Sold to be a Billionaire's Slave

When my mother died I was left in the hands of the man she should never have married, my stepfather. He was a drunk who worked as a construction worker but loved to gamble and soon he put us in a lot of debt. Every time he lost, he came home angrier and promised he'd change, but he never did. Then one night, I heard him on the phone. "I'll pay you back. I've got something more valuable than money." Something. Not someone. Me. By the time I realized what he'd done, it was too late. Men in black suits came for me, their hands cold on my arms as they shoved me into the back of a car. I screamed, fought, begged, but no one listened. The last glimpse I had of my stepfather was him slouched in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. He didn't even say goodbye. And then the car doors locked. My fate sealed. The air inside the auction hall felt heavy, sweet with perfume and expensive cigars. The chandeliers above glittered brightly, throwing light across the stage where I stood like a lamb dressed for slaughter. My wrists were bound in silk ribbons. "Lot number twenty-five," the auctioneer boomed. "Young. Untouched. Obedient." My stomach turned. I wasn't obedient. I was terrified. But it didn't matter what I was. What mattered was my stepfather's gambling debts, and the price someone was willing to pay to make them vanish. The bidding began. "One million." "Two." "Two point five." Each number was a chain around my throat. My breath quickened. My eyes searched desperately for an escape, but the guards at my sides didn't blink. Then, from the front row, a voice cut through. Smooth. Low. Commanding. "Twelve million." The room hushed instantly. All eyes turned toward the man who had spoken. He wasn't masked like the others. He was wearing a well tailored black suit with his tie undone. A glass of scotch rested untouched at his table. And his eyes were locked on me. The gavel came down with a slam. "Sold!" The word rang in my ears like a sentence passed. The guards untied the ribbons and shoved me forward. My legs trembled. My lips parted, but no sound came out. Closer. Closer. The man rose slowly from his chair, unfolding to his full height. He didn't reach for me immediately. He only studied me, his gaze sliding over me like a blade. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but there was nothing gentle in it. "I'm Brayden Gatsby and you belong to me now." "Look at me," he ordered, voice sharp. I wanted to look away. I wanted to spit in his face. But my chin lifted and my eyes met his. The auctioneer clapped his hands together, cheerful. "Congratulations, Mr. Gatsby. A fine purchase." Purchase. The word made bile rise in my throat. Brayden ignored him. His gaze never left me. Then he slowly removed his jacket and draped it over