He Bought Me Twice

Meeting the Devil

The heels of her stilettos struck the marble with sharp, deliberate precision, each click slicing through the velvet-lined corridor like the crack of a distant gunshot. The sound chased her, ricocheting off the walls, a slow, merciless countdown to whatever waited beyond. The air smelled faintly of perfume and polished stone, heavy with anticipation, as though the very hall held its breath for her arrival.

Callista's breath was shallow. Every step she took away from the auction stage tightened the invisible leash around her neck. Her handler, the same bald man with cold eyes who had brought her in, gripped her wrist without gentleness. He did not speak. None of them ever did.

The corridor felt endless, as though designed to make her forget who she was before this. Before the glass cage. Before the whispered bids and the eyes that drank her in like wine. She had stood still under the spotlights, clothed in elegance and stripped of dignity. But she hadn’t cried. Not even when the paddle with the black glove rose silently, sealing her fate.

Now she was walking toward him.

The heavy double doors ahead of her opened soundlessly. Warm gold light spilled out onto the cool marbled hallway, welcoming her like a cruel smile. Inside was a room that looked like it had been carved out of old money and darker things. Gilded mirrors. Velvet drapes. A crystal chandelier dripping with light like it wept for her.

And at the center of it all, he sat.

Sandro Mazandarani.

He didn’t rise when she entered. He watched her like he had always watched her, with the calm detachment of a man who already owned everything in the room. Including her. His black suit fit his frame like a second skin, sharp and commanding. A glass of whiskey dangled from his fingers, the amber liquid catching the light in brief flares.

Callista stopped just past the threshold, her breath catching before she could stop it. The hum of whispers, the clinking of crystal glasses, the heavy perfume of the room—all of it blurred into nothing when her eyes met his.

He was there.

Leaning back in his chair as though the entire hall belonged to him, a glass of deep red wine poised casually in one hand, Sandro Mazandarani stared at her with the kind of stillness that felt louder than any shout.

And in that stillness, she saw it, recognition.

It wasn’t loud, not the way some people remembered you, not with smiles or widened eyes. This was sharper. Quieter. Dangerous.

The kind of recognition that said he had known from the moment she stepped into the cage.

Her fingers curled at her side, hidden in the folds of the gown.

So it had been him. All along.

The thought twisted in her chest like a knife.

The man who once held her like she was the only thing he wanted was now the man who sat there, letting strangers appraise her, bid for her, as if she were nothing more than a possession to be claimed at the right moment.

And God help her, his gaze didn’t waver.

“Leave us,” Sandro said without looking at the handler.

The door closed with a soft click, sealing them in.

Callista stood tall even as her heart beat like a war drum in her chest.

“I didn’t think you’d stoop to this,” she said finally. Her voice was steady, but the weight in it carried years—years of silence, of longing, of battles fought without him. Her hands trembled at her sides, though she tried to hide them in the folds of her gown.

He tilted his head, his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“To what? Making a purchase?”

“You didn’t buy me,” she said, the words sharper than she intended, because God help her, a part of her wished their meeting could have been somewhere else. A quiet street. A café. A place where she could explain.

“Didn’t I?” His voice was velvet laced with iron. He set his glass down and began walking toward her, each step deliberate, predatory. The faint scent of expensive cologne and something darker, something only he could carry, wrapped around her like a ghost from another life.

She didn’t realize she was retreating until her spine met the cold surface of the closed doors.

He stopped a breath away, his shadow folding over hers.

“You put yourself on the stage, Callista,” he murmured. “All I did was raise my hand.”

“You manipulated the system,” she said, hating the crack in her voice, hating how he still had the power to make her feel sixteen again, when she believed the world could be survived if he was on her side.

“I designed it.”

He smirked, his gaze locking on her. For a moment, the sharpness in his eyes softened. He had prepared himself to see her diminished, a shadow of the girl he remembered, yet the sight of her stole the air from his lungs. Time hadn’t worn her down, it had shaped her into something breathtaking. Her curves were softer, her face more luminous, her presence more magnetic than he remembered. It made his throat tighten as he swallowed hard.

But for her the words struck deeper than they should have. Because at that moment, she understood, he had been here, in this world, for a long time. And not once had he reached for her. Not once had he believed there could have been another reason she had disappeared.

He did not trust her enough.

All these years, she had held on to the thought that maybe, someday, they would meet again and speak the truth. That maybe forgiveness could exist between them, even if love had been buried under time and distance.

But here, under the glare of gilded lights and cold glass walls, she realized the truth he still carried—he believed she had walked away. That she had ignored him. That she had left him without a word.

And that hurt more than anything.

The confession fell between them like a bomb. She stared at him, lips parted in disbelief.

“Madam Celine works for me. This auction. The contracts. All of it. Nothing happens unless I approve it.”

Her knees weakened. She reached for the nearby table to steady herself.

“Why?” she whispered, the word catching in her throat. It wasn’t an accusation—it was the question she had carried for years, the one she’d prayed she would never need to ask this way.

His expression didn’t change.

“Because you walked away.”

The words struck harder than she expected, cutting through the space between them. Silence swelled, thick and unyielding, wrapping around her like a second skin. She could feel it pressing into her chest, making every breath heavy, every second stretch.

He moved past her without looking back, the sound of crystal meeting crystal as he poured another drink. His movements were calm, almost elegant, yet she recognized it for what it was, the same composure one might use to sign an execution order.

Her lips parted, desperate to tell the truth, to tell him everything she’d held inside for years. But the words withered before they could reach him. She knew, deep in her bones, that no explanation would soften him now. The boy she had once loved was gone. In his place stood a man forged in power and cruelty, a man people feared to speak against.

And yet, standing there in his presence, she couldn’t stop seeing the shadow of who he had been… and wishing, for one impossible second, that he might see her the same way again.

“You could have come to me, Callista,” he said, his tone sharp but quiet, the way a blade whispers before it cuts. “You could have asked. But instead, you went to her. To Celine. You put yourself on display for the highest bidder, like some tragic heroine.”

“I did it for my family.” Her voice trembled at the edges, but not from shame. From the ache of knowing he didn’t believe her.

He sipped slowly, watching her over the rim of his glass.

“So noble,” he said. “And so stupid.”

Her head snapped toward him, fury sparking through the ache in her chest. “What do you want from me?”

His eyes darkened, but there was no mistaking the glint of something deeper, resentment, desire, possession all braided into one.

“Everything you refused before.”

Her jaw tightened. “I wished we had met again in a different way. Maybe then you’d have listened to me… maybe you’d have dropped this and just listened.”

His gaze softened for a fraction of a second, then hardened again.

“You had your choice,” he said. “And now I have mine.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his hand brushing her cheek, not rough, not gentle, but testing.

“I’m not here for your love, Callista. I’m here for your surrender.”

She turned her face away from his touch, swallowing the ache that rose in her throat.

He gestured toward a small table by the window. A single folder rested there, thick, pristine, and heavy with authority.

“Your contract,” he said, his voice measured. “One year. Full discretion. You will live under my protection. You will not contact your siblings without my permission.”

Her head snapped up. “That wasn’t in the original agreement.”

“It is now.”

She stepped forward, fingers brushing over the folder’s smooth surface before opening it. Lines of legal precision stared back at her, his signature already etched in bold ink at the bottom. Hers was the only blank space left. And she knew, down to the marrow of her bones—what refusing would cost her. Aria’s medication. Joker’s safety. Their lives were untouched by his power only if she agreed to bend.

“You’re a monster,” she whispered, the words trembling even as she fought to make them sharp.

His smile curved slowly, dangerous, predatory. “No, Callista. I’m the man who won.”

She lowered herself into the chair, the weight of the moment pressing her down. Her fingers found the pen.

“If I sign this,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I lose what’s left of me.”

He turned away, already pouring himself another drink, his voice trailing back to her like smoke.

“No, Callista. You lost the moment you stepped onto that stage.”

Later, she stood before the full-length mirror. Two dresses lay across the velvet settee. One was crimson silk, backless and nearly scandalous. The other, a white sheath that hugged every curve with ruthless grace.

She chose the white one. Not because she wanted to please him, but because she refused to be seen as prey.

When she emerged from the dressing room, a black car was already waiting outside. The driver did not speak. The roads blurred past her window, but she barely saw them.

At dawn, they reached the private airstrip.

Sandro was already there, standing beside a sleek jet, the early light glinting off its silver hull. He was speaking into his phone, voice low, deliberate. His gaze flicked to her for a fraction of a second—enough to acknowledge her presence—before sliding away as if she were nothing more than a scheduled detail.

“Yes, Joker Reyes. Track him. I want full surveillance. If she even breathes in his direction, I want to know.”

He paused.

“And tell Lesly to wait. Her turn will come.”

The name landed like a blade. Lesly.

It wasn’t familiar, but it coiled in her chest all the same, sharp, sour, unwelcome.

Who was she? An associate? A mistress? The thought was ridiculous, but it clung like smoke, making her feel smaller, cheaper.

She kept her face unreadable, her steps steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing that flicker of doubt. Without a word, she walked past him, up the narrow steps of the jet.

If she was going to survive this year, she couldn’t just burn.

She would have to become the one thing he feared most.

Unbreakable.