THE VIRGIN AUCTION

Chapter Five: Sold to the Devil

The velvet bench felt like ice against Aria's bare thighs. She sat stiffly, the sheer robe clinging to her skin like a second layer of shame. Every inhale tasted like copper, like fear. Beyond the heavy black curtain, a voice echoed through the chamber:

"Lot 43. Virgin. Eighteen. Natural." Aria's knees trembled the more sat there afraid.

Madame Celeste appeared from the shadows, her fingers digging into Aria's chin.

"Head high. Shoulders relaxed." Her breath smelled like mint and something bitter. "Make them want you without touching."

Aria tried to look away. Madame Celeste tightened her grip. "Remember what's at stake."

Aria nodded once.

The curtain swept aside.

The light pierced through Aria’s mask as she stepped onto the glass platform, barefoot, the spotlight burning against her skin. Below, shadows shifted, men in gilded masks, their eyes gleaming like predators in the dark. Only their numbered paddles moved, twitching in anticipation.

A voice from the darkness murmured, "Angel."

Another chuckled. "Ten virgins in twenty years. She's the rarest."

Aria turned slowly, mechanically, her gaze fixed on a single light above her. Anything to avoid the crawling stares.

The auctioneer's voice boomed. "Opening bid: one hundred thousand."

Paddle 11 shot up. "One hundred."

Paddle 6. "One-fifty."

Paddle 22. "Two."

The numbers climbed. Aria's fingers clutched the edge of her robe, her pulse hammering in her throat.

"Five hundred."

"Seven-fifty."

"One million."

Aria's breath hitched. Then came silence. From the back of the room, a single paddle rose. The man behind it didn't stand, didn't shout. His voice was low, calm, final.

"Ten million." The room stilled. Even the auctioneer faltered. "Ten... ten million? Going once?" No one moved.

"Sold."

Aria's gaze snapped to the man in the back. The mask only covered half his face. The scar above his brow. The sharp cut of his jaw.

Her stomach twisted. The guards led her down a red-lit hallway, their grips impersonal, their silence absolute. Aria's legs moved on autopilot. The robe slipped from her shoulder. She didn't fix it.

Her lips formed words without sound. No. No. No.

….

The private lounge smelled like whiskey and leather. Damon Vasilis sat on the velvet couch, mask discarded, a glass of scotch in hand. He looked older, sharper and colder, but the eyes—those were the same. The ones from her sister's photos. The ones from her nightmares. He stood when she entered.

"Hello, Aria. You've grown."*

Aria's feet locked in place. Her back hit the wall before she realized she was moving.

"You can't be here."

Damon stepped closer, his smile empty. "I own the contract. You walked into this willingly." He tilted his head. "But I didn't bid for a stranger."

Aria's nails bit into her palms. "You were going to marry my sister."

"She ran."

Aria dashed out of the room onto the lobby. “What have I done”? She lunged for the contract in her bag, pages fluttering as she ripped through them.

Clause 13.7 glared back at her in bold print:

The auctioned asset is legally bound for six months to the buyer.

Her knees gave out. The slumped on the floor of the lobby, bursting out in tears.

"What the hell have I done?"

Damon grabbed her by the hand back into the room. She didn't fight. She just moved as he shoved her. He watched her, silent, as the weight of it crashed down.

There is no escape. No way out. She had been sold to the devil himself.