Sold to the Billionaire: Her secret revenge

Isabella lost everything on the night she was sold, sold by her father, the man she had not only trusted but loved. Under the blazing chandeliers, her fragile frame shook as she stepped on the great platform. With its gold-trimmed walls, pricey wine pouring in crystal glasses, and men who thrived on authority, the space exuded luxury. Isabella, however, did not see this as a lavish ballroom. A slaughterhouse was what it was. And she was the lamb, too. The murmurs of the crowd blurred into a sickening hum in her ears. Her throat felt dry, her heart hammering against her ribs. The silk dress she wore clung to her like a second skin, its smoothness a cruel contrast to the suffocating dread curling in her stomach. She couldn’t believe this was happening. why her?!. Yet here she was, standing under the scrutiny of monsters in tailored suits, being auctioned off like an object to be owned. Like a furniture, like a piece of artifact. Fuck!. Her subconscious yelled inside her mind. She kept thinking about her father's treachery. The frantic manner in which he had pleaded for another opportunity at the poker table with the debt collectors, his voice trembling. His loss was obvious as soon as the cards were dealt out; he had lost more than just money. She was gone from him. "Lot number thirty-seven," declared the auctioneer. "A rare prize indeed." uncommon. She felt ill at that word. As eyes swept over her, she gritted her teeth and tried to maintain her cool. A few became giddy with laughter. Others have a darker aspect. To them, she was nothing. Another gamble. The bidding started. "One million." She flinched. "Four million." She dug her fingernails into her palms. The air seemed to be trapped in her lungs. As the numbers increased, each bid reminded her that she had no control over her fate. She wanted to scream. to run. But she was stuck, her body motionless, when men decided how much she was worth. Someone spoke the words "ten million." Keep quiet. The weight of the bid fell across the room. Then— "The girl is mine." Only one voice. Deep and dominating. deadly. The room went cold. It wasn't just a bid. It was a Command A ripple of unease passed through the crowd, subtle but undeniable. Conversations halted mid-sentence, the air thick with sudden tension. A few guests exchanged wary glances, others lowered their gazes to their glasses as if pretending not to notice. Even the auctioneer, a man accustomed to wealth and power, hesitated, his confident facade cracking like fragile glass. Because they knew who that voice belonged to. Lucas Blackwood. A name that carried weight. A man feared by even the most powerful in this room. He was terror to those who knew him, he was ruthless when it came to business. He was dangerous, and Isabella somehow knew that, he was the man from the Tv shows she'd watch. The auctioneer cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the room, one could see the drop of sweat forming on his head, the terror in his eyes. "Mr. Blackwood," he began with careful pause. "Your bid is—" "I wasn't bidding," Lucas said with ease, his voice soft but bringing an edge that sent a shiver down Isabella's spine. Silence. He stood at the back of the hall, unaffected by the opulence around him, and appeared commanding without effort. The dim lighting only served to highlight his features—an angular jawline, piercing dark eyes devoid of warmth. A single, heavy pause. The auctioneer took a deep breath, swallowing down whatever argument he might have considered. He knew better. Everyone knew better. Nobody was brave enough to oppose him. The gavel slammed. "Sold." One last, heartbreaking word. She was doomed. * * * Isabella's legs felt like lead as the guards led her off the stage. She was having a hard time processing what had transpired. She had just been purchased by Lucas Blackwood. As she walked through the room, the heat of hundreds of eyes whispering at her, her breath came unevenly. observing. Some felt sorry for her. Others felt envious. Lucas waited in the darkness. As though he were a king among men, the crowd moved to make room for him. He was, in a sense. His empire was not limited to respectable companies. His name was whispered, and parents cautioned their kids not to cross a man like Lucas Blackwood. Isabella had no other option, though. He already had her. He remained silent as soon as she got to him. His presence was overwhelming, a force that commanded the space around him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He remained still. Then he did. His fingers touched her chin, tilting her face upward with a hard, purposeful touch that was neither harsh nor gentle, causing her breath to catch. An analysis. An implicit warning. Even though his skin felt chilly against hers, his dark eyes were blazing hot. He wasn't soft, but he also wasn't rough. It acted as a prompt. He had total control now. Her spine stiffened, and she suppressed a quiver that threatened to betray her. She didn't flinch. It didn't matter, though. The struggle inside her was visible to him. And he seemed amused by that alone. His dark, unfathomable gaze traveled over her features as if memorizing every element of her face. Her cheekbones, her lips, the way her lashes trembled when she blinked. He studied her like one would inspect something they owned. Then his lips twisted slightly. "Wife, you will obey me from now on." The word hit her like a blow to the body. Wife. She trembled, so badly. Not only at the phrase, but also at the assurance in his voice. There was no question. There was no request. Said as though it had been set in stone long before she had a choice, it was a pronouncement. It was not only an auction. It was a statement. And Isabella had just been taken by the devil himself.