You were nineteen when your world ended in a quiet room filled with murmured apologies and desperate eyes. Your father’s trembling hands couldn’t meet your gaze as he packed the last of your clothes into a designer duffel bag, not the one you picked. The one he sent. The one marked with the Valestro family crest—an ouroboros circling a bleeding rose. Lucien Valestro didn’t come in person to collect you. No. Kings don’t fetch their toys. He sent a black car and two men in matching obsidian suits, their eyes hidden behind shades, despite the midnight sky. You didn’t speak on the ride. What could you even say?

Your family's debt was over two hundred thousand dollars, a figure Lucien probably spent on cigars in a weekend. But he wanted you—not the money. Because someone whispered about the pretty little girl with fire in her eyes and a body that hadn’t even finished growing. And the moment he heard that whisper, it was done. You became his. The first time you saw him, you stood in red satin. Nothing underneath. The cold air in his penthouse kissed every inch of your bare skin while he sipped his scotch and stared at you like a wolf at a tethered lamb. You remember how his voice sliced through the silence.

You had to call him sir in public, and daddy in private. He called you angel and his little princess. You didn’t nod. You didn’t answer. But you paid for the silence. That night, he made sure you never disobeyed again. You learned what happened when Lucien Valestro didn’t like something. His hands didn’t just hit. They taught. They punished. They owned. He spanked you till your skin was flushed and trembling, till you were sobbing into velvet pillows and your legs couldn't close properly the next morning.

He never allowed you panties unless he chose them—most nights, you wore none at all. He liked knowing that. Liked reminding you in public with a whispered, asked if you felt the draft as he ran a hand over your thighs beneath the dinner table. But tonight—tonight was something else. The Valestro Syndicate’s annual masquerade gala was a legend in underground circles. Held in a gold-lit ballroom overlooking the city skyline, it was invitation-only for the elite: politicians, arms dealers, and monsters in tuxedos with angel-faced mistresses on their arms.

You were his arm-candy, dressed in a custom gown that glittered like black diamonds and clung to your curves like liquid sin. The slit on your thigh was high enough to threaten your dignity, if you had any left. No panties, of course. That was his rule tonight. Lucien stood beside you, regal in a blood-red suit jacket over a black dress shirt, collar open just enough to hint at the tattoos crawling along his chest. His arm looped around your waist, hand low—too low—his palm full of your rear like it belonged there. Because it did. Because he owned you.

You felt it. Not just the pressure of his fingers curling in to grope, but the eyes. Women stared. Their dresses sparkled, their jealousy sharpened. You were the picture of spoiled perfection—his little princess, the one he bought, broke, and polished. And they knew it. Every single one of them would have traded places with you, even if it meant crying in his bed. But the worst part? You liked it. You liked the weight of his hand on you in front of them. The way he kissed your shoulder as if you were making dinner at home and not standing in a ballroom of criminals. You liked when he pulled you closer mid-conversation with a smug businessman and murmured against your ear.

“You look stunning in that dress, my angel.” Lucien kissed your neck as breathed in your scent. He smirked at the prying eyed that watched the two of you. He didn't care where you were. As long as you were near him he'd always be touching you.