Chapter 2
865 Words
Gentlemen, we know you’re growing anxious to see which of our lovely ladies could be your perfect wife tonight.”
The announcer’s voice boomed through the room, thick with anticipation. A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd as cigar smoke curled through the air, mixing with the sharp scent of expensive cologne and aged wine. The banquet hall was filled with wealth, greed, and hunger—hunger not for food but for ownership.
Abby stood motionless on the stage, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. The fabric of her gown, chosen to accentuate her youth, clung to her body like a second skin. She felt suffocated beneath the weight of their gazes, each pair of eyes stripping her of the little dignity she had left.
Her hair had been styled by one of the men earlier, pinned into an intricate bun that made her head ache. It was an absurd attempt at sophistication, an illusion that she belonged in this world of high society and contracts of ownership. But Abby knew the truth—she was not a guest here. She was not a bride. She was merchandise.
The bidding began, voices rising in a chaotic frenzy as numbers were shouted across the room.
Abby barely heard them.
Her mind drifted elsewhere, grasping onto the fragments of memories that still felt like home. She thought of her mother’s soft hum as she combed Abby’s hair, the gentle warmth of her embrace after a long day. The ache in her chest deepened. She would have given anything to be there now—to wake up and realize this was nothing but a nightmare.
"If I ever get a chance to change this wretched world, I’ll make sure it ends completely," she thought. "May no girl ever have to suffer the fate we do."
Her silent vow was the only thing keeping her upright.
“Sold!”
The word shattered through her thoughts like a hammer against glass.
“Congratulations, Mr. Davidson, on securing Miss Abby Williams at our highest bid of the night.”
The room erupted in applause.
Abby felt her stomach churn as hands shoved her forward, leading her off the stage. She moved like a doll, stiff and unfeeling, as she was escorted to a dressing room. There, waiting hands pulled at her hair, undoing the carefully placed pins, before draping her in yet another dress—this one even more revealing than the last.
Her reflection in the mirror was a stranger. The makeup, the jewelry, the silken fabric—they turned her into someone else, someone meant to be admired and possessed.
A faceless man soon arrived to fetch her, his presence impersonal. Abby followed him in silence, her footsteps echoing in the long, polished hallway. She knew there was no use struggling now. Not yet.
The door to the banquet hall swung open, revealing a room grander than anything Abby had ever seen. Lavish chandeliers sparkled overhead, their golden glow casting an eerie warmth upon the polished floors. Ornate tapestries lined the walls, each thread woven with wealth and power.
For a brief, fleeting moment, Abby felt something akin to awe.
And then she saw him.
Mr. Davidson.
He stood at the far end of the room, his posture stiff, his suit impeccably tailored. But nothing about him spoke of kindness. His face was worn, lined with age and experience, his hair overtaken by white. Deep-set eyes scanned her, and when they met hers, a slow smile stretched across his lips.
Abby felt cold all over.
“This must be my beautiful wife,” he said, stepping forward.
His hand cupped her cheek, fingers pressing into her skin as he studied her like a prize on display. “Even more stunning than I imagined.”
A sickening feeling curled in her stomach. She fought the urge to pull away, to recoil in disgust.
Instead, she forced herself to remain still.
"Play by the rules," she reminded herself. "For now."
Mr. Davidson released her, his smile lingering. With a final signature on the necessary documents, it was done. The contract was sealed.
Abby Williams no longer belonged to herself.
He took her hand and led her outside, where a sleek white convertible awaited. It was a luxury Abby had never dared to dream of—soft leather seats, gleaming chrome, a machine built for extravagance. But she felt no admiration for it.
All she felt was dread.
The car door shut with a finality that sent chills down her spine. She sat motionless beside him, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed out the window.
Then, slowly, she felt it.
His hand, resting on her thigh.
The touch burned like fire, sending waves of nausea through her. She wanted to scream, to shove him away, to run—but she did none of those things. Instead, she clenched her fists tighter, nails digging into her palms.
The drive to his home felt endless.
And when they arrived—when she stepped into the vast, sprawling estate that was now meant to be hers—Abby knew the truth.
There was no freedom here.
No escape.
Not yet.
- Writer
