The velvet bench felt like ice against Aria's bare thighs. She sat stiffly, the sheer robe clinging to her skin like a second layer of shame. Every inhale tasted like copper, like fear. Beyond the heavy black curtain, a voice echoed through the chamber:

"Lot 43. Virgin. Eighteen. Natural." Aria's knees trembled the more she sat there, afraid.

Madame Celeste appeared from the shadows, her fingers digging into Aria's chin.

"Head high. Shoulders relaxed." Her breath smelled like mint and something bitter. "Make them want you without touching."

Aria tried to look away. Madame Celeste tightened her grip. "Remember what's at stake."

Aria nodded once.

The curtain swept aside.

The light pierced through Aria’s mask as she stepped onto the glass platform, barefoot, the spotlight burning against her skin. Below, shadows shifted, men in gilded masks, their eyes gleaming like predators in the dark. Only their numbered paddles moved, twitching in anticipation.

A voice from the darkness murmured, "Angel."

Another chuckled. "Ten virgins in twenty years. She's the rarest."

Aria turned slowly, mechanically, her gaze fixed on a single light above her. Anything to avoid the crawling stares.

The auctioneer's voice boomed. "Opening bid: one hundred thousand."

Paddle 11 shot up. "One hundred."

Paddle 6. "One-fifty."

Paddle 22. "Two."

The numbers climbed. Aria's fingers clutched the edge of her robe, her pulse hammering in her throat.

"Five hundred."

"Seven-fifty."

"One million."

Aria's breath hitched. Then came silence. From the back of the room, a single paddle rose. The man behind it didn't stand, didn't shout. His voice was low, calm, final.

"Ten million." The room stilled. Even the auctioneer faltered. "Ten... ten million? Going once?" No one moved.

"Sold."

Aria's gaze snapped to the man in the back. The mask only covered half his face. The scar above his brow. The sharp cut of his jaw.

Her stomach twisted. The guards led her down a red-lit hallway, their grips impersonal, their silence absolute. Aria's legs moved on autopilot. The robe slipped from her shoulder. She didn't fix it.

Her lips formed words without sound. No. No. No.

….

The private lounge smelled like whiskey and leather. Damon Vasilis sat on the velvet couch, mask discarded, a glass of scotch in hand. He looked older, sharper, and colder, but the eyes—those were the same. The ones from her sister's photos. The ones from her nightmares. He stood when she entered.

"Hello, Aria. You've grown."*

Aria's feet locked in place. Her back hit the wall before she realized she was moving.

"You can't be here."

Damon stepped closer, his smile empty. "I own the contract. You walked into this willingly." He tilted his head. "But I didn't bid for a stranger."

Aria's nails bit into her palms. "You were going to marry my sister."

"She ran."

Aria dashed out of the room and into the lobby. “What have I done”? She lunged for the contract in her bag, pages fluttering as she ripped through them.

Clause 13.7 glared back at her in bold print:

The auctioned asset is legally bound for 3 years to the buyer.

Her knees gave out. She slumped on the floor of the lobby, bursting out in tears.

"What the hell have I done?"

Damon grabbed her by the hand and brought her back into the room. She didn't fight. She just moved as he shoved her. He watched her, silent, as the weight of it crashed down.

There is no escape. No way out. She had been sold to the devil himself.

….

The jet window burned cold against Aria's palm as clouds parted beneath them. The Aegean stretched out in every direction, endless blue swallowing the horizon. Then, land. A single island emerged, green and white against the sea, growing larger as they descended. Her stomach twisted.

Across the cabin, Damon Vasilis turned a page in his notebook. Ice clinked in his glass. He hadn't spoken since takeoff. Hadn't even looked at her. The silence between them felt heavier than the jet's engines.

Heat hit Aria's face the moment the cabin door opened. Mediterranean air, thick with salt and something floral. No airport. Just a dirt runway, a lone hangar, and two stone-faced guards waiting beside a black SUV.

One of them reached for her bag.

"I've got it," Aria said, clutching the strap tighter.

The guard didn't react. Just opened the car door.

The Vasilis estate appeared like a mirage, white marble gleaming against the cliffs, all sharp angles and black gates. The car slowed at the entrance, and Aria caught her reflection in the tinted window. Small, pale. Dressed in clothes that weren't hers. A doll in a gilded cage.

Marble floors echoed underfoot in the foyer. A butler bowed and vanished. Damon stepped forward, pressing a silver tablet into Aria's hands.

A schedule glowed onscreen.

9:00 - Breakfast

11:00 - Gym

14:00 - Rest

18:00 - Dinner*

Every hour accounted for. No room for choice. Aria opened her mouth to speak, but Damon was already walking away.

….

The seamstress's hands were cold.

"Master Vasilis has selected your wardrobe," Lydia said, measuring tape looping around Aria's waist. Racks of designer clothes lined the white room—silks, linens, all in muted colors and picked for her.

Aria stood still, arms raised, staring at the wall. The bedroom was bigger than her entire apartment back home.

Aria sat on the edge of the bed, fingers sinking into the duvet softer than anything she'd ever touched. Then she saw it, a folded note on the nightstand.

“Stay out of the East Wing.” D.V.

Dinner was served on a table long enough to seat twenty.

Aria sat at one end. Damon at the other. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight between them. Silver lids covered each dish.

She picked up her fork. Damon watched.

"Eat," he said. The fork clinked against the plate.

"Why me?" Aria asked.

Damon's knife paused mid-cut. "Because your sister didn't want to be owned." The words hit like a slap.

Damon stood, napkin discarded, and left without another word.

Aria wandered the halls the next day. Every door opened to her: libraries, sunrooms, a pool that mirrored the sky. Except one.

The East Wing door stood firm under her hand. Locked.

A statue of Artemis watched from the atrium, arrow drawn. Aria stood beneath it, the goddess's stone gaze heavier than any camera following her movements.

From her balcony, Aria saw him.

Damon was in the courtyard, shirtless, fists wrapped in bloodied tape. His punches landed hard against the sandbag, each hit precise. He was a control freak and a brutal brute.

She should have looked away, but she didn't.

….

It was midnight already. She felt the silk dress she wore whispering against her thighs as she walked down the hallway.

The East Wing hallway was colder than the rest of the house. Aria pressed her palm to the locked door and leaned in.

She heard a sound from within.

“What was that”? She dashed out of the hallway, knees quivering as she ran.