Prologue:
At thirty-two, I wasn't ugly.
At least… I didn't think I was.
But mirrors, unforgiving fluorescent lights, and my ex-boyfriend's parting words, "You're just… average" had a way of making a woman doubt herself.
Average looks. Average job. Average apartment with a perpetually leaky kitchen tap.
I'd once dreamed of grand romances, of being swept away in silk gowns by some dashing gentleman.
But real life was quick to correct me, instead of a ballroom, I had cramped commutes; instead of diamonds, I had clearance sales; and instead of a prince, I had Carl, who dumped me for a twenty-five-year-old with a yoga-toned body.
So I stopped dreaming.
I calculated.
Everything in my life became a matter of logic and survival, balancing bills, managing office politics, keeping my head down.
Beauty was for women born with it; power was for women lucky enough to marry into it.
Me? I had practicality.
Or so I thought. Until the bus hit me.
One moment, I was clutching my plastic grocery bag against the rain, trying to ignore the ache in my lower back.
The next, screech of brakes, blinding white, then… nothing.
Prologue End:
When I woke up, the smell was the first thing that struck me.
It was thick, sweat, damp straw, and the sour tang of fear.
My eyes shot open to dim torchlight flickering against stone walls, and before I could sit up, I realized I was lying on rough wooden planks, my wrists bound in front of me with fraying rope.
And my body…
…wasn't mine.
Pale, delicate hands. Slim wrists. No chipped nails, no faint scar from the time I cut myself opening a can.
My breath came out in a small, almost childlike gasp, and a curtain of long, silvery-blonde hair slid into my vision.
What the hell?
I didn't have time to panic properly.
"Lot number thirty-four, on your feet!"
The voice was harsh, male, accompanied by a sharp tug at my arm.
My knees buckled, these legs were thinner, weaker than I was used to, and I stumbled out into a narrow corridor lined with iron bars.
Beyond them, faces peered in. Not kind faces.
I'd read enough isekai webnovels to know exactly where this was going.
Slavery.
And if the state of my thin cotton shift, the bruises on my bare feet, and the cold metal collar at my neck weren't enough proof, the stage at the end of the corridor confirmed it.
I was herded up onto it, blinking at the sudden brightness.
Rows of men in fine coats and gloved hands sat in tiered seats. A tall man in a velvet waistcoat stepped forward, addressing them with a salesman's cheer.
"Lot thirty-four! A rare find, barely seventeen, untouched, with hair like spun silver. Perfect for the discerning gentleman's collection!"
My stomach turned.
I wasn't seventeen. I was thirty-two.
And "untouched"? I didn't even want to think about what they meant.
But I understood one thing instantly, in this world, a girl like this was in danger.
I needed a plan. A logical, foolproof plan.
Rule number one: Preserve the merchandise without selling the whole product.
Translation, I'd offer just enough to keep an owner interested, but never enough to lose control.
Kisses, flirting, maybe some innocent touches, that was the maximum. Anything beyond that was non-negotiable.
Rule number two: Aim for the owner who values appearance over… other services.
Someone rich, someone who'd treat me like a trophy, not a tool.
Rule number three: Play the role. I'd survived thirty-two years on Earth by calculating my moves; I could survive here by acting the perfect little doll.
So I lowered my eyes, tilted my head just enough for my hair to catch the light, and forced the smallest, shyest smile I could manage.
From somewhere near the back, a deep, cold voice cut through the murmur of bids.
"Five hundred gold."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even the auctioneer faltered before quickly recovering.
"Ah, we have five hundred from the Duke of Rivenhall!"
Duke? My mental calculator went into overdrive. Dukes meant wealth. Wealth meant mansions. Mansions meant distance from danger.
I lifted my gaze just slightly, enough to see him.
Tall. Dark-haired. Expression carved from marble.
His eyes, a pale steel-gray, regarded me with the same interest one might show a caged bird, not unkind, but utterly impersonal.
Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
But in that moment, I knew:
If I had to belong to someone, better him than the leering men in the front rows.
No one dared to outbid him.
The carriage ride to his estate was silent. He didn't speak, didn't look at me more than once, and the single glance was so brief I wasn't sure I imagined it.
I kept my hands folded neatly, posture demure, mind working overtime.
I would smile when spoken to. I would be obedient, pleasant, charming in small doses. I would make myself into the perfect acquisition, too pretty to discard, too harmless to… misuse.
And once I'd secured comfort and safety, I'd find a way to earn my freedom.
His estate loomed like something from a painting, towering spires, wrought-iron gates, lanterns glowing against the dusk.
Inside, the floors gleamed, the air was warm, and instead of being handed over to some surly steward, I found myself… being offered tea.
By him.
"You look cold," the Duke said, voice softer now. "Drink."
I stared. This was not in my calculations.
Over the next hour, instead of being locked in some dim servant's room, I was shown to a suite, my own bed, my own bath, soft slippers waiting at the foot of the bed. And every order was gentle, almost hesitant.
It was… like being treated as a pet. A cherished one.
Exactly what I'd planned for.
…And yet, somehow, not at all.
Because if this was a game of logic, the Duke was not playing by my rules.
The suite was large enough to fit my old apartment inside it twice over.
Heavy curtains of deep blue velvet framed tall windows, and the bed, good lord, the bed was a fortress of pillows and embroidered quilts.
My brain, however, wasn't admiring the decor. It was running numbers.
Room this size. Bedding this quality. Private bath.
Current survival estimate: 90% chance of comfort, 10% chance of... "oops, this was just to lure you into a false sense of security."
The Duke's voice broke my train of thought.
"You'll bathe first. I'll have a meal sent up afterward."
His tone was cool, matter-of-fact, the kind that expected obedience without raising volume.
I dipped my head like a proper little Victorian damsel. "Yes… my lord."
It sounded strange in my mouth. Not because of the "lord" part, I'd read enough Regency romances, but because my voice in this body was soft, musical. Like someone had put a silk ribbon on a sound.
He gave a small nod, then turned to leave. No lingering look. No suggestive comment. Just gone.
Hmm. Suspicious.
Bathwater in a porcelain tub, steaming and scented faintly of lavender, should've been heaven after the filth of the slave pen. I sank into it, watching the grime swirl away, but my mind didn't relax.
Rule number one was working so far, preserve the merchandise without selling the whole product.
The Duke seemed uninterested in me in that way… or maybe he was just patient. Too patient. Which was worse.
When I stepped out, someone had left a gown folded neatly on a stool.
Not a sheer, revealing scrap, but an actual dress. Soft cream cotton with a ribbon sash at the waist. No corset, no elaborate fastenings, easy to put on myself.
I tied the ribbon, staring at my reflection in the tall mirror.
It still startled me. Pale hair cascading to my waist, skin that looked like it had never known a blemish, eyes the color of ice melting in sunlight.
On Earth, I'd been average. Here, I was… marketable.
And I would use every bit of it.
The meal arrived on a silver tray carried by a maid. Warm bread, roasted chicken, glazed carrots, a small dish of custard. Enough to feed two of me.
"His Grace requests you eat in your room tonight," the maid said with a curtsey.
I wanted to ask why but bit it back.
Rule number two: don't pry. Let them underestimate you.
I ate slowly, savoring every bite. Halfway through the custard, I heard a faint knock.
When I opened the door, the Duke stood there.
He didn't enter, just glanced at the tray, then at me. "You've eaten well?"
"Yes, my lord," I said sweetly, wiping my mouth with the napkin in the most demure way possible.
"Good. Rest, then. Tomorrow, we will discuss your duties."
Duties. The word could mean a thousand things. My stomach tightened.
But then, his gaze softened almost imperceptibly. "You need not be afraid."
And he walked away.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Not because the bed wasn't comfortable, oh, it was sinful, but because I was trying to piece together his angle.
Men in power didn't buy beautiful slaves to give them private suites and custard for dessert. They bought them for… other reasons.
Yet here I was, untouched, unthreatened, and, dare I say, pampered.
I decided on my next step.
Tomorrow, I'd test the waters. Push just enough to learn his boundaries.
The next morning, sunlight streamed in as the maid brought breakfast. I insisted on dressing myself, no way was I letting strangers lace me into something until I knew the household dynamics.
I found the Duke in what appeared to be a study. Books lined the walls, a fire crackled in the hearth, and he sat behind a polished desk, reading correspondence. He didn't look up immediately.
"Good morning, my lord," I said, stepping just inside the door. I clasped my hands in front of me, tilting my head slightly, a calculated move to appear harmless but charming.
His eyes lifted to mine. Cold at first… then faintly curious. "You may sit."
There was a chair by the fire, not the desk. I took it, smoothing my skirt, watching him from beneath my lashes.
"You purchased me," I began carefully, "and I am grateful. But I would know what role you expect me to play."
One eyebrow arched. "You are quick to get to the point."
"Clarity prevents… misunderstandings," I said softly.
For a heartbeat, he simply studied me, and I resisted the urge to squirm. Then...
"You will be companion to my household. You will be present at certain dinners, certain events. You will not be touched by anyone without my permission. You will be… kept."
Kept. Like a pet.
It wasn't quite what I'd planned for, but it was close enough.
I allowed a small, shy smile. "I understand."
His gaze lingered a second longer, and I had the oddest sense he was testing me.
"Very well. You may explore the gardens today. Stay within the estate grounds."
Dismissed without drama. My survival meter ticked upward another five percent.
Later, in the gardens, I walked among roses so vivid they looked painted. A few servants passed by, offering polite bows. No one treated me like… well, like a slave.
This was good. Too good. Which made me nervous.
I was still mulling it over when a deep voice came from behind.
"You're not what I expected."
I turned. The Duke stood a few paces away, hands in his coat pockets. His hair caught the sunlight, silvering the dark strands. His expression was unreadable.
I kept my voice light. "What did you expect, my lord?"
"Fear," he said simply. "Or resentment."
"Oh, I have both," I said before thinking.
Then, seeing his brow lift, I added quickly, "But I find it wiser to… focus on possibilities instead."
A flicker, just the smallest, of amusement touched his mouth. "Possibilities."
"Yes." I dared to meet his gaze. "I plan to be of value to you."
For a moment, the air between us felt… charged. Not in the predatory way I'd feared, but like a chessboard where he'd just recognized a potential opponent.
Then he nodded, and that faint amusement was gone. "We will see."
His POV
Elias Rivenhall had not intended to purchase a slave that night.
He'd gone to the market for information, not acquisitions. But when Lot Thirty-Four was brought out, pale hair, delicate features, eyes darting with both caution and calculation, he saw something in her that stayed his usual disinterest.
Not beauty. He'd seen plenty of that.
It was the way she assessed the room, as though already planning her next move.
Most in her position cowered. She… adapted.
It was interesting. And Elias valued interesting things.
Still, he kept his distance. Until he knew what she truly was, victim, schemer, or something in between, he would watch, provide comfort, and wait.
A bird in a gilded cage sang better when it felt safe.
Back to her POV
By evening, I'd learned two things.
One, his "cold" demeanor wasn't rudeness, it was control. He didn't waste words or gestures.
Two, every comfort I was given was intentional. Not kindness for kindness's sake, but… a choice.
Which meant my plan to stay within my own boundaries, only kisses, calculated charm, might actually work. If I could keep him in this detached, curious state, I could survive until I found an opening for freedom.
And yet…
As I sat by the fire that night, sipping tea while he read across from me, I felt a strange warmth in my chest. Safety.
It was dangerous to feel that way. Safety was the first step toward complacency. And complacency got people trapped.
But when his eyes lifted from his book, met mine briefly, and he asked, softly, "Is the tea to your liking?"…
…I couldn't help but smile.
End of Chapter 1