Crimson Contract

Annie Sinclair, an eighteen-year-old maiden of exquisite beauty, stands at an elegant height of 168 centimeters, her slender frame a mere 49 kilograms. A paragon of loveliness, her lack of a discernible temperament becomes a temperament in itself. A sophomore in high school, she graces the world with her presence. Clad in a pale yellow blouse, faded denim trousers, and simple canvas shoes, her countenance radiates a pure and captivating charm. Her large, luminous eyes brim with the innocence of the universe. Today marks the birthday of her beau, Cain, and she intends to bestow upon him a delightful surprise. Within her satchel lies a meticulously chosen fountain pen, a masterpiece crafted by a renowned artisan. Its considerable cost was met only through two months of her frugal abstinence. Cain, a year her senior, reigns as a luminary within their school, the object of every underclasswoman’s ardent dreams. Yet, upon entering his abode, a sense of disquiet stirs within her. Before the shoe cabinet rests a pair of crimson crystal heels, while a scarlet shawl, a short skirt, and long silk stockings lie strewn across the floor—mingled with a man’s shirt and trousers. From the bedchamber emanates a cacophony of discordant sounds. A theatrical spectacle, perhaps? Were this not Cain’s residence, Annie might have lingered by the door, curiosity piqued. The impatience of this entwined pair, their urgency evident in the disarray of the floor and the musky scent permeating the air, leaves little doubt in her innocent mind of the scene unfolding. “Cain, do you love me?” purrs a sultry, enticing voice. Vivian? Her dear companion? Surely, her senses deceive her, overwrought from excessive gaming. “Of course I love you, Vivian, you’re magnificent…” comes his ardent reply. Step by step, she draws nearer to the chamber. “Tell me, between Annie and me, who excels in skill?” Vivian’s voice drips with seductive allure. Hold a moment—must we compare talents now? Grant me a few years of experience, and then we might fairly contend! “You, naturally. Annie is far too rigid. In a year of courtship, our most intimate moment was a mere clasping of hands—a wooden beauty, devoid of allure. You, my treasure, are enchantment itself… faster, now…” Tch, with a mouth so foul, only a fool would welcome your kiss. Their vigor is astonishing! Such a pose—how do they manage such acrobatic feats? Annie marvels at her own composure, studying their contortions with detached fascination. “A… Annie…” Cain’s voice falters as he spies her, his brow furrowing as he hastily draws a quilt over their forms. “Annie…” Vivian, after a fleeting flush of shame, rises unabashedly, her nude form marked by the scratches of passion, exuding a lascivious aura. Her figure is undeniably voluptuous—a physique suited to promiscuous renown, Annie muses wryly. Vivian tosses Cain a set of clothes with casual indifference, donning his shirt herself. Annie remains serene, her pallid complexion belying the sweet, guileless smile in her eyes. Her mother once counseled that a smile, in any circumstance, serves as the finest mask. “Annie, you’ve seen us. We’re together now—step aside,” Vivian declares, draping herself over Cain’s arm with a triumphant air, her tone dripping with condescension as though granting a favor. How could Annie, with her threadbare simplicity, deserve the dashing Cain? Vivian alone is his equal. “Cain, why?” Annie inquires. If you must stray, why graze so near the fold—and with one so notorious as this common harlot? Cain sneers, tossing his head with youthful arrogance. “Annie, the truth? I pursued you on a wager with my mates—your aloofness made you a challenge. But look at you: bare-faced, clad in tatters. Are you worthy of me?” Beauty alone, it seems, cannot salvage her lack of polish in his eyes. “So that’s it…” Annie nods with comprehension, her smile radiant. “What was the wager’s prize?” “Five million.” “Without me, you’d not have won. Half the spoils, then,” she beams, her eyes alight with visions of wealth. Stingy wretch—deceive me, yet refuse to share? Cain’s face darkens to steel. See, how crass she is—eyes aglow at the mere mention of coin, her lovely visage a mere façade! Fornicating before her with another, and yet she smiles so sweetly, haggling for profit? What manner of creature is this? Vivian’s ire flares. “Annie, have you no shame?” “Of course I have shame. This face of mine, if sold, would fetch a far higher price than yours,” Annie replies with saccharine grace. “So miserly—if you won’t share, so be it. Hoard your winnings, but beware divine retribution.” “As you wish, we’re done. May you bask eternally in love’s embrace.” Their faces contort with fury as Annie, smiling, departs with regal poise. As dusk’s lanterns ignite, City A thrums with revelry. In a gilded district, a bar pulses with decadent fervor. Upon its stage, a sinuous dancer writhes, her serpentine waist undulating, her garishly painted face a vision of exquisite allure. Her sultry gaze ensnares the roaring crowd below. The music thunders, the air thick with the heady aroma of spirits—a den of indulgence and vice. At the bar, Annie downs glass after glass, her cheeks flushed crimson. Cain’s betrayal and their parting she had borne with aplomb, yet a faint pang lingers within—a mere whisper of sorrow. “Annie, come now, darling, forget your woes. Drink deeply,” urges Drusilla, her nominal sister, slyly slipping a pill into her glass. “Cease your prattling and let me be,” Annie murmurs coolly, draining her cup. Were it not for your purse, who would endure your clamor? Since her mother’s passing, Annie’s stepmother had brought Drusilla into their home. Though years had passed, their bond remained frigid. Drusilla’s circle teemed with unsavory sorts, her paramours discarded with reckless haste—Annie had ever misliked her. Yet, to drown her sorrows, she lacked funds and thus summoned Drusilla. Suppressing her rage, Drusilla smirks as Annie consumes the tainted draught, signaling the barkeep for more before retreating to a shadowed nook. “There she is—my sister. A beauty, no? Three million, firm,” Drusilla hisses to a leering, coarse-featured man. Crippled by usurious debts, she has lured Annie here to sell her into the underbelly’s market—a sacrifice devoid of remorse. “Done!” the man grunts, his porcine chin quivering, eyes glinting with lust. Such a prize could fetch fifty million at auction. Annie, half-dazed yet not wholly lost, curses inwardly. Cain deemed her dull? She’d prove otherwise—yet to squander herself over such a cur was folly incarnate. Rising, she sets down her glass, lurching forward in a haze. Her footing falters, and she stumbles into the arms of a man. A youth, scarcely past twenty, his chiseled features are a sculptor’s dream—ethereal, bewitching. An innate elegance cloaks him, noble and cold, his piercing eyes rendering that grace near glacial. Lucian Blackthorne, a man of frigid poise, regards the woman flung into his embrace with disdain. Such forwardness repulses him. Yet, as his gaze meets hers, he freezes. The world blazes with vivid splendor. Is it her？