I Became His Plaything

Sold

Katrina’s POV

They say everyone has a price. I just didn’t think mine would be announced on a stage under dim red lights, while men in tailored suits raised cards like they were bidding on a damn piece of art.

I wasn’t art.

I was collateral.

The room reeked of money and sin. Velvet drapes muted the outside world, trapping us in a place where morals didn’t exist.

Women stood in a line at the side of the stage, each more terrified than the last, our dresses cut to show just enough skin to make us look like temptations instead of victims.

Now here I was.

On stage.

Under golden chandeliers that turned my humiliation into spectacle.

They had dressed me in silk, the kind that clung to my skin like a second, unwelcome touch. My wrists were bound, though hidden beneath folds of fabric, as though the illusion of dignity mattered.

The auctioneer’s voice rose again, slick and serpentine, a man rehearsed in selling human lives. “Lot Twenty-One,” he purred into the microphone, his polished shoes gleaming beneath the golden chandeliers.

“A rare acquisition. Untouched, unspoiled, unbroken. Gentlemen, feast your eyes.”

And then the spotlight turned.

Heat scorched my skin as the blinding circle landed on me, trapping me in its glow. My lungs forgot how to work. My wrists ached inside the cuffs, and the thin silk dress they’d shoved me into felt like paper—meant to entice, to expose, not to protect.

Gasps. A ripple of murmurs from the crowd.

I couldn’t see their faces clearly; the buyers sat behind masks, shadows, half-hidden in the opulent gloom of the underground ballroom. Rows of velvet chairs, men in tuxedos, whiskey glinting in crystal tumblers. All of them faceless monsters with wallets fat enough to purchase flesh.

My flesh.

I lifted my chin, even as my knees threatened to buckle. I wouldn’t let them see me crumble.

“Gentlemen,” the auctioneer drawled, circling me like a predator admiring his prize.

“She’s young. Educated. A beauty whose spirit has yet to be tamed.

“What’s more exquisite than a jewel that fights back?” He tugged lightly at the strap of my dress, exposing a shoulder, his theatrics fanning the room’s hunger.

Laughter. Applause. Someone whistled.

My stomach twisted with anger and fear. I wanted to lash out, to scream and fight back. But the guards stood watchfully, their guns and batons a clear threat. I knew that resisting would only lead to pain, and I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

The auctioneer snapped his fingers. A massive screen lit behind us, flashing my statistics like I was livestock: age, height, weight, blood type. My pulse roared in my ears as the numbers blared in white letters.

Nineteen.

That was all I was.

Nineteen, and already stripped, labeled, and packaged for sale.

“Let’s open the bidding,” the auctioneer said smoothly. “Two million to start.”

The first paddle rose. A man in a silver mask.

“Two million.”

Another paddle. A lazy voice. “Three.”

“Three million. Do I hear four?”

“Four.”

The numbers climbed quickly, absurdly, each increase more surreal than the last.

Four million. Five. Six. My body wasn’t mine anymore—it was digits tossed like dice across the smoky air.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. Don’t cry. Don’t let them see it.

The men didn’t care about me. They didn’t care about the girl with a heartbeat and memories and fear rattling inside her chest. I was a trophy. An object. A thing to own.

The auctioneer's voice grew louder, more excited. '

‘Seven million! Do you see the spark in her eyes? Imagine owning that spark.' His words cut deep, hurting me.

I tried to shut it out - the bidding, the greed in the room - but it overwhelmed me. Each new price was like a blow, reminding me of the life I was losing.

“Eight million.”

“Nine.”

“Ten million.”

My knees buckled. Ten million. For me. For a girl who used to scrape by, who used to pray for food in the fridge and rent money in the pocket of a foster father who didn’t care. Ten million to erase my name, my future, my choices.

The air was electric with tension. The auctioneer fed off it, pacing the stage with a sharp smile.

'Eleven million! Who'll go higher?

Twelve million for the girl who'll capture your every thought?'

The room erupted into a flurry of activity. Paddles shot up, and voices rang out.

“Thirteen!”

“Fourteen.”

“Fifteen.”

The number hit like a thunderclap. Fifteen million. My blood turned cold. Whoever won me tonight wasn’t buying a companion. He was buying ownership. And no one paid that kind of money for mercy.

I closed my eyes, fighting nausea, fighting the hopelessness clawing at my throat.

Don’t break. Not here. Not yet.

When I opened them again, the auctioneer’s gaze cut toward the far corner of the room. His grin widened. The room stilled, a ripple of awareness skimming the crowd.

And then I saw him.

A shadow sitting alone, his presence like gravity itself. No paddle in his hand. No expression on his face. But his eyes—God, his eyes—were fixed on me, sharp and unblinking, dark as midnight.

He hadn’t bid. Not once. He simply watched.

And still, the room seemed to wait for him.

Whispers flitted. Nervous laughter. As though everyone else suddenly remembered they were playing a game they could never win.

The auctioneer cleared his throat, voice trembling for the first time. “Do I hear sixteen?”

Silence.

The man in the shadows leaned forward, and though he said nothing, the air itself seemed to hush, bending toward him.

A cold shiver raced down my spine.

I didn’t know his name yet. But I knew—instinctively, viscerally—that this man wasn’t here to compete. He was here to claim.

The room seemed to revolve around him. Even though he hadn't spoken or moved, every man in the room reacted as if his presence commanded attention.

My heart racing, the auctioneer hesitated, looking around for another bid. But there was none.

“Fifteen million,” the auctioneer crooned, trying to recover his rhythm.

“Do I hear sixteen? Sixteen million for beauty incarnate?”

Silence.

The man in the shadows finally stirred.

He lifted one hand—gloved, elegant—and the gesture alone sent a ripple through the bidders.

No paddle, no need for ceremony. His presence was enough.

The auctioneer’s throat bobbed. “Ah, we have… a bid.” His voice strained, too bright. “Gentlemen, we have sixteen.”

A scoff broke the tension. A man in a gold mask shot his hand up.

“Seventeen.”

Another bidder countered instantly. “Eighteen.”

The prices kept rising, each number a harsh blow. The words echoed in my ears, making my heart pound.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

I felt a chill run down my spine, my skin crawling with fear.

And then, low and steady, the man in the shadows finally spoke.

“Fifty.”

The word cut the room in half.

Not fifty thousand. Not even fifty million voiced in some giddy crescendo. Just fifty—and everyone in that room knew exactly what it meant.

Fifty million.

Gasps. A single muffled curse. The kind of silence that comes only when men realize they’ve been dwarfed, outmatched before they even began.

The auctioneer froze, then managed a stammer. “F-Fifty. Fifty million, gentlemen. Do I… do I hear—”

But no one dared lift a paddle. No one even breathed.

The man sat there, unmoved, his gaze locked to mine. The weight of it pinned me harder than the cuffs on my wrists. Dark eyes, unwavering, as though he could already read the frantic beat of my heart, the ragged inhale of my lungs.

It wasn’t lust in his stare. It wasn’t hunger like the others. It was possession. Cold, absolute, terrifying.

The auctioneer cleared his throat, wiping sweat from his brow. “Going once.”

His voice cracked. “Going twice.”

The gavel came down.

“Sold!”

The word ripped through me. Final. Unforgiving.

Applause erupted around us, but I barely heard it. My gaze was locked on his.

The man who had silenced a room of predators with a single number. The man whose face was no longer shadowed but revealed under the soft spill of light.

Sharp lines, carved jaw, lips that looked both cruel and devastatingly calm. Black hair, immaculately styled. He wasn’t masked like the others. He didn’t need to be. Everyone here already knew his name.

I didn’t—not yet. But I felt it.

He stood slowly, deliberate in every movement, and the men parted like water around him. The Devil had risen, and no one dared stand in his way.

My knees threatened to give, my pulse frantic, throat dry. Something inside me screamed to run, to fight, but I couldn’t look away. His eyes—God, those eyes—were magnets, pulling me toward a darkness I didn’t understand.

He hadn’t just bought me. He had ended the game.

And I already knew: whatever hell I had feared from the faceless men in this room, it would be nothing compared to the man who had just claimed me.