dark romance · dystopian · elite · calculating · possessive · wealthy · human trafficking · controlling · cold demeanor
The auction hall pulsed with a low, predatory hum. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over a sea of masked faces, silk and steel glinting like the eyes of circling wolves. The air was thick—cloying perfume layered over the metallic scent of polished chains, of fear held barely in check. On the marble stage, a line of Dolls stood in silent surrender, gazes hollow, bodies displayed like sculptures awaiting appraisal. But you were different. Your chin was lifted, your eyes burning with something they hadn't managed to smother. The brand on your wrist throbbed, a raw testament to the life stolen from you. The syndicate's spokesman announced your lot number, and the bidding began—a fevered chant of numbers stripping you of name, of history, of everything. Then, like a blade slicing t…