Chapter 2 Sold To The Highest Bidder

Pain. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed at the back of Ivy’s head, dragging her from the depths of unconsciousness. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as if weighed down by something unseen. A cold surface pressed against her cheek—metal, unyielding and sterile. She forced her eyes open, the dim lighting making it difficult to adjust. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, old wood, and something metallic. Blood. Where was she? Her mind scrambled to piece together the last thing she remembered. The gala. Her father’s accusations. The betrayal. Oliver. The fake security guards. Her pulse pounded as the realization hit—she had been drugged. Ivy tried to sit up, but her wrists resisted. A sharp clinking sound followed as she yanked at the chains fastened around them. Panic surged through her veins as she twisted, feeling the cold metal biting into her skin. She wasn’t just restrained. She was a prisoner. The small, dimly lit room was devoid of any furniture except for the steel bench she was lying on. The walls were stained, cracked in places. There were no windows, only a single iron door with a tiny, grated opening. A prison. Or worse. Her breathing grew ragged. “Hello?” she called out, her voice hoarse. No answer. She struggled harder against the restraints, the metal digging deeper, but the cuffs wouldn’t budge. Ivy forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. Panicking wouldn’t help. She needed to think. What did Oliver do to her? A memory slithered into her mind like a serpent—the smug smirk on Oliver’s face as she was dragged from the ballroom. “Goodbye, dear sister.” Ivy clenched her jaw. He had orchestrated everything. The embezzlement. The scandal. The guards. He hadn’t just wanted her ruined. He wanted her gone. The iron door groaned as it swung open, and Ivy froze. A man entered, his suit crisp, his face void of any emotion. Two others followed behind him, equally cold and detached. “Miss Lancaster,” the first man spoke, his voice eerily polite. “I see you’re awake.” Ivy’s spine straightened. “Where am I?” The man ignored her question, instead pulling out a small notepad. “I must say, your brother was quite generous in his dealings. He made it clear he didn’t want you back.” Her blood turned to ice. “Dealings?” The man smiled—a slow, calculated stretch of his lips. “You’ve been sold, Miss Lancaster.” The words hit like a slap. Ivy’s throat constricted. “You’re lying.” “Am I?” The man tilted his head. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the underground black-market auctions.” Her stomach twisted. Of course, she had heard of them. A place where the powerful bid on human lives. Slaves, informants, bodyguards, and— No. Ivy gritted her teeth. “You think I’ll just sit here and let myself be sold?” The man chuckled. “Oh, you misunderstand. You’ve already been registered. The auction is about to begin.” Her heart pounded. She was Ivy Lancaster. She wasn’t some pawn to be traded. A surge of fury replaced her fear. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” The man’s smirk didn’t falter. “On the contrary, we know exactly who you are. The former heiress of the Lancaster family. The disgraced daughter. No one will be looking for you, Ivy. Your name is already being wiped from every record as we speak.” Ivy’s stomach twisted. Oliver had planned this to perfection. Her fingers curled into fists. No. This isn’t the end. She had fought her whole life to prove her worth, to stand at the top. She wasn’t about to let some underground criminals decide her fate. The man signaled to the guards. “Prepare her.” The two men stepped forward, one grabbing her by the chin, tilting her head from side to side as if she were livestock. Ivy jerked away, disgust twisting in her stomach. “Defiant,” one of them murmured. “She’ll go for a high price.” Ivy clenched her jaw as they unlocked the chains, replacing them with a lighter set of cuffs before dragging her out of the room. The hallway was narrow, lined with other metal doors, faint cries and murmurs seeping from behind them. She wasn’t the only one here. Her heart pounded harder as they led her down a long, winding staircase, the air growing thicker, hotter. Then she saw it. A grand, underground hall. Dimly lit by chandeliers, the space resembled a twisted version of a luxury gala—cushioned seats arranged in rows, filled with men in tailored suits, some wearing masks, others showing their faces with pride. They held numbered paddles, their eyes scanning the stage at the far end of the room, where a tall, glass enclosure stood. Inside the enclosure was a woman. Barely clothed. Terrified. Ivy’s stomach churned. This was real. The audience’s murmurs turned into cheers as the gavel slammed against the podium. The auctioneer grinned, announcing the final bid. The woman inside the cage was dragged away, her silent sobs drowned out by the next set of numbers being called. Ivy forced herself to remain expressionless. Showing fear would only make her seem weaker. But inside, she was screaming. A hand shoved her forward. She staggered as she was led toward the stage, her heartbeat hammering like a drum. The auctioneer’s voice rang out. “And now, gentlemen, we present tonight’s most exclusive offer.” Eyes turned toward her. “Ivy Lancaster,” the auctioneer continued, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “The former heiress of Lancaster Enterprises. A woman of high status, brought to her knees. A rare prize, indeed.” Murmurs of excitement filled the room. Ivy lifted her chin. If they expected her to cower, they were in for disappointment. The bidding started. Numbers were thrown into the air, one after the other. The price climbed higher. A sickening display of wealth and depravity. Then, a shift. The murmurs turned to whispers. A name slithered through the crowd like a ghost. Damien Wolfe. Ivy’s breath hitched. She knew that name. Everyone did. The king of the underworld. The man even criminals feared. But Damien Wolfe didn’t buy women. Ever. Which meant if he was here… A shadow moved in the corner of the room. The crowd parted as he stepped forward, tall and imposing. Dressed in a black suit, his presence alone sucked the air from the room. Damien’s eyes locked onto hers—piercing, unreadable. Ivy’s pulse spiked. This was her chance. If she was going to escape this hell, she needed to do something reckless. She took a deep breath and called out his name. “Damien Wolfe.” A sharp inhale rippled through the room. Silence. Then, in a move that stunned everyone, Damien strode up the stage. Without a single bid, without a single hesitation, he grabbed her wrist. “She’s mine,” he declared. The room erupted into chaos. But Ivy barely heard it. Because for the first time that night, she realized she had no idea what she had just gotten herself into.