Please... don't let it be him.
"Fifteen million."
Another man's voice shattered the silence. The bid was thrown out fast, desperate.
But that calm voice returned. Crystal clear now.
Devoid of emotion. Nothing like the other men who sounded thirsty for victory. It merely sounded like someone correcting a toddler's math mistake.
"Twenty."
His counter was instantaneous. No hesitation. No raising of his voice.
Twenty million.
A low rumble swept through the room. Several heads instantly snapped in his direction. I could feel the drastic shift in the atmosphere. Minutes ago, they were laughing at me. Now, they were counting down their own fleeting courage in the presence of this man.
The microphone crackled softly before the auctioneer let out a small, nervous chuckle. "Sir really doesn't like to waste time."
Sir.
They addressed him with absolute reverence.
I squinted, trying to pierce through the shadows. The stage lights blinded me to the audience. All I could see were vague contours and the metallic glint of a cufflink on the man's wrist as he moved with agonizing slowness.
A silver cufflink.
He had always favored simple, elegant things.
I gulped. No. Plenty of men like silver. That proves nothing.
My wrists throbbed with increasing pain as I subconsciously kept pulling at the ropes. The scorching heat of the lights left my temples slick with sweat. With my hands bound tight to my chest, I went back to twisting that loose strand of hair, my fingers trembling violently.
Twenty million.
For me.
"Who are you?!" I screamed at the shadow. I took a step forward, edging closer to the drop of the stage. "If you have the guts to pay that much, have the guts to show your face!"
A few men chuckled at my insolent challenge.
"Feisty little thing, isn't she," someone muttered from the front row.
The shadow slowly shifted.
He crossed his long legs. A movement so agonizingly familiar. Too casual.
"Aurelia."
That voice spoke my name.
Not Miss Valente. Not the eldest daughter.
Aurelia.
It felt like a sledgehammer had just caved in my ribs from the inside.
The way he pronounced it hadn't changed at all. The slight, dark dip in his tone on the syllable "re."
Exactly the same. Just like the boy who used to call out to me from behind the elementary school fence when I pretended not to hear him because I was mad at him.
No.
It can't be.
That person vanished years ago. Without a word. Without a single explanation. He couldn't possibly be sitting in the VIP section of a dark underground room swarming with ruthless criminals.
"Twenty million euros," the auctioneer repeated, gripping his wooden gavel. "Do I hear a higher bid?"
Silence.
The only sound left was my own ragged breathing and the soft rustle of expensive tailored suits.
I stared straight at him. The blinding lights finally dimmed slightly toward the audience, casting just enough glow to catch the sharp bridge of his nose and the dark shadow of his eyes.
That jawline.
That posture.
The way his shoulders never truly tensed. As if the entire world was never important enough to make him break a sweat.
"Luc—"
His name nearly slipped past my lips.
I instantly bit down on my lower lip to swallow it back.
If it was really him—why was he here? Why was he giving me a death price? Why were all these men in black suits bowing to his presence as if he owned this hellhole?
The auctioneer raised his wooden gavel.
"Going once."
My hands turned as pale and cold as ice.
"Going twice."
The shadow didn't flinch. As if he had rewritten my destiny long before I was even dragged onto this stage.
"Three—"
The gavel struck.
The deafening crack of wood slamming against the podium sounded so much louder than my screams. It shattered whatever pathetic remnants of hope I had left.
"Sold. Twenty million euros to Mr. Armand."
The entire room broke into slow, measured applause. Not a lively cheer. More like a dark, unified submission to his ultimate authority.
I stared intently at the man as he finally rose from his chair.
The house lights flickered on, burning just bright enough to reveal his face in full clarity.
And this time—I couldn't lie to myself anymore.
It was him.
Lucien Armand.
My childhood friend. The boy who vanished without a trace. The man who had just bought me for twenty million euros.
From the floor below the stage, his piercing gray eyes locked dead onto mine.
Then, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
It wasn't a warm smile for an old friend. It wasn't a smile of surprise.
It was the ruthless, dominant smirk of a man who had just reclaimed the property he already owned.