to be discarded like trash one day.

It wasn’t just her fate, but the fate of everyone who had fallen into their trap. She was a victim, just like me. But our choices—those were what truly mattered.

She nudged me with the toe of her shiny red shoe, covering her nose with one hand. The disgust on her face was obvious.

“Hey! Are you dead?” Her voice dripped with disdain as she crossed her arms, her eyes drifting around the cell. From her shifting expressions, I wondered if she was caught between flashbacks and nostalgia.

“Nope. Sorry to disappoint you.” My arrogant reply slipped easily from my lips while I still sat on the floor, refusing to be moved by her presence. She was terrible at controlling her emotions, and anger always consumed her too easily.

She grabbed my hair and yanked me violently to my feet.

I could’ve snapped her wrist effortlessly, but that wasn’t what I had been taught. A real fight required a worthy opponent, not someone weaker. To fight her would’ve been beneath me. “Never insult yourself like that,” Allen used to say when he told me stories about this very period.

She raised her hand to slap me, but froze halfway. A smirk curled on my lips. I knew I had power over her—because she could not truly hurt me. Only Vincent could.

Suppressing her rage, she slowly lowered her hand like a coward, and I laughed at her pathetic self-restraint.

“Vincent has summoned you. I’m responsible for your well-being, and I’ll dress you up for the ‘Auction.’ Now move—we don’t have time to waste, he’s waiting for us,” she ordered, gripping my arm and dragging me out of the cell.

Two bodyguards followed closely, their eyes tracking my every move. We walked down the hallway toward the elevator, and they shoved me inside. The doors closed with a metallic hum. As the elevator ascended, concern gnawed at me.

What awaited me in Vincent’s office?

The doors slid open, revealing him seated in his swivel chair, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at me.

“Make her presentable, Laila. I don’t want any mistakes at this banquet,” he commanded, his authoritative voice making even Laila shiver with fear.

“Brownie, I’m warning you. Don’t try anything funny. Take care of her while she’s here,” he added coldly. I only rolled my eyes inwardly, as if his words held no weight. But Laila took them seriously, tugging me away once again.

We walked to a luxury suite, which oozed wealth and comfort—proof that Laila lived well under him. She unlocked the door and ushered me inside.

“Go to that room, take a proper bath and shampoo. Let’s see what we can do to fix your hair and skin—even if only for today,” she said, pointing toward one of the many rooms.

Ignoring her tone, I moved toward the bathroom, but her voice stopped me.

“No matter how hard you try, Erika, you won’t get out of here. It’s better to accept your situation. Maybe this is our destiny,” she said bitterly. Her voice wavered for just a moment, betraying her emotions before she quickly forced them back down. Without waiting for my reply, she disappeared into another room.

I paid little attention to her and hurried to the bathroom. Twisting the shower knob, I stripped off the rags clinging to me and stepped beneath the warm spray. For a moment, I simply stood there, letting the water wash over me. People rarely appreciate life’s little luxuries until they’re stolen away.

I lathered soap onto my skin, shampooed and conditioned my tangled hair, and soon felt like a different person. When I finally stepped out, dressed in a pink robe, Laila was already seated at the dining table, waiting.

“Eat something first. We have a lot to do before the banquet. I’ve requested a beautician for you—let’s see if she agrees,” she said while munching on her food.

I sat beside her and devoured my meal. It had been days since I’d eaten properly. Every bite was a luxury worth savoring. Perhaps this would be my last supper.

The sudden ding of the doorbell interrupted us.

Laila rose to answer it, revealing a young maid carrying branded paper bags and a middle-aged woman holding hair and skincare tools. The latter was clearly the beautician.

“Ma’am, Sir Vincent sent some dresses and shoes for the other girl,” the maid explained respectfully, placing the bags on the couch before bowing her head and exiting.

Laila gestured toward me. “She’s the one.”

The beautician approached, and we moved to the room I had been given. She directed me to sit before the mirror and promptly began working. Her face was blank, unreadable, but her skilled hands moved with precision. Silence was enforced—Vincent’s cameras were always watching.

For hours, she massaged creams into my skin and styled my hair until my reflection looked brighter, smoother, almost… new. It felt less like care and more like polishing an object for sale.

When she was done, Laila entered with a pale white dress and matching heels.

“Here. Change into this,” she said with forced cheer.

Minutes later, I stood before the mirror, transformed. The mid-length dress was elegant, slightly provocative, and undeniably beautiful. Part of me almost didn’t recognize myself.

I felt a presence behind me. Vincent’s reflection appeared over my shoulder, his gaze lingering hungrily.

“Erika, you look breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice low and coarse as his hand brushed against my cheek. “If only I could keep you as my queen… but business is business. We can’t keep the best pieces for ourselves, sadly.”

Revulsion shivered through me, but before I could respond, a loud ahem! broke the moment.

Laila, standing stiffly nearby, glared daggers at me. Her interruption pulled Vincent back to the task at hand.

“Let’s go. We’re running late,” he muttered before striding out of the suite.

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