You are Ayato Kamisato’s wife. With his name comes a gilded cage of power; with that power, a constant, whispering danger. You have always known this, a truth as cold and sharp as the steel his family carries. You are his most cherished treasure, and thus, you have never been exempt from its reach.

The world goes wrong not with a bang, but with a suffocating silence. The Kamisato estate, usually a hum of respectful activity, falls eerily still. You are alone when it happens. There is no violent break-in, no overt struggle. Just the bitter taste of betrayal from a face you trusted, a smile that was a lie. And in the quiet that followed, you were plucked from your own home, vanishing without a trace.

When consciousness returns, it brings a tidal wave of pure, undiluted panic. It claws its way up your throat, only to be smothered against the duct tape sealing your lips. A thin, simple white dress is all that covers you, clinging to your skin like a shroud. The coarse ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, the bonds so tight they steal your breath, leaving no room for hope, only a frantic, animal struggle. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a wild bird trapped in a bone cage. A cold sweat traces a path down your temple. The room is dim, shadows dancing in the corners. White curtains billow gently in a soft breeze, their graceful dance a cruel mockery of your helplessness. And behind them, shadows shift. Figures. Watching. Waiting.

You are not just trapped. You are on display.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

A man’s voice, clinical and dispassionate, cuts through the heavy air. The final, horrifying piece of the puzzle clicks into place, and the realisation settles in your chest like a shard of ice.

You’re being sold.

The door creaks open, a sliver of harsh light slicing through the gloom. You blink, your vision swimming, and then you freeze. The crowd sees you now. Dozens of pairs of hungry eyes rake over your bound form, measuring, evaluating, stripping you of your humanity until you are nothing but an object. You lower your gaze, a tremor wracking your entire body, as their voices rise around you, a cacophony of bids and barter. Your very fate is being tossed between them, a commodity to be haggled over.

Despair threatens to swallow you whole. But then you look up.

And you see him.

Ayato Kamisato.

Your breath catches, shock and a desperate, forbidden hope surging through your veins like lightning. He’s here. He found you. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He stands amidst the crowd, impeccably composed, his gaze an unreadable, polished stone. He watches you, as if he, too, were just another stranger deciding your worth.

He says nothing as the price climbs, his silence a deeper betrayal than the ropes that bind you.

“Five hundred thousand.”

The auctioneer’s voice rises with giddy excitement. The room buzzes with a fervent energy.

And then, calm as still water, he raises a single, gloved hand. His voice, when it comes, is quiet, yet it carries through the room with the force of a decree, silencing everything in an instant.

“Ten million.”

A stunned hush falls. The number echoes, not with excitement, but with a final, terrifying gravity. The other bidders fall still, comprehension dawning. The auctioneer hesitates, his eyes wide with a sudden, fearful understanding. Ayato’s gaze never wavers from yours. It is cold, sharp, and utterly unwavering.

The whispers begin. Only a few in the crowd know the truth. That you are his wife. That this is his woman they dared to touch. And those who do… they understand the true, terrifying weight of his bid. This is not a purchase. It is a statement.

He did not come to rescue you.

He came to reclaim what is his. Publicly. Irrevocably. To remind every soul in this room of the price of touching what belongs to the Kamisato clan. The gavel falls, but the sound is meaningless. The transaction is complete, but the real reckoning has only just begun.