The grand hall was suffocating.
Rose stood under the harsh glare of countless overhead lights, each one cutting through the stale, heavy air like a spotlight on a condemned soul. The stage beneath her feet felt impossibly small and exposed. Her wrists itched where the thin ropes bit into her skin, her bare feet planted awkwardly on the cold wooden floor. She was marked with a number — 47 — pinned to the front of her tattered dress like a grotesque label, a price tag to be inspected and traded.
The room stretched out in front of her, packed with rows of cold, black leather seats occupied by shadows cloaked in expensive suits and glittering jewelry, a twisted gallery of power and cruelty.
Some faces were hidden behind ornate masks—intricately crafted to disguise their identities—but their eyes betrayed them: sharp, calculating, merciless. Others showed no interest in concealment at all, their expressions devoid of humanity, faces painted with boredom or sinister anticipation.
Rose's heart hammered fiercely against her ribs, loud enough she was sure the entire room could hear it. She swallowed back the dry lump lodged in her throat and scanned the faces in the crowd. Some whispered quietly among themselves, raising their hands lazily to place bids. Others shouted their numbers boldly, as if calling out a hunt.
Her stomach churned with nausea and fear. She knew this was a twisted business of darkness, where human lives were nothing more than commodities traded between monsters. And here she was—caught in the merciless glare of those unfeeling eyes.
The auctioneer stood at the podium, a man with a sharp, thin face and a voice like cold steel. He tapped the microphone, calling the room to order.
"Lot number forty-seven," he announced crisply. "Young female, age twenty-three. Healthy, no known illnesses. Compliant, though firm in her demeanor. Ready for transfer."
The bidding opened at two million dollars.
A hand shot up immediately—a slow, deliberate gesture. The auctioneer nodded toward the man, and the number 2,000,000 flashed on the giant screen behind Rose. She caught a glimpse of the bidder: tall, wearing a dark mask that covered the upper half of his face, his fingers gloved in black leather. The air around him was thick with menace.
The bids began to climb quickly—two point five million... two point seven million...
Rose's skin prickled. Some bidders murmured to each other, eyes flicking toward her as though she were an exotic, dangerous animal to be tamed or broken.
Several men leaned forward, their sharp collars and designer suits clashing grotesquely with the brutal purpose of the room. Some exchanged subtle nods, while others exchanged cruel smirks.
Rose tried not to flinch, to steel herself against the horror of it all, but she could feel their eyes crawling over her skin, judging, fantasizing, calculating.
At three million, a man called out firmly, "Three million!"
She looked up to see who it was, heart catching in her throat.
He was probably in his early forties, with broad shoulders and a stern face marked by years of cold calculation. His eyes were sharp and dark beneath heavy brows. He was clean-shaven, dressed immaculately in a tailored suit that whispered of wealth and ruthless control.
His gaze landed on Rose with something unreadable—an unsettling mix of ownership and calculation.
Her breath caught in a painful hitch. She was only twenty-three.
The room fell into a murmur, some disappointed at losing the bid, others merely waiting for the auction to move forward.
The auctioneer nodded, "Sold. Lot number forty-seven goes to Leon, three million dollars."
A murmur ran through the crowd—a mixture of satisfaction, relief, and indifference.
Rose's heart felt like it stopped for a moment. Her knees weakened, but she forced herself to stay upright, to keep her head high despite the shame and terror tightening around her chest like a vise.
Leon stepped forward with purpose, his dark eyes never leaving hers. Without a word, he approached the stage and gestured to the guards.
"Take her."
The rough hands grabbed her by the arms, cold and unyielding. She didn't resist; resistance only brought more pain.
As she was led off the stage, her gaze searched desperately through the crowd, hoping—praying—that Nikolai was somewhere out there, fighting through the shadows to find her.
Her mind screamed in silent panic, Please find me. Please.
The heavy velvet curtains swallowed her as they passed behind the stage, and the world narrowed to the cold grip of her captors and the faint echo of the auctioneer's voice calling the next lot.
---
The corridor behind the stage was dimly lit, the thick carpet muffling the sound of her footsteps and the menacing footsteps behind her. The air smelled faintly of mildew and old wood, mingling with the metallic sting of fear in her lungs.
Leon walked beside her, his presence looming. Rose tried to keep her face impassive, but her mind raced with every terrible possibility.
She didn't know where he was taking her. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken threats.
Her throat was dry, voice gone.
She had heard stories whispered in the darkest corners—of what happened to women like her once they left the auction. The horrors sold in these secret places were whispered about in hushed tones even by criminals. She could only hope that Leon wasn't one of those monsters.
As they turned a corner, she caught a glimpse of a room filled with dresses and makeup—an absurd preparation for something so cruel.
Leon's grip tightened slightly. "You will be prepared. Made presentable."
Rose shivered, not from the cold.
She clenched her fists, knuckles white.
Her only hope was that Nikolai was closing in. Because she didn't want to wait and find out what this man Leon was capable of. Or what it is that she was being prepared for or where he would take her.
The lights in the dressing room were far too bright, their glow casting a clinical sheen over everything they touched—metal countertops, the shimmering dresses hung along the far wall, and the mirrored vanity where Rose sat, staring blankly at her own reflection. She barely recognized herself anymore. Her red curls, once wild and stubborn, had been brushed and curled into soft, bouncing waves that cascaded over her shoulders like some twisted crown. Her face had been carefully painted—flushed cheeks, winged eyeliner that gave her a sultry look she didn't ask for, and deep crimson lips that felt foreign on her skin.
She wasn't dressed yet, but the dress hung on a nearby hook. Silver. Shiny. Short. The kind of short that screamed for attention and offered no space for modesty. The neckline was a deep V, slicing dangerously low, and the back was completely bare. She could already feel the weight of it, not just on her body, but on her soul.
The door creaked open behind her and she turned slightly.
"She's ready?" The voice was deep, clipped, and unmistakably amused.
Leon.
He strolled in like he owned the place—well, in truth, he did now. He had bought her for three million dollars just minutes ago, and that reality settled in her bones like frostbite. He was tall, lean, with greying temples and a face that might've once been attractive if not for the cruelty that sat permanently in his eyes. There was a strange sort of elegance in the way he dressed—perfectly tailored suit, shiny shoes, a scent of something expensive—but it was soured by the twisted smirk that curved his lips.
Rose turned her gaze away.
The stylist bowed slightly. "She just needs to be dressed. Then she's all yours, sir."
Leon's gaze drifted over her like a weight, inspecting every detail like she was merchandise. His eyes trailed from the curve of her cheek down to her bare shoulders. He smiled—slow and cruel.
"Perfect," he muttered, nodding once.
The stylist got to work without a word. She pulled the silver dress from its hanger and helped Rose into it. It clung to her body like liquid metal. She felt exposed, vulnerable. The air kissed her bare skin and goosebumps followed. Her breath caught in her throat when she looked at herself again. She didn't look like a person. She looked like a fantasy. A doll.
When she stood up, the hem of the dress barely reached mid-thigh. Her long legs felt bare, like she was on display. The deep V of the neckline nearly touched her navel, and no undergarments were allowed—it would ruin the "aesthetic," they had said.
Leon approached her, the soles of his shoes clicking on the tiled floor like a countdown.
"Stand up straight," he said softly, and there was venom in his softness.
Rose hesitated.
But her body, ever the survivor, obeyed. She stood taller, even though her knees felt weak.
Leon walked a slow circle around her. "Turn."
She turned slowly, fists clenched at her sides, every inch of her screaming to run, to scream, to claw her way out. But there was nowhere to go.
When he was satisfied, he signaled with a nod.
"Blindfold her."
Rose flinched.
A black silk cloth was pulled from the table and tied gently, but firmly, around her eyes. Darkness settled over her. Her breathing became shallow, and she was only vaguely aware of her heels tapping against the floor as they led her through the corridor. The sounds of the underground world faded behind her. The murmurs. The eerie laughter. The clinking of glasses.
Now, it was just footsteps. Echoes. Cold air.
She felt the shift in temperature before anything else. They had gone deeper underground. The floor changed—cement now, not tile. The sound of a car engine hummed nearby.
Then a voice. "Open the door."
She was guided into a vehicle—a limo, judging by the spacious interior. The scent of leather and expensive cologne hit her nostrils immediately.
She was seated, gently, though it didn't feel like kindness. Then someone else climbed in next to her. The door shut.
A click.
Then silence.
The blindfold was removed.
Her eyes squinted against the dim interior lights of the limo. Leon sat across from her, legs crossed, a glass of amber liquid in hand. He looked amused.
She clenched her fists again, this time curling them around the edge of her dress. It didn't feel like clothing. It felt like shackles made of silk.
Leon took a sip of his drink.
"Don't be shy," he said, his voice coated in honeyed venom. "You are not new to being owned, Rose."
He smiled when he said her name, as if he was savoring the way it tasted on his tongue.
She felt sick.
Her jaw tightened, and she said nothing. She stared at the tinted window, though she couldn't make out anything beyond the glass. Where were they going? Was this still New York? Had she been taken to another state? Another country?
She had no way of knowing.
Leon leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. "They didn't say anything about you being mute, so I'm guessing this is just your way of giving me the silent treatment."
Rose didn't flinch. She didn't blink. She gave him nothing.
He chuckled softly, leaning back again. "Mmm. What a shame. Well…" he tilted his glass, watching the liquid swirl, "you won't be silent forever."
There was nothing flirtatious in his tone. It was a promise. A threat wrapped in silk.
The limo moved smoothly over the underground pavement, the dim lights casting soft glows across the car's leather interior. Outside, shadows flickered past. Inside, time stretched endlessly, like a nightmare on loop.
Rose stayed still.
Her nails bit into her palms.
And all she could do was hope Nikolai found her.
Before it was too late.