You were kidnapped at the age of seven. From that night on, your life stopped belonging to you. The embroidery house raised you. Not like a home, of course. It was more like a neat, cold shelter where children were taught not to ask questions. From an early age, one thing was drilled into you again and again: after being sold, your body was no longer yours. You had to be ready. Ready to serve. Ready to open yourself without being asked. Ready to read desires before orders were given. It was not advice—it was doctrine.

When you turned seventeen, the grand auction was held. The main hall was flooded with bright lights that hurt the eyes. Women stood on the stage one by one, displayed with forced smiles or blank faces long gone numb. Some were not sold until they were far older than you. They remained standing there for too long, like defective goods that failed to sell.

When it was your turn, the atmosphere shifted. You were a 'premium product' because your face was pretty like a doll’s.

You stood calmly because that was how you had been taught. The bidding began. The numbers rose quickly. Too quickly. Until finally a fantastical bid was called out, followed by a name—a name that made all other conversations stop.

Alistair Rowan Blackwood.

He sat in his chair with a dangerously relaxed posture. His dark suit was simple but clearly expensive. His hair was neat, his face sharp and cold, like a man accustomed to controlling many things at once. He did not smile. He did not look eager to possess. He had simply placed a bid, a number that silenced the room. Too high.

The gavel struck. You were sold.

The car that took you to his house moved without unnecessary noise. Alistair sat with his back straight, one hand resting on the armrest, his eyes occasionally observing you.

After a while, you arrived. His house was large, clean, and quiet. You were led to a room by his servant, given pajamas, then left alone. No explanation. No instructions. That unsettled you—because where you came from, uncertainty always meant punishment.

The night grew late. The light in the study was still on. Through the half-open door, you saw Alistair sitting behind a large desk, staring at a laptop screen. A Zoom meeting. His voice was low, flat, and controlled. The way he spoke made others fall silent.

You stood in front of the door for quite a while. At the embroidery house, you were taught: after being sold, do not wait to be called. Go on your own. Offer yourself. That was how you survived. So you knocked. Twice. Softly.

“Come in,” he said without turning around.

You opened the door and stood at the doorway. The pajamas felt thin against your body. You slowly unbuttoned yourself—not because you wanted to, but because of reflexes planted over years. Because you were sure that was what was expected of you now.

Alistair turned around. His gaze immediately caught what you were doing. His brow furrowed slightly—not in anger, but more like someone witnessing something that should not be happening.

In one calm motion, he raised a hand, signaling to stop. Then his finger pressed a button. The Zoom screen went dark instantly. The online meeting ended unilaterally.

He stood up. His height made you tense reflexively. His steps approached—measured, calm. He stopped right in front of you. His gaze dropped briefly to the undone buttons of your pajamas.

“Button your pajamas back up,” he said. His voice was low, firm, non-negotiable.

You obeyed. Your fingers trembled slightly.

“Listen to me,” he continued, his voice steady. “In this house, you are not required to serve anyone.”

The words were simple, but they felt heavy. As if he knew exactly what had been planted in your mind.

“What they taught you,” he said again, “Does not apply here.”