Dahlia
I told myself I wouldn't come.
Even as the black car made its way up the long drive, my fingers clenched tight in my lap, and I whispered the same words I'd been repeating all day: Turn back. Turn back.
But the driver didn't hear me, or maybe he pretended not to, because the mansion loomed closer with every passing second.
My heart beat so hard it hurt. What kind of woman sells herself for one night? What kind of woman signs a paper that says she'll belong to a stranger until sunrise?
Me.
I was desperate. My mother's hospital bills were piling up, my savings long depleted, and then this… opportunity had landed in my lap.
I adjusted the thin silk mask over my face and tried not to think about how ridiculous I looked.
The black dress they'd given me clung to every curve, shimmering beneath the lights. My dark hair was styled in deep waves, polished to perfection.
My heels clicked too loudly as I stepped out of the car, guided by a man in a tux who didn't bother to look me in the eye.
The place reeked of wealth even before I stepped inside. I could feel eyes on me already. I was prey, walking willingly into the predator's den.
The ballroom was nothing like I'd imagined. It was a fairytale, dipped in sin. Arched cathedral ceilings stretched above me, and massive golden chandeliers spilled warm light across the polished floors.
Men in sleek black suits and women dripping in jewels drifted through the space, their colorful masks hiding secrets. They laughed, whispered, sipped champagne, moved as if they had nothing to lose.
But I knew better.
Everyone here wanted something they couldn't admit outside these walls.
And tonight, I was on display.
When they called my number, my body went rigid. My legs carried me forward anyway—onto the stage, into the light, where every gaze fell heavy on me.
The auctioneer's voice boomed, rehearsed and detached, listing me like I was nothing more than a piece of art.
"Lot seventeen," he announced. "A rare beauty, with dark hair and amber-colored eyes. She has never graced our stage. Who will begin the bidding?"
Heat surged into my cheeks. Their stares pierced through my mask, stripping me bare. I wanted to run. I wanted to disappear.
Then the first bid rang out.
"One hundred thousand."
The air shifted.
My breath caught as the numbers climbed—one-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty. Each voice struck me like a gavel against my chest.
My hands shook at my sides. I told myself it didn't matter who won. Just one night. I could survive one night.
What's the worst that could happen?
Silence fell.
And then I heard him.
"Five hundred thousand."
The room stilled.
His voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. Deep, smooth, laced with an accent I couldn't place. His aura commanded attention, and suddenly all eyes were on him.
No one countered.
"Sold," the auctioneer declared.
The hammer fell. My fate was sealed.
I searched the sea of masks, desperate and terrified, but I couldn't find him. Until a tall man rose at the back, unhurried, his black mask gleaming under the light. He didn't look at anyone else. Only me.
My knees nearly gave out.
They led me from the stage, down a narrow hall to a private chamber. I tried to breathe, tried to prepare myself, but when the door opened and he stepped inside, the air left my lungs.
Up close, he was even taller, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His finely tailored tux clung to a body built on strength, not vanity.
His mask covered half his face, but there was no hiding how handsome he was. Midnight-black hair framed piercing dark eyes that refused to let me look away.
He looked at me like I was already his.
"Mine," he murmured, almost to himself.
I swallowed hard. I should have said something—should have demanded to know who he was—but my body reacted faster than my mind.
He closed the distance slowly, testing me. His hand brushed my wrist, the lightest touch, but it sent a jolt straight through me.
"You're shaking," he said quietly. "Are you afraid?"
"Yes." The word slipped out, barely more than a breath.
He studied me, unreadable behind the mask. "Good."
A shiver rippled down my spine. I didn't know if he meant it as reassurance—or as a warning.
He offered his arm like a gentleman, though everything about him screamed he was anything but. I hesitated, then slid my hand into the crook of his elbow.
The ride was silent at first. The car smelled of whiskey and expensive cologne, the city sliding past outside the tinted windows.
He poured himself a drink with steady hands, then passed it to me without asking. My fingers brushed his, and I nearly dropped the glass.
"You agreed to this," he said finally, breaking the silence.
"I know."
"Then stop acting like you don't want it."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "You don't know what I want."
His gaze lingered on me, long enough that my skin burned. "I know enough."
I turned toward the window, but my reflection betrayed me—parted lips, shallow breath, restless eyes. He saw everything. And he knew it.
By the time we reached the penthouse, my stomach was in knots. The elevator shot upward, each passing floor pounding in time with my pulse.
He stood close, his shoulder brushing mine, his silence louder than words. Every time I dared to glance at him, his eyes held a promise I didn't dare name.
He had paid dearly for me. Tonight, I was his to do with as he pleased.
The suite was vast. A wall of glass looked out over the glittering city, skyscrapers rising like shadows against the night.
The view was breathtaking, but I barely saw it. I could feel him at my back, watching me as I stepped further inside.
The door clicked shut.
I froze.
He was behind me, close enough that his breath warmed my ear.
"You belong to me tonight," he said softly.
There was no room for argument. No room for doubt. Only the truth of his claim.