Sold To The Mafia King

The dimly lit room smelled of expensive cigars, whiskey, and power. The air was thick with tension, the weight of my father's failure pressing heavily on my shoulders. I stood on the auction stage, my hands trembling as I hugged my arms around my body. The silk dress they had forced me into clung to my skin like a cage, its delicate fabric a cruel contrast to my reality.

A dozen men sat in the room, their dark eyes scrutinizing me like a piece of meat up for slaughter. Their whispers slithered through the air, assessing, calculating. I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear-but I was trapped. My father had gambled away everything, and in the end, the only thing he had left to offer was me.

"Twenty million," a voice called from the back.

My stomach twisted. The bidding had begun.

"Twenty-five," another man countered.

The numbers climbed, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands fisted at my sides as I fought to keep my face blank. Tears wouldn't help me now.

A man in the front row smirked, running his fingers along the rim of his whiskey glass before raising his paddle. "Thirty million."

A cold sweat broke out along my spine. Their voices rose and fell, the figures tossed around as if they weren't discussing a living, breathing person. I tried to focus on my breathing, but the walls felt like they were closing in on me.

And then, the room fell silent.

A slow, deliberate voice cut through the air like a blade slicing through flesh.