The auction block-1c
719 Words
Deep. Cold. Final.
Cutting through the silence like a blade through silk.
"**One million dollars.**"
The room gasped.
Even the auctioneer faltered. "I—excuse me, sir, the current bid is only three hundred and fifty—"
"**One million. Final offer.**" The voice again. Calm. Certain. Absolute. "**Stop wasting my time.**"
Lysandra couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't process.
*One million.*
*One million dollars.*
*For her.*
The auctioneer recovered quickly. "One million dollars from bidder number twelve. Any counter bids?" He paused. No one spoke. The room was silent as a grave. "Going once..."
Lysandra's heart stopped.
"Going twice..."
She didn't know if she was being saved or destroyed.
"**Sold.**"
The gavel fell.
The sound echoed in her chest like a coffin lid closing.
"Lot number seven. Sold to bidder number twelve. One million dollars."
The lights dimmed.
Lysandra stood frozen.
She'd been sold.
For less time than it takes to watch a movie, her future had been auctioned, purchased, owned.
A hand touched her elbow—Margot, guiding her off stage like she might collapse. Maybe she would. Her legs felt like water.
Backstage, the other girls stared.
"*One million?*" someone whispered.
"Who the hell bids that high?"
"Must be someone *really* rich. Or really desperate."
Margot handed Lysandra a card. Heavy stock. Embossed lettering.
**PRIVATE COLLECTION ROOM**
**Bidder #12**
**Please proceed immediately.**
"Your buyer will meet you there," Margot said. "Congratulations."
*Congratulations.*
Like she'd won something.
Like this was a prize.
Lysandra looked at the card.
Her hands were shaking.
Somewhere in this building, a man who'd just spent one million dollars on her was waiting.
A man who wanted her enough to pay five times the average bid.
A man whose name she didn't know.
Whose face she hadn't seen.
Who'd bought her like property.
*Six months*, she reminded herself. *Just six months. Then Elara lives. And you're free.*
She followed Margot down a hallway lined with oil paintings and marble sculptures. The Montgomery Estate was old money—the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself. It simply *existed*, heavy and unavoidable.
They stopped at a door.
Mahogany. Brass handle. Completely unremarkable except for what waited behind it.
"This is you," Margot said. She hesitated, then added quietly: "He outbid everyone by seven hundred thousand dollars. Men don't do that unless they want something specific. Be smart. Be safe. And remember—you signed the contract. You agreed to this."
The words felt like both warning and absolution.
Margot left.
Lysandra stood alone in the hallway.
Six months of her life waited behind this door.
*You can do this. You have to do this. Elara is counting on you.*
She reached for the handle.
Turned it.
Stepped inside.
---
**THE PRIVATE COLLECTION ROOM**
The room was elegant. Understated. Leather chairs. A mahogany desk. Bookshelves lining one wall. A window overlooking the estate gardens, moonlight spilling through expensive curtains.
And standing at that window, back to her, hands in his pockets—
A man.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Tailored suit that probably cost more than her college tuition. Dark hair. Utterly still.
He didn't turn around.
The door clicked shut behind her.
They were alone.
Lysandra's throat was sand.
Say something. You have to say *something.*
"Hello."
Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. Barely a whisper.
He turned.
And Lysandra's entire world shifted.
She knew this face.
Not personally. But the way everyone in Manhattan knew certain faces.
**Cassian Vale.**
Billionaire. Media mogul. Venture capitalist. His face had been on the cover of *Forbes* last month. Thirty-two years old. Net worth: somewhere north of three billion. Companies included tech startups, media conglomerates, real estate empires.
He was Manhattan royalty.
And he'd just bought her.
But that wasn't what made her knees go weak.
It was his eyes.
Storm-grey. Sharp. Intelligent.
And looking at her like he'd been searching for her his entire life.
"Hello, Lysandra."
He knew her name.
Not "Lot #7."
Not "the girl in the red dress."
Her *name.*
"Mr. Vale," she managed.
"Cassian." He stepped closer. Not threatening. Just... present. Filling the space with the kind of confidence that came from owning everything you touched. "We're past formalities now."
Her mind raced.
*How does he know my name?*
*Why did he bid so high?*
*What does he want from me?*
- Writer
