I Became His Plaything

Katrina’s Pov “Sold”. The word cut through the silence like a knife. My heart sank, and I felt a chill run down my spine. It wasn't directed at me... yet. But the sound echoed through the room, a harsh reminder that my time was running out. Soon, that single word would strip me of the little freedom I had left. The auctioneer's voice oozed through the room, cold and calculating. 'Lot Twenty-One,' he announced, his eyes gleaming with interest. “A rare commodity. Unspoiled and untouched. Look closely, gentlemen.'" I flinched. Because I knew I was Lot Twenty-One. But this wasn’t how my story started. No—my story began months ago, in a cramped apartment that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cigarette smoke, with the one person I thought would always protect me. Lucas. My foster brother. My mistake. He had the kind of smile that could charm rent out of a landlord’s pocket and the kind of recklessness that always made me uneasy. He was my only family, the boy who’d once shared the same orphanage bunk beds and swore he’d never leave me behind. For years, I believed him. For years, I thought we were safe, together. Until he borrowed money from the wrong people. And I became the collateral. Lucas had always lived with a dangerous kind of charm. He could sweet-talk rent extensions out of stubborn landlords, barter broken odds and ends for actual meals, and lie with such conviction that even I wanted to believe him. And maybe that was my weakness—I always wanted to believe him. He was older than me by three years, reckless, fast-talking, and eternally restless. His dark eyes would flicker with promises, his grin flashing as though he held the world by its strings. Except those strings were frayed, already snapping, and I didn’t see it until it was too late. It started with whispers. Late-night phone calls, men’s voices muffled on the other end, Lucas always pacing the floor with his hand tangled in his hair. “Don’t worry about it, Katrina,” he’d say whenever I pressed him. “I’ve got this under control.” But I knew better. I saw the way his hands shook when he thought I wasn’t looking, the way his eyes darted to the window at every car that passed, the weight in his laughter that no longer reached his eyes. Then one night, he didn’t come home. I waited on the couch, my textbooks open but unread, the clock ticking louder with every hour. Midnight bled into morning, and still no Lucas. That’s when the envelope arrived. It had been slid under my door sometime in the early morning. No postage, no name on the front, only my own written in bold, black strokes. The paper felt heavy in my hands, as though the words inside weighed their own. I tore it open, and my breath caught as my eyes scanned the letter. You have been summoned. 8:00 p.m. — The Grand Mercy Hotel, Sublevel Three. Attendance is non-negotiable Come Alone. No explanation. No signature. Just a small black symbol at the bottom right corner—a stylized crown with a s***h through it. I tried calling Lucas. Straight to voicemail. I sent three texts. No reply. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, that I’d grown too used to cleaning up his messes to let this one break me. But this was different. Debt collectors didn’t summon you to hotel basements. I didn’t sleep that night. Every creak of the building made me flinch. I thought of the men on my porch, the weight of their stares. ⸻ The next morning, I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. I went to work at the bookstore, arranged new arrivals, and smiled at customers. But my mind kept circling back to the envelope burning a hole in my bag. By late afternoon, I knew I wasn’t going to talk my way out of this. Whoever had sent that summons wasn’t asking—they were telling. And people like that didn’t care about the truth. ⸻ At 7:32 p.m., I stood outside The Grand Mercy Hotel, dressed in the most neutral thing I owned—a simple black dress and a coat that could hide the tremor in my hands. The Grand Mercy wasn’t the kind of place you walked into without a reason. Tall glass doors, gold fixtures, and doormen who could throw you out without breaking a sweat. I stepped inside, the scent of polished wood and expensive perfume wrapping around me like an unwelcome hug. A woman at the reception desk barely glanced up before gesturing toward the elevators. “Sublevel Three.” My throat tightened. “How did you—” She smiled without warmth. “They’re expecting you.” The elevator ride was silent except for the hum of the machinery. When the doors slid open, the lighting changed—dim, almost intimate. The walls were lined with dark velvet, and somewhere in the distance, music throbbed, low and rhythmic. A man in a suit waited at the end of the hall. He didn’t speak, just motioned for me to follow. I thought about running, but my legs moved anyway. He opened a heavy door and ushered me inside. The room was unlike anything I’d expected. No office, no boardroom—just a space that felt like an underground theater. Rows of chairs in shadow, a narrow stage lit by a single spotlight. And in that spotlight… nothing. The man who’d escorted me disappeared without a word, the door clicking shut behind him. I was alone, my breath loud in my ears. Then, somewhere in the darkness, a voice spoke—deep, smooth, and amused. “Katrina Voss. Welcome.” I turned toward the sound, my heart pounding, but the voice was already gone, replaced by silence so heavy it pressed against my skin. I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment the game began. The moment my life stopped belonging