OWNED BY A BILLIONAIRE

The red stilettos were killing me. I'd never worn heels like this before. Four inches of crimson leather that wrapped around my ankles like a warning. The woman who'd dressed me a cold-eyed stylist named Sasha had laughed when I winced. "You'll thank me later," she'd said. "Mr. Black doesn't bid on ugly things." I didn't want to be bid on. I didn't want to be here at all. But my father's hospital bed was cold. The machines beeped a countdown I couldn't silence. And the bill sat on my kitchen table like a death sentence. €180,000. I made €1,200 a month waiting tables at a small café near the Hospital Universitario La Paz. Do the math. It would take years of no food, no rent, no life to save that much. The doctors said he had twelve days. Twelve days until I was alone in the world. So when the invitation arrived in a black envelope Private Auction. Wealthy patrons. Discretion guaranteed. I didn't throw it away. I held it in my shaking hands and read the fine print. One year of companionship. All debts paid in full upon signing. Your life for his. It was insanity. It was desperation. It was the only option I had left. I put on the stilettos. Now I stood behind a one-way mirror in a room that smelled like old money and newer sins. Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling painted with angels. Velvet curtains the color of blood framed tall windows that showed the Madrid skyline at midnight. Men in suits that cost more than my entire apartment sat in leather chairs, drinks in their hands, hunger in their eyes. And me. In black lace that didn't quite fit. Too tight at the hips. Loose at the chest. A stranger's body wearing a stranger's clothes. "The terms are simple," the auctioneer said. He was ancient, with white gloves and a voice like gravel. His name was Don Felipe, and he'd been running this auction for thirty years. My contact had told me that on the phone. "Don't be nervous, chica. He's a professional." Professional. What a word for a man who sold women. "Each lady offers one year of companionship," Don Felipe continued. "Our patrons bid accordingly. What happens after the auction... is between consenting adults." Companionship. Such a pretty word for what this was. I knew what these men wanted. Everyone in Madrid knew. The whispers said the auction was where the city's richest predators collected their prey. Legally. With contracts and nondisclosure agreements and bank transfers that left no trace. I'd heard stories. Models who disappeared into penthouses and emerged a year later with new faces and empty eyes. Students whose debts vanished overnight, replaced by nightmares they couldn't speak aloud. Women who signed their names on dotted lines and never saw daylight again. I told myself I was different. I was doing this for my father. For Javier Sinclair, who'd raised me alone after my mother died when I was five. Who'd worked two jobs to put food on the table. Who'd held my hair back when I was sick and cheered at my school plays and never, ever made me feel like a burden. He was dying. And I would sell my soul to save him. "Lot number one," Don Felipe called. A blonde woman stepped onto the stage. She was beautiful in an obvious way plastic surgery, spray tan, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She wore white silk that left nothing to the imagination. Her hands were steady, but I saw the tremor in her lower lip. The bidding started at €100,000. It ended at €450,000. She walked off the stage on someone's arm. An old man with yellow teeth and greedy fingers. She didn't look back. I watched three more women sell themselves. A redhead with freckles and frightened eyes. A brunette who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else. A woman my age who smiled like she'd already died inside. Each one younger than the last. Each one wearing the same empty expression I was trying to hide. This isn't me, I told myself. I'm not this person. But I was. Tonight, I was exactly this person. "Lot number five," Don Felipe announced. "Señorita Isabella Vargas. Twenty-four years of age. No prior arrangements." A woman with olive skin and dark hair walked past me. She paused. Looked at me with something like pity. "Don't cry," she whispered. "It makes the makeup run." Then she was gone. Onto the stage. Under the lights. Into the hands of a man I couldn't see. I wanted to run. My feet wouldn't move. "Lot number six." Another woman. Another sale. Another soul. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Sweat dripped down my spine beneath the black lace. The stilettos were digging into my heels. I was going to faint. I was going to throw up or collapse behind this mirror and they'd find me unconscious and I'd wake up in my father's hospital room and this would all be a nightmare. But it wasn't a nightmare. It was my life. "Lot number seven," Don Felipe said. "Señorita Ava Sinclair. Twenty-two years of age. No prior arrangements." My cue. The mirror in front of me was also a door. I pushed it open. The wood was cold beneath my palm. The room beyond was bright blindingly bright and I blinked against the light as I stepped onto the stage. Walk, Ava. One foot in front of the other. Don't trip. Don't fall. Don't embarrass yourself in front of the men who are about to buy you. I reached the center of the stage and stopped. The lights were too bright. I couldn't see their faces only silhouettes. Dark shapes in dark suits. Shadows with wallets and appetites. But I felt their eyes. Dozens of them. Crawling over my body like insects. Assessing. Pricing. Undressing. Don't throw up. Not here! My hands were fists at my sides. My nails bit into my palms. The pain kept me grounded. Kept me here. Kept me from floating away into the ceiling with the painted angels. "Bidding starts at five hundred thousand euros," Don Felipe said. A paddle went up in the front row. A man with a mustache and a wedding ring. Then another. Younger. Impatient. Then his. Alexander Black. I couldn't see his face. But I saw his hand. Long fingers wrapped around a paddle with a gold number. A platinum cufflink engraved with the initials A.B. The kind of watch that costs more than my father's surgery a Patek Philippe. Something that told the world he had more money than God and less mercy than a viper. He didn't look at the stage. He looked directly at the mirror I'd just walked through. At the empty space where I'd been hiding. At the ghost of the woman I used to be. As if he'd known I was there all along. As if he'd been watching me from the very beginning. "One million," someone called out from the back. Alexander Black smiled. I saw it a flash of white teeth in the darkness. A predator's smile. The kind of smile that said I always win. "Two million." The room went silent. Two million euros. For me. I stopped breathing. Don Felipe's gavel slammed against the podium. The sound echoed off the walls. "Sold. To Mr. Black." The name hit me like a physical blow. Alexander Black. CEO of Black Industries. A man whose face appeared on magazine covers and whose name appeared in police reports that never led to charges. A man worth more than small countries and feared more than death itself. I'd seen his photo once. A business magazine in a dentist's waiting room, back when I still had dental insurance. I'd thought he looked like a statue beautiful, but carved from something that had never been alive. Marble. Cold. Unbreakable. I was wrong. He was alive. And now he owned me. The lights dimmed. The other bidders faded into the background. My ears were ringing. My vision was blurring at the edges. I was going to pass out right here on this stage in these ridiculous red stilettos. A hand touched my elbow. "This way, señorita," a voice said. Male. Professional. Uninterested. I let him lead me off the stage. Through a curtain. Down a hallway lined with gold-framed mirrors. In each one, I saw my reflection a girl in black lace who'd just sold herself for two million euros. For Dad, I reminded myself. You did this for Dad. The man stopped outside a door. Dark wood. Gold handle. A plaque that read Sala Privada. "Wait inside," he said. "Mr. Black will join you shortly." He opened the door. I walked inside. The room was small. Intimate. A couch. A table with a decanter of whiskey. A fireplace that hadn't been lit. And on the table, a document. The contract. I walked toward it like a woman walking toward her own execution.