The house was silent, too silent for a home that once rang with laughter. Isla Moreno stood barefoot in the hallway, staring at the flickering chandelier above, the last light of warmth in a place that had grown cold long before this moment. Her white nightgown hung loosely around her small frame, stained at the hem with dust and grief. The hall smelled of old wood and secrets the kind that rotted slowly over time, the kind that tasted like betrayal.
Down the corridor, her father's study door stood slightly ajar. Behind it, muffled voices conversed in sharp tones. The only words Isla could make out were numbers, large ones, followed by grim silences. Words like "liquidation" and "collateral" floated like ghosts through the air. She clutched the railing, the wood cold against her palm. Something inside her had begun to fracture.
Only the night before, she had walked this same corridor after dinner, humming softly to herself. Her mother had complimented the melody, her father had smiled with a glass of wine in hand, and her brother Mateo had been teasing her about the boy she used to like in college. That memory now felt distant, almost unreal like a dream that had faded in the morning light.
Now, the house felt like a tomb.
The door creaked open. Mateo stepped out. His face was pale, eyes heavy, but he didn't stop to look at her. Not even a glance. He walked past her and disappeared into the dark without a word. He had always been her protector, her partner in every mischief since childhood. But now, he walked like a man who had just buried someone perhaps her.
"Isla," her father's voice called out. "Come in."
Her stomach twisted. Her feet moved before she told them to. Every step toward that door felt like a step away from everything she had ever known. The study smelled like old books and whiskey. Her father stood behind the desk, surrounded by three unfamiliar men in tailored suits. Their eyes were cold, assessing, and far too interested in her.
At the center of the group was a man with a scar across his throat, a long pale slash that looked like someone had tried to silence him once. Dante Romano. She recognized him from the newspaper clippings her father used to keep hidden a name whispered in crime circles, a man who could make people disappear.
Her father didn't ask her to sit. He didn't reach for her hand or smile in reassurance. His posture was stiff, his eyes not meeting hers. She could barely hear her own heartbeat over the silence.
"You'll leave with them tonight," he said plainly.
She blinked, unsure she heard him right. "What?"
"The debt has grown too large," he continued. "They've made a generous offer… for you."
Her world stopped. She stared at him, unable to form words. "You're joking. You have to be joking."
"This isn't a negotiation," Dante Romano interjected, his voice deep and unnervingly calm. "You are the payment."
"No—No! Papa, please! You can't—"
Her father finally looked at her. Something flickered in his eyes guilt, perhaps. But it passed too quickly. He turned away. "You were always meant for more, Isla. This is… necessary."
"I'm your daughter."
"You were," he said quietly.
The words shattered something inside her. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply stood there, a porcelain statue with cracks forming beneath the surface. Her heart didn't break in that moment it hardened.
Dante moved forward and gently gripped her elbow. "Come. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
She jerked away. "Don't touch me!"
But there was no escape. The other men moved behind her, a wall of suits and silence. Within moments, she was escorted out of the only home she had ever known, her hands bound, her dignity stripped. She didn't look back.
Because the moment she crossed that threshold, Isla Moreno died and something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous was born.
The night swallowed her whole.
The blindfold itched against her skin. The rope around her wrists was too tight, chafing with every movement as the van rumbled across the city. She didn't know where they were taking her but she knew wherever it was, she wouldn't return the same.
The silence in the van was more chilling than the cold air slithering through the cracks in the doors. Three men sat with her, one driving, two behind her. She could feel their eyes on her, but none spoke. She wondered if they were warned not to talk to her not to humanize the girl being sold.
She didn't cry. The tears had dried somewhere between the front steps of her house and the van door. Her mind replayed her father's words over and over: "You were." It wasn't just betrayal. It was erasure.
When the van finally stopped, the blindfold was yanked off. Bright light stabbed her eyes, forcing her to squint. The room was stark and industrial, like a warehouse turned underground club but colder, cleaner, and sinister in its elegance.
She wasn't the only girl there.
Women stood in lines, some trembling, some vacant. Most avoided eye contact. A handler shoved her forward. "Number twelve. Strip."
She flinched. "What?"
"You heard me. Dress down. Inspection in ten."
She stood frozen. The man stepped toward her with the air of someone who enjoyed obedience. But before he could reach her, Dante entered the room.
"That won't be necessary," he said, his voice like iron.
The handler backed off instantly. Isla didn't thank him. She knew better now. There was no kindness here only strategy.
She was taken to a private lounge, seated alone in a velvet chair behind a two-way mirror. Through the glass, she saw the auction room. Gold and black everywhere. Velvet drapes. Rows of chairs. Rich men and cold eyes.
Then she saw her name appear on a display: Isla Moreno. Age 23. Height. Weight. Skills. Languages. Virginity confirmed.
Disgust churned in her stomach. The announcer's voice slithered through hidden speakers. "Lot number twelve is now available for bid. Opening at five hundred thousand."
Hands lifted. Bids called out. The number rose like a fever.
She wanted to disappear.
Then a voice cut through the noise. "Two million."
Silence. All heads turned.
He stepped from the shadows at the back of the room. Dark suit. Black gloves. Eyes like polished obsidian. He didn't smile. He didn't flinch. He simply looked at her through the glass like he already owned her.
Luciano De Luca.
"Sold," the announcer said, without hesitation.
The gavel slammed.
And with that sound, she was no longer Isla Moreno daughter, dreamer, piano player.
She was someone's possession.
But as she stood to be escorted to him, her chin lifted.
Because though they had bought her body, her soul was her own.
And it was screaming for revenge.