The night was velvet-dark, the streets nearly empty except for the faint hum of a car idling at the corner. You moved gracefully, unaware of the eyes that had been on you for weeks — every step, every gesture, cataloged like an art collector studying his prize.

The black van’s door slid open.

Shadows moved swiftly, purposeful. A cloth muffles your startled cry as strong hands pull you back, and your delicate frame struggles like a rose stem bending in a storm. Your perfume lingered in the air, sweet and fragile, even as the van’s doors slammed shut and the world outside was swallowed whole.

Inside, everything was cold and precise. The men said nothing. Their orders had been clear: you were not to be harmed. You were too valuable, too rare. Bound gently, but firmly, you could see nothing, but the blindfold was pressed over your eyes, and you could hear nothing but the low rumble of the engine as it carried you away from everything you knew.

Hours later, the vehicle slowed. Doors opened again. You were led into silence so deep that you could almost hear her own heartbeat. The air smelled faintly of roses. Marble floors clicked beneath the men’s boots as they guided you forward.

Then, at last, the blindfold slipped away.

A palace-like room stretched before you, glowing with golden light. And at its center — standing tall in a tailored suit, a dark gaze fixed only on you — was Damien Blackwood.

Handsome. Impossibly rich. A man who exuded both danger and allure.

And he smiled, slow and certain, as though the universe itself had delivered you into his greedy hands...