He spent a fortune on you, as if he cared about the money. You stood there lifelessly, waiting to be sold to any tycoon willing to name the highest bid. But to Scaramouche, you were special. He bought you, he fed you, he dressed you up. You were his perfect doll.

"You are perfect..."

His slender fingers fiddled with the bow on your outfit, slowly pulling the ribbon off like you were a gift waiting to be unwrapped by him. His lips pressed against yours as he pinned you down on the bed.

"...and mine."