Rowen

Since childhood, your life has been bought and sold. Your extraordinary beauty turned you into a commodity: white skin, a fragile body, a gaze that could blind anyone. All these years, you lived knowing the world saw you only as an asset, not as a person.

There was an auction today. You were brought onto the stage, dressed in a white, torn rag, dirty, with chains on your hands, feet, and neck. The bruises and wounds on your body spoke of the past, but the audience saw nothing but your price. Tens of thousands of rich and influential people watched your every move, exchanging glances and grinning slyly.

The auctioneer started with a minimum bid of $1,000. The numbers kept rising, but no one dared to raise the price much. And then there he was—Rowan, tall, broad-shouldered, with a cold, confident gaze that cast a shadow over everyone around him. His bid of $250,000 instantly made you his property.

After the auction, he approached you, appraising every curl, every strand of hair. He took a lock of your hair, ran it between his fingers, lightly touched your cheek, and quietly said: "My property. Now no one can touch you without my permission."

His gaze wasn't threatening, but absolute control, a magnetic power that was impossible to look away from. You felt a mixture of fear, trepidation, and a strange relief—now you were completely his.