CHRYSANTHEMUM Prisoners of war

Liana Cruz had never believed in fate-until the night it sold her to the highest bidder.

The room was cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Liana stood barefoot on a small, raised stage, surrounded by faceless shadows cloaked in smoke and whispers. A red velvet blindfold covered her eyes, but she didn't need sight to know what kind of eyes watched her now-hungry, powerful, and cruel.

Her wrists were bound in front of her with a silver ribbon, tight enough to leave soft red marks on her pale skin. The silk dress they forced her to wear clung to her trembling frame, the slit riding high on one thigh as if she were merchandise. Which, in this moment, she was.

Her pulse beat wildly in her ears, loud enough to drown out most of the murmuring around her, but she caught snatches-words she never wanted to hear again.

"Is she the virgin?"

"Too thin, but exotic face."

"She looks scared. I like that."

The voice of the auctioneer rose above the crowd, smooth and unfeeling.

"Lot Number Seventeen. Nineteen years old. Educated, obedient, untouched. A rare jewel indeed."

Liana's knees buckled slightly, but she forced herself to stay upright. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her fall.

They had taken everything-her phone, her clothes, her dignity. All that remained was the fire burning behind her ribs. A quiet defiance she refused to surrender, even if no one could see it anymore.

"Starting bid: One million dollars."

A hush fell over the room, and then the bidding began.

"One point two," a man barked, his voice slurred with drink.

"Two million," said another, laughing like it was a game.

Liana's stomach twisted.

She felt like she might vomit.

Then came a silence that felt different-sharp, tense. It came just before a voice she would never forget, not even in the quietest corners of sleep.

"Five million," said the stranger.

It was calm. Cold. Deep. As if carved from marble and shadow.

The room stilled.

Gasps. Murmurs. Someone chuckled nervously.

"Sir, perhaps you'd like to-"

"Five. Million," the man repeated. "Withdraw the rest."

No one else spoke. Not even the auctioneer dared push.

A moment later, the gavel fell like thunder on the wooden podium.

"Sold."

And just like that, Liana Cruz was no longer a person.

She was a possession.

---

She didn't know how much time passed before she was pulled from the stage. Her legs were too weak to hold her. She didn't resist when the strong arms lifted her, but she tensed at the feel of warm breath near her ear.

"I just bought you," the voice murmured, barely louder than a whisper. "And now you belong to me."

Liana's whole body went rigid.

It was him. The man with the voice like frost and fire.

"Put me down," she hissed, struggling in his grip. "I'm not yours. I don't care how much money you threw at those monsters-"

"You'll speak when spoken to," he cut in, his tone sharp but unnervingly calm.

She opened her mouth to argue again, but something about his grip stopped her. He wasn't touching her violently-yet somehow, it was clear he could. He carried her like one would carry a fragile box that might shatter or explode.

"Let me go," she growled, teeth clenched.