Chapter 3 – The Auction

• Alina’s legs felt weak beneath her as the door swung open. The harsh, artificial light of the hallway hit her like a slap to the face, and the chill of the air sent a shiver running down her spine. The masked men who had come to collect her had dragged her from her sterile cell, and now, with every step, her mind raced, each thought more frantic than the last. She didn’t know where they were taking her, but one thing was certain: she was no longer in control. She was no longer just a scared girl in a foreign place; she was a product to be sold.
• The corridor led her into a vast, grand room. She could feel the shift in atmosphere immediately—the air grew thick with the scent of wealth, of power, of something far darker. Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, revealing walls draped in rich, dark velvet. The deep red of the fabric seemed almost suffocating, like a prison she couldn’t escape. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their lights dimmed to a seductive glow that only highlighted the opulence of the room. Everything about this place screamed excess—luxury for those who could afford it, misery for those who couldn’t.
• There was no sound except for the sharp click of her heels against the polished marble floor, the noise amplifying with every step she took. Her heart raced, and she stumbled, her feet betraying her as her mind swirled with confusion. But her handlers, the faceless men in black, shoved her forward without any compassion. They didn’t care if she was scared. They didn’t care if she was human.
• They were leading her to the stage.
• The platform in front of her was raised slightly, bathed in a harsh spotlight. Alina’s eyes watered from the intensity of it. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust, but it only made her feel more disoriented. Every part of her screamed to run, to hide, to disappear into the shadows. But there was nowhere to go. She was already on display. She could feel the eyes of the buyers on her, even though she couldn’t see them yet. It was a familiar sensation—the feeling of being watched. But this time, it was different. This time, it wasn’t just her body that they were judging—it was her worth.
• The men behind her shoved her roughly onto the stage. She stumbled, her arms flailing for balance, but the cold, unforgiving surface of the stage stopped her fall. The handlers did not care if she stumbled. They didn’t care if she fell. They just wanted her to stand and be sold.
• The lights blinded her. There were dozens of men seated in velvet chairs, all wearing masks. Some were familiar, others strange, their identities hidden behind the fabric. They were wealthy men, dangerous men—some she had heard of in whispers, others whose names were known only in the darkest corners of the world. The masks were not just for privacy; they were part of the game. A game of power, of control, of wealth. A game that had just become her nightmare.
• She tried to steady her breath, to focus, but the panic was building inside her like a tidal wave, threatening to break free. What was happening? What was she doing here? Her heart thudded in her chest, and her palms grew clammy. She could hear the murmur of conversation from the buyers, the soft rustle of expensive suits, but it all blended together into a blur of incomprehensible noise.
• A sudden, harsh voice broke through the chaos, a deep, commanding tone that seemed to silence everything around her.
• “Step forward.”
• It wasn’t a request. It was an order. She had no choice but to obey.
• She stepped forward, slowly, hesitantly. As she moved, the spotlight shifted with her, and she could hear the faint sound of whispers—low, indistinct, but sharp enough to make her skin crawl. Her legs felt like jelly, but she forced herself to stand tall, to hold her head high. She would not let them see her fear. Not now.
• The screen behind her flickered to life, the harsh glow casting her shadow long and distorted on the stage. It displayed her bio—her name, her age, her education, her most intimate details. Each word was an arrow aimed directly at her chest.
• Name: Alina Rayne.
• Age: 20.
• Education: Art.
• Virgin: Yes.
• The words hit her like a ton of bricks. Her name, her age—those were just facts. But the last detail, the one that they knew would be the most valuable, sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over her. Her virginity—her only remaining shred of innocence—was now a commodity. And she could feel every pair of eyes on her, appraising her, judging her, like vultures waiting for the kill.
• She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But the handlers held her firm, one of them giving her a sharp shove forward to make sure she didn’t collapse under the weight of it all. The spotlight was a glaring reminder of her helplessness. She was exposed, vulnerable. There was no hiding now.
• And then, the bidding began.
• “Five million.”
• The voice came from the far corner of the room. A man, his voice calm, disinterested, as though he were ordering a drink. He didn’t raise a paddle; he didn’t even move. He simply nodded. His eyes, hidden behind a mask, were the only thing that gave any hint of life, cold and calculating. His bid sent a ripple of surprise through the crowd—five million was a substantial amount, but there was something in the way the man had spoken that made it clear he wasn’t finished.
• “Six million.”
• Another bidder, this time more eager, his bid raised as though to challenge the first. But the man who had bid five million didn’t flinch. He didn’t respond. His gaze was unwavering, focused solely on Alina.
• A third voice rang out, this one softer, almost tentative. “Seven million.”
• This bid was quickly countered by the first man—his mask still in place, his voice steady. “Eight.”
• The bidding continued, growing more intense, more frantic, as men tried to outbid each other, desperate to claim her. Her pulse raced with every price increase, her thoughts spiraling faster and faster, but the fear that had once gripped her began to give way to something else—a numbness that was settling over her. She was no longer an individual. She was an object, a thing to be sold to the highest bidder.
• She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She was trapped in this nightmare, a nightmare where she had no agency, no control. Her body wasn’t her own, her future wasn’t her own. She was being bought and sold like cattle, her worth determined by the highest price.
• The bids continued, each one more obscene than the last, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, the final bid was made.
• “Twenty million.”
• The room fell silent, the tension hanging heavy in the air.
• Alina’s stomach dropped. The man who had bid was not like the others. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating. He had not raised a paddle, nor had he spoken a word to anyone. He had only nodded. The simple motion had been enough. And now, he had won her.
• A handler appeared at her side, whispering in her ear, his voice low and grim. “He’s the most dangerous one.”
• The words sent a chill through Alina’s veins. The most dangerous one.
• Her legs went weak beneath her, but there was no escape. The handler’s grip was firm, guiding her off the stage. She was pushed toward the back of the room, the buyers still watching her, their eyes burning into her skin. The handler led her into a darkened hallway, the sound of her footsteps echoing against the stone floor. The further they moved from the auction chamber, the more the reality of her situation sank in.
• And then, they stopped.
• A tall figure emerged from the shadows, his silhouette cutting through the darkness. The soft light from the hallway revealed a man, tall and imposing, his features sharp and unreadable. His mask was black, sleek, elegant.
• Luciano Moretti.
• He didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge her presence at first. His gaze was fixed on her, his eyes cold and calculating, as though appraising the merchandise he had just purchased. His expression was unreadable, the only sign of life in his posture—the way he stood, the way he exuded power with every inch of his body.
• The handler stepped forward, delivering a few quiet words, but Alina couldn’t make them out. The world felt distant, the edges of her vision blurring. She was too numb to react, too exhausted from the events that had led her here. All she could do was stand and wait.
• Luciano took a single step forward, his gaze never leaving hers. His voice was low, but it carried an undeniable weight.
• “Come with me.”
• It wasn’t a request. It was an order.