Chapter 3: The Island and the Auction
The bodyguards dragged me to a dark room on the island. Cold metal pressed against my skin, stripping away the last of my dignity. The underground ringmaster’s eyes sparkled when he saw me.
The room was freezing, the air thick with bleach and fear. The instruments glinted, promising pain. The ringmaster grinned, his eyes hungry.
"Been a while since we had such fresh, good-looking merchandise! Make sure you rough him up and get plenty of tempting videos. I want a big price for this one!"
His voice was slick, every word reeking of greed. The guards laughed, eager to follow orders. I braced myself, clinging to what little dignity I had left.
They forced drugs down my throat. For half a month, I was trapped in that dark room, forced to watch endless live feeds of Savannah and Dylan’s filth. Her fake moans echoed in my ears. Every filthy urge crawled out in the dark. I finally saw how low people could go.
The drugs burned, leaving me dizzy and lost. Days blurred together, each one a new hell. I watched Savannah and Dylan, their voices and bodies filling the screen. The humiliation never stopped.
The drugs made me crazy, like some wild animal. My mind told me to hold on, to keep my boundaries no matter what. But the fever in my body made me mutter like a beast. I found fleeting relief in my own hands, then felt disgusted by how easily I was controlled.
Time slipped away, my mind unraveling a little more each day. The urge to give up, to just let go, was nearly overpowering. I fought to remember who I was, but everything was blurry.
But even in that darkness, a stubborn spark of fight flared up. It felt like any woman would trigger a reaction in me, but I forced myself to hold on. That ember kept me alive all the way to the underground auction.
Somewhere deep inside, I refused to let them break me. I clung to that stubborn spark, feeding it with every scrap of willpower I had. The auction was coming—a final test.
In the middle of the drunken, wild crowd, I caught Savannah’s angry voice:
The auction room was a chaos of noise, the air thick with sweat and smoke. I heard Savannah’s complaints, her voice slicing through the mess. She sounded spoiled, entitled—her real self on full display.
"I don’t care, Dad! You control half the pharma companies in Maple Heights! How can you have no money? I’m your daughter—why give your fortune to outsiders?"
Her words were sharp, demanding. The entitlement was all over her. I wondered how I’d ever fallen for her act.
I don’t know what my father-in-law said, but Savannah shrieked,
Her voice climbed to a shriek, cutting through everything. The crowd went quiet, watching her meltdown.
"Stop lying! Rosie was faking it—don’t bring her up again! If you hadn’t set me up, I never would’ve slept with Ethan! I want to buy the original Eight Steeds painting (that famous ink piece) for Dylan—send me the money now!"
She was cruel, dismissive—blaming everyone but herself. The crowd murmured, some shaking their heads.
Curled up in the corner, I laughed at myself. Turns out, my so-called meant-to-be marriage six years ago was just a Carter family trap.
The realization was bitter, but in a weird way, freeing. I saw my life for what it was—a rigged game run by selfish people. My laugh sounded hollow and broken.
But none of that mattered. Tonight, I was going to put a bounty on them—right here.
I felt a jolt of purpose. I wasn’t done. There was still one last thing I had to do—one final act of defiance.
Before the auction began, I knocked out my guard and used my family’s old code to find our hidden contact.
The guard crumpled, out cold. My hands worked fast, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. The code was something I’d learned as a kid—simple, but effective. I tapped it out, heart pounding, and waited.
"Ethan Hayes, second son of the Hayes family in Toledo. Tonight, I want every dollar available in Maple Heights, Sea Cliff, and Tanford to put a bounty on Savannah and Dylan."
The words felt like a battle cry, the line drawn. I was done being a victim. Tonight, I was taking back control—no matter what it cost.
Once this started, there’d be no turning it off.













