Chapter 1: The Boy I Bought

I pulled a boy out of an underground fight club.

Obedient, well-behaved, strong—a perfect little "pet." Honestly, I kept him around just to see what would happen. It was entertaining, if nothing else.

Until, at my engagement party to someone else, he nearly beat my fiancé to death. Only then did I see who he really was.

After that? I ran, he chased, and he kept inventing a mountain of imaginary affairs.

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This time, my business partner was a real piece of work.

Most people talk business over steak dinners, at golf clubs, or maybe at a late-night bar. But this guy? He set our meeting at a sketchy, after-hours underground fight club.

I stepped into the dimly lit warehouse. The air was thick with sweat and blood—so heavy you could almost choke on it. The filthy, raucous atmosphere made me frown, and I couldn’t relax for a second.

Somewhere in the distance, the thump of fists on flesh echoed off the exposed beams, the kind of sound that makes your skin crawl. The smell of spilled beer mixed with the sharp tang of blood, and I had to fight the urge to pull my collar up over my nose. My heels stuck to the sticky concrete floor with every step.

Sitting with the middle-aged man in the VIP section close to the ring, I started to talk shop, but Mr. Lawrence cut me off:

“Ms. Ramsey, we’re here to unwind tonight. Plenty of time to talk business.”

He flagged down a waitress and slapped a thick stack of bills on a fighter.

The waitress, a young woman with a nose ring and chipped black nail polish, took his money with a wink, scribbling his bet onto a crumpled notepad. I watched her weave through the crowd, dodging a Wall Street guy who was three drinks past sober.

My smile froze. I cursed him in my head. If we’re not talking business, why am I stuck in this dump with you?

But I couldn’t afford to piss him off—the project he controlled was the hottest deal in town.

I forced myself to look at the ring. Two foreign guys with bulging muscles were locked in a brutal fight. In the crowd, there were buttoned-up office workers, college kids in hoodies, and bigwigs in tailored suits. But tonight, they’d all shed their masks, hollering for blood, letting out their wildest sides.

The roar was deafening—a primal chorus that vibrated in my chest. Someone nearby spilled a drink, and a cheer went up as one of the fighters landed a punch that sent sweat flying into the lights. I gripped my whiskey tighter, feeling like a tourist in a gladiator pit.

After a few rounds, the guy Mr. Lawrence bet on got knocked out cold and was carried away by staff.

“Damn it, what rotten luck!” Mr. Lawrence slammed his whiskey glass and cursed.

The glass rattled on the table, splashing amber liquid onto the napkin. Mr. Lawrence’s face flushed, and for a second, I thought he might challenge the universe to a rematch.

I was about to offer a half-hearted comfort when a figure caught my eye.

“That kid… is he fighting too?”

Mr. Lawrence followed my gaze and nodded. “Yeah, he’s up next.”

A young man stood on one side of the ring—or rather, a boy. He looked barely eighteen or nineteen. His dark hair hung long, shadowing his eyes. His muscles were lean and defined—slender like a teenager, but he wasn’t soft.

What really shocked me was his opponent—a mountain of a man, at least six-foot-seven, with thighs bigger than the kid’s waist. He looked like a linebacker crossed with a grizzly bear.

They squared off. The kid stood tall, but next to the giant, he looked like a scrawny high schooler. The scene was almost comical.

“These two aren’t even close to the same weight class. Isn’t this, like, illegal?”

Mr. Lawrence sipped his whiskey, grinning. “Legal? That’s not a thing here. These fighters come for the big payout—what they make in a month, most folks never see in a year. They don’t get to pick who they fight. They all sign long-term contracts; even if they die in the ring, it’s their choice. As long as we—the paying crowd—are entertained, that’s all that matters.”

He shrugged, then laughed and took another drink, as if that explained everything. The kind of casual cruelty you only see in people who’ve never been desperate. The crowd’s energy surged, like sharks circling blood in the water.

His words snapped me back to reality. In this lawless underground ring, the gamblers and the fighters weren’t so different. It was a shame for this boy—so tempting, but he’d probably bet his life and lose it tonight.

The crowd finished betting. The match started. They shook hands for a second, then went at each other like wild animals.

The bell clanged, and the boy moved like a street cat—light on his feet, darting around the ring. The giant lumbered after him, swinging with the confidence of someone who’d never lost a fight. The crowd roared, stomping and chanting, the floor trembling beneath our feet.

The boy dodged fast, sneaking in a jab to his opponent’s head. For a normal person, that would’ve meant a trip to the ER. But the giant barely blinked, as if a fly had brushed him. He kept swinging, not even bothering to block.

The boy’s only advantage was his agility—ducking and weaving. But as the rounds dragged on, he slowed, his stamina fading. Finally, the giant landed a punch to his gut. The boy doubled over, spit blood, his pale cheeks flushed red.

Mr. Lawrence shook his head with mock pity. “Poor kid.”

I rolled my eyes, thinking, Give me a break. You’re eating this up.

I shot Mr. Lawrence a look, but he was already flagging down another drink, eyes glued to the carnage. The bloodlust in the air was thick enough to taste.

After that, the ring turned into the boy’s slaughterhouse. He took hit after hit. The corner of his eye split open, sweat and blood smeared his face. He tried to fight back, but the gap was too big—he couldn’t budge the giant.

Each blow echoed through the warehouse, and I flinched more than once. The boy’s breathing grew ragged, his steps faltering. Still, he refused to go down easy, clinging to consciousness like it was the last thing he owned.

In the end, the brute grinned and tossed the half-conscious boy out of the ring like trash.

The result was obvious. Since everyone had bet on the giant, the odds were terrible and there were barely any cheers. But I was the only one who looked unhappy—because the boy landed right at my feet.

His bloody hand grabbed my pant leg, leaving a bright red streak. My white suit—ruined.

I said coldly, “Let go.”

This suit was brand new, and now it was ruined—thanks to a stranger willing to risk his life for cash. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disgusted. Damn it.

I stared down at him, irritation prickling under my skin. The noise of the crowd faded, replaced by the sharp, metallic scent of his blood on my clothes.