Erika

The heavy doors opened, and we stepped into a cavernous double‑storied banquet hall, its sheer scale and richness nearly overwhelming. The air smelled faintly of perfume, wine, and smoke, clinging thickly to the atmosphere. A small stage dominated the center, flanked by a grand staircase sweeping upward to the gallery above, where the more noble guests lounged in self‑assured superiority.

Every table gleamed with refinement. Round banquet tables were draped in gold, maroon, and black linen—colors that pulsed with power and decadence. Around them sat cushioned chairs so large they seemed more like thrones than seats. Red roses bloomed in crystal vases at each table’s centerpiece, their fragrance struggling to mask less savory scents in the air. Silver cutlery caught the light, winking maliciously like tiny blades, while the tall candelabras threw shifting shadows that melted into dark corners of the hall.

The crowd’s hierarchy was impossible to miss. Those in the gallery looked sharper, more polished, their mannerisms laced with inherited authority. My eyes found a single chair among them—a massive, royal‑looking seat at the center of the gallery table. Its elaborate carvings and velvet finish left no room for doubt: it had been made for a king. Strangely, it sat vacant. The emptiness was not casual—it was intimidating, as though reserved only for someone whose power dwarfed every other figure in the room.

The opulence of the place clashed violently with its grotesque scenes. Naked and half‑clothed bodies lined the laps of their so‑called masters, serving drinks, cigars, and anything else demanded of them. On the stage, others were paraded like livestock, auctioned shamelessly by their pimps. Disgust roiled my stomach.

And yet, their buyers—men and women cloaked in elegance—barely seemed to notice. They sipped fine wine, exchanged witty conversations, and even laughed as if this degradation was no more unusual than an evening of theater. Slaves were fondled in corners, mouths silenced by their masters’ hands, some pressed into acts so abhorrent that I could scarcely allow myself to keep watching. Still, no one flinched, no one objected. Indulgence was the only law in this hall.

The auctioneer and pimps barked aggressively, competing for attention while flaunting their “merchandise.” What stunned me even more was the identity of some among the crowd—familiar faces of politicians, actors, influential men and women I’d only ever seen through screens or headlines, now exposed for what they truly were.

I was still absorbing the perversion of it all when a firm shove sent me forward. Laila.

She led me toward the stage. Girls before me climbed one by one, every bid marked by the sharp movements of assistants tallying amounts. A high bid meant a claim—and no matter how fiercely a girl cried or fought, her protests dissolved in the laughter of the crowd. Purchased like cattle, they were dragged out through the side doors. After “billing and inspection,” the transaction was complete. Property changed hands.

Then it was my turn. Vincent’s sly smile told me resistance would mean nothing.

I mounted the steps reluctantly. The bright glare of a spotlight snapped alive, flooding my face, stripping me bare of all shadows.

The crowd’s focus tightened instantly. A thousand eyes scalded me in silence. The weight of those stares pressed in, peeling me apart until I felt completely naked, though I still wore my dress. They devoured me already, their gaze turning my body into spoiled meat on display.

The bidding began. Voices cut across the air, numbers climbing with startling speed. Higher, then higher still. My chest tightened as disbelief spread through me—how could a price for me rise so quickly? How far would they go?

And then—

“Three million.”

A single commanding voice thundered from the gallery.

The hall froze. Silence rippled outward until every whisper was swallowed.

My gaze jerked upward. There he was.

A young man sat among the nobility—strikingly handsome, his dark hair slicked neatly back, the lines of his face carved sharp and dangerous. He wore an elegant navy tuxedo over a crisp white shirt, but style alone did not make him radiate what he did. Confidence bled from him, the kind that demanded attention without asking. A dangerous charm lingered in the curve of his mouth, a hint of rebellion flashing in his eyes. He looked like every impossibly rich bad boy parents warned their daughters of.

Murmurs rose.

“That is far too much for a single product...”

“Yes, Xavier William, your price sets precedents—it may harm future dealings.”

“Indeed. No slave should warrant such extravagance.”

But he didn’t care.

“It’s not your concern,” Xavier replied lazily, though his voice cut like steel. He leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered. “I want her. I’ll take her. I’ll pay what I like. If you think I overspend, then match my bid.” His eyes flicked across the gallery like a predator surveying lesser beasts. “If not, shut the fuck up.”

No one dared respond.

“Three million one. Three million two. Three million three. Sold to Mr. Xavier William.”

The gavel fell, echoing like a death knell.

Vincent’s grin widened like a slit throat beckoning blood. My fists clenched with helpless rage, but there was nothing I could do.

Two bodyguards appeared at once, rough hands seizing my arms. They dragged me from the stage as the announcer’s voice faded away. My protests died in my throat before they could even form—I knew they would be as useless as the cries of the girls before me.

Xavier and Vincent followed closely, shadows at my heels.

The bodyguards shoved me into a smaller adjoining room, then bowed reverently to Xavier before retreating and pulling the door closed. The lock seemed to click louder than normal, sealing my fate.

Xavier stepped forward, his eyes studying me hungrily. From the tilt of my chin to my trembling hands, he examined me like a collector savoring an art piece. He reached out, fingers brushing strands of my hair, then grazing my forearm. Even that feather‑light touch froze me in place.

“I like her,” his voice broke the silence, smooth but edged with possession. “She’s breathtaking. Tell me, Vincent—is this her first time? Or recycled goods?”

Vincent straightened, his eagerness obvious. “No, Master William. This is her debut, her very first sale. Completely untouched.” His tone was drenched with opportunism—he smelled money, and it made him salivate.

Xavier pulled out his phone with a sleek gesture and made a call without once removing his gaze from me. Not long after, a knock rattled the door.

“Come in.” His tone shifted into command.

A frail man with golden glasses entered swiftly, bowing. His posture proclaimed servitude.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Finalise the deal with Mr. Vincent. Payment immediately. Paperwork flawless. No errors.” Still gripping my wrist, Xavier spoke without looking away from me.

“As you wish, Sir,” the assistant said dutifully. He began his work.

Vincent, however, edged closer. “Master William... may I have just one minute with her?”

Xavier shot him a sharp look, lips curling in faint annoyance—then released me reluctantly. “One minute only. She belongs to me now.”

Vincent seized me by the forearm, dragging me into a corner. His voice dropped into a venomous whisper.

“Listen, Erika. Don’t try anything foolish. I still don’t trust you. Test me, and I’ll flay you alive. Do you hear? Please him. Obey him. He is powerful, respected. He’s your master now. Bury that truth deep in your little brain.”

His words hissed in my ear like a snake. I stared through him, refusing to give him the reactions he craved. He no longer mattered.

He shoved me back toward Xavier like discarded merchandise.

Without pause, Xavier drew a black cloth from his jacket. Before I could flinch, the fabric slid over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. His grip tightened on my wrist, unyielding, pulling me forward with unmistakable dominance.

Behind us, the echo of heavy footsteps signalled his bodyguards trailing closely.

Blind, I stumbled, my heart hammering louder than the crowd we left behind. My breath grew shallow as fear consumed me. Each step felt like the descent into a nightmare with no waking end.

All of my worst terrors, one after another, were no longer dreams.
They had come true.

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