Chapter 1 Lot No. 1037 – The Blood Auction

The invitation arrived in a black envelope sealed with crimson wax, the scent of copper and roses wafting from the paper. I'd received these before – summons to the most exclusive underground market that catered to the obscenely wealthy. The Blood Banquet. Where human "merchandise" exchanged hands for astronomical sums.

I traced my finger over the embossed lettering, feeling the indentations like braille beneath my touch. Cassia Rothschild – my name rendered in gold against obsidian cardstock. As the sole heiress to the Rothschild dynasty after my mother's death, I'd inherited not only wealth beyond measure but connections to the darkest corners of privilege.

"Will you be attending this time, Ms. Rothschild?" My assistant, Elise, hovered near my office doorway, her expression carefully neutral. She disapproved of these events but knew better than to voice it.

"Yes," I replied, sliding the invitation into my desk drawer. "Have the car ready at midnight. And Elise—" I paused, meeting her gaze directly. "I'll need the black platinum card. The one with no spending limit."

She nodded once and disappeared, the soft click of the door the only evidence of her departure.

I hadn't planned on attending. These auctions had grown tedious – the same billionaires bidding on exotic dancers, disgraced celebrities, or political prisoners from war-torn countries. But three sleepless nights in my empty penthouse had left me restless, hollow. Perhaps a new distraction was what I needed – something living, breathing. Something I could shape.

The venue changed each time – tonight, an abandoned opera house on the outskirts of the city. By day, it stood as a crumbling monument to forgotten culture. By night, under the Blood Banquet's touch, it transformed into a temple of modern depravity.

My driver remained silent as we passed through three security checkpoints, each more rigorous than the last. Finally, we entered an underground parking structure where masked attendants opened my door.

"Welcome, Ms. Rothschild," a tall man in an immaculate suit greeted me. His face was concealed behind a black Venetian mask adorned with ruby teardrops. "We've reserved your usual private box."

"Not tonight," I replied, handing him my fur coat. "I want to be on the floor. Front row."

I could sense his surprise despite the mask. "Of course. Right this way."

The auction hall hummed with whispered conversations and the gentle clinking of champagne flutes. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks above us, casting fractured light over the audience – business titans, old money families, celebrities hiding behind surgical alterations and dark glasses.

I took my seat in the front row, crossing my legs as a waiter appeared with Dom Pérignon in a frosted glass. The catalog rested on my lap – digital, of course. Nothing as crude as paper to detail the "merchandise." I scrolled through the offerings with mild interest. A former Olympic gymnast fallen from grace. Twin brothers from Eastern Europe with identical bone structure. A soprano whose vocal cords were insured for millions.

Standard fare. Nothing worth my time.

Then the lights dimmed. The auctioneer – a woman in a crimson suit and silver mask – took the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests," her voice purred through the sound system. "Welcome to Blood Banquet auction number seventy-three. Before we begin with our catalog selections, we have a special addition. A last-minute acquisition of exceptional quality and provenance."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Off-catalog items were rare, often the most valuable.

"Lot number 1037," she announced. "A specimen of remarkable pedigree and... personal significance to certain parties present tonight."

The stage floor opened, and a platform rose from beneath. Kneeling on it was a man – naked except for strategically placed leather straps, his muscular body glistening under the spotlight. Heavy chains bound his wrists to a metal ring at his feet. His head hung low, dark hair obscuring his face.

Something about his posture, the line of his shoulders...

"Previously a highly successful venture capitalist," the auctioneer continued, "this specimen possesses an IQ of 163, fluency in five languages, and physical conditioning that ranks in the top percentile. Trained in classical piano and combat sports."

She walked around him, her stiletto heels clicking on the polished stage. "Additionally, he carries a rather interesting personal history that some of you may find... amusing."

She reached down, gripped his hair, and yanked his head up to face the audience.

The champagne flute slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor. No one noticed. All eyes were on him.

Rowan Vale. My former fiancé.

His face was thinner, cheekbones more pronounced than I remembered. A scar ran along his jawline that hadn't been there before. But those eyes – emerald green with that ring of amber around the pupil – I would know them in any lifetime.

Three years ago, he'd left me standing alone in a $75,000 wedding gown before two hundred guests. Disappeared without a trace the morning of our wedding. No note. No explanation. Just... gone.

And now here he was. Chained like an animal on an auction block.

The audience turned to look at me, whispers rippling through the room. Of course they recognized him. Our engagement had been front-page news, our relationship the subject of countless society columns.

"Starting bid for Lot 1037," the auctioneer continued smoothly, "is one million dollars."

A paddle raised in the back. "One point five million," called a voice I recognized as tech mogul James Harrington.

"Two million," countered another bidder.

I sat frozen, staring at Rowan. He finally looked up, scanning the crowd until his gaze locked with mine. No shock registered on his face. No shame. Instead, his lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He'd known I would be here.

"Three million," called another voice.

Rowan continued to hold my gaze, challenge burning in his eyes. Even in chains, he looked dangerous. Untamed.

The auctioneer's voice cut through my thoughts. "We have three million from the gentleman in box five. Do I hear three point five?"

My hand moved before my brain could catch up. I raised my paddle.

"Ten million."

The room fell silent. Even the auctioneer seemed momentarily stunned.

"Ten million dollars from Ms. Rothschild," she finally said, recovering her composure. "Do I hear ten point five?"

No one moved. Ten million was excessive even by Blood Banquet standards, especially as an opening bid.

"Ten million going once... twice..."

Rowan's expression changed, something flashing behind his eyes – triumph? Resignation?

"Sold, to Ms. Cassia Rothschild."

Polite applause scattered through the audience, underlaid with murmurs and speculative whispers. I rose from my seat, smoothing down my black Givenchy gown as I approached the stage.

"The paperwork will be prepared immediately," the auctioneer said, leaning close to me. "Congratulations on your... reunion."

I ignored her, stepping onto the stage and walking directly to Rowan. Up close, I could see the changes more clearly – new lines around his eyes, a hardness that hadn't been there before. The scent of him was the same though – cedar and something uniquely his own.

He looked up at me, defiance written in every line of his body despite his kneeling position.

"You're insane," he said quietly, voice rough as though rarely used.

I bent down, bringing my lips close to his ear, feeling the heat radiating from his skin.

"You ran from our wedding," I whispered, letting my breath caress his ear. "But you won't run from me again."

His chains rattled as he shifted slightly. "You have no idea what you've done."

I straightened, gesturing to the attendants waiting in the wings. "Prepare him for transport to my estate. And bring me the ownership papers and the control collar."

"Yes, Ms. Rothschild."

As they moved to unlock his stage restraints, replacing them with more practical transport cuffs, I caught Rowan's gaze once more.

"Welcome home, darling," I said loudly enough for the front rows to hear. "We have so much catching up to do."

The attendants brought forward a black leather collar with embedded technology – the standard control device used for high-value acquisitions. I took it from them, dismissing their offers to apply it.

"I'll do this myself."

The auction room's cameras pivoted toward us, capturing the moment for the private livestream that went to the bidders' lounges and VIP areas. I knew what they expected – humiliation, revenge, a scorned woman's triumph.

I stepped behind Rowan, who remained kneeling, now secured with titanium cuffs instead of chains. Slowly, I draped the collar around his neck, my fingers brushing against his skin. I felt him tense, his breathing shallow.

"You belong to me now," I said, loud enough for the microphones to catch. Then, leaning closer, I whispered words only he could hear: "And I'm going to find out exactly what happened to you."

The collar's lock clicked into place. Mine. Whatever game Rowan was playing, whatever had brought him to this moment – it didn't matter. After three years of emptiness, of questions without answers, I finally had him back.

And I wasn't letting go.