His to Break

The room was too quiet.

Isla Hart stood in the corner of the gallery, arms folded tightly against her chest as murmurs floated across the wide, gleaming floors. The lights overhead were low, deliberate-casting soft golden hues across the velvet-covered walls and the high-end paintings that lined them. Everything about the place screamed money.

And not the kind earned with timecards and pay stubs.

The kind that smelled like blood.

She didn't belong here.

The art gallery was a front-she was sure of it. She had walked in by mistake... hadn't she?

The invitation in her clutch purse begged to differ. Crisp ivory paper, embossed with her name in curling silver script, no return address. Just the location, the time, and a single word at the bottom:

Attendance is mandatory.

A joke. A mistake. One of those secretive networking things she never clicked on. At least, that's what she told herself as she slipped into the red dress-the only remotely formal thing she owned-and caught a train across the city to the industrial district.

She wasn't curious.

She was desperate.

Her rent was due in five days. Her part-time shifts at the bookstore barely covered groceries. Her college degree had turned out to be more of a liability than an asset. And her mother's hospital bills...

Don't think about it. Don't break now.

"Ms. Hart?"

She turned. A man in a black suit, with a shaved head and an earpiece, nodded once. "This way, please."

She hesitated. "What is this, exactly?"

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "An opportunity."

A cold coil of instinct twisted in her gut. Still, her feet moved. She followed him down a hallway, past velvet ropes, deeper into the building.

Until the music stopped.

Until the hallway opened into a room with no art on the walls-just seats in neat rows, facing a dark stage. Thick black curtains. An empty podium. And one chair.

She turned to the man behind her, but he was already gone.

The door clicked shut.

⸻

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice echoed. Smooth. Masculine. Disembodied.

Isla flinched.

"Tonight, you are not bidding on art."

A soft wave of murmurs rippled through the audience.

"You are bidding on obedience. On silence. On fire in the form of flesh."

She wanted to scream. But her voice locked in her throat as another woman was led onto the stage.

Blindfolded. Collared.

Isla's stomach turned.

"This is number one," the voice continued. "She will not speak unless commanded. She will not resist."

Isla's pulse pounded. Her legs locked. Was this real?

The men-and a few women-in the audience raised numbered paddles. The bidding started low and climbed in steady, terrifying increments.

The woman didn't move. She didn't cry.

She didn't even breathe.

Isla's fingers curled into fists.

When the gavel struck wood, the winner stood and disappeared behind the curtain. The woman followed, wordless and hollow-eyed.

This was trafficking. It had to be. Some sick, organized-

"Number nine," the voice called.

The spotlight turned to Isla.

Her blood froze.

"Stand."

She didn't.

"Stand, Ms. Hart."

The name sent an electric jolt down her spine. The room tilted.

Someone knew her. Someone planned this.

A woman in a pencil skirt and heels approached from the side. Her expression was calm, even bored, like she was collecting dishes from a dinner party. "Please don't make a scene. Just walk."

"I didn't agree to this," Isla hissed, her voice sharp with panic. "I thought-"

"No one agrees. You were chosen."

The audience watched like wolves.

Isla's breath caught in her throat as hands gripped her arms and guided her toward the stage. She didn't scream. Screaming wouldn't help. Not here. Not with every exit guarded.

She stepped into the spotlight. Alone.

The light was blinding. The silence deafening.

Somewhere, a gavel hovered.

And then a voice-deep, gravel-edged, calm as death-spoke from the shadows:

"One million."

A beat.

Silence.

No counter.

No second bid.

The gavel fell.

⸻

She didn't see his face.

She didn't need to.

All she felt was the power in the room shift. Like gravity pulling her in.

She was led from the stage through a side door, her feet numb beneath her. The hallway was dark, quiet, the floors carpeted so her heels made no sound. The woman walked ahead without looking back.

"Where are you taking me?" Isla whispered.

"To your new home."

⸻

Dominic Vale watched her on the monitor.

She looked smaller on screen. Fragile. A sliver of fire in her eyes, even through the fear.

He hadn't intended to buy tonight.

But when her name flashed on the list, he froze.

Isla Hart.

He remembered her. Not her face. Not her voice. But her presence.

The girl who stumbled into the wrong world years ago and vanished before he could decide what to do about her.

Now, she was here. A beautiful accident. One he didn't plan.

He hated accidents.

Still... his hand had raised before he thought. One word. One bid. And she was his.

"Sir," Jules, his right-hand man, stepped into the control room. "She's in your quarters. Do you want her sedated?"

"No." Dominic didn't take his eyes off the screen. "I want her awake."

⸻

The room was too clean.

Isla paced. Her heels clicked softly against polished marble floors. The bedroom was massive-twice the size of her apartment-with blackout curtains, crystal chandeliers, and a bed the size of a small country. A tray of untouched food sat on a table near the wall.

No chains. No locks. No guards.

She didn't trust it.

The silence made her skin crawl.

She backed into a corner. She needed a plan. Wait for a guard. Find a phone. Break a window.

She was mid-breath when the door opened.

He didn't knock.

He didn't need to.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. In a dark suit that looked hand-stitched over muscle and menace. He moved like a man used to control. His face was half in shadow, but his voice-

"You didn't eat."

Isla stiffened.

"Who are you?" she said.

He closed the door behind him. Slowly.

"I own this building," he said simply. "And for now... I own you." Isla stared at him, heart thundering like fists on a locked door.

"Excuse me?" she said, her voice sharper than she felt. "You think you own me?"

The man-Dominic Vale, though she still didn't know his name-didn't blink.

"I paid for you," he said, stepping closer. "That makes you mine."

Her skin crawled. "People aren't property."

"In this world," he murmured, "everything is property. Some just cost more than others."

He stopped a few feet from her, his presence pressing down like a storm cloud. His gaze was hard, but not cruel-not yet. Just analytical. Like he was studying her reaction.

She took a deep breath, stood taller.

"You can keep the money," she said. "Let me go. I won't say anything. I don't care who you are."

His lips curved-not into a smile, but something colder. A mockery of amusement.

"Do you think this is about you caring?"

She took a step back.

"I didn't sign anything," she added. "I didn't agree to-"

"You walked in."

"I was tricked."

His expression didn't change. "You walked in. You were chosen. You were sold. That's how the system works."

"You're insane."

"No," he said. "I'm efficient."

She wanted to scream. Slap him. Beg. None of it would work. He didn't look like a man who responded to weakness.

So she chose anger.

"Fine," she snapped. "Do whatever you want. Kill me. Chain me up. But I swear to God, I'll never beg."

That flicker again.

Interest.

"Good," he said, voice like granite. "I don't want your begging. I want your obedience."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why me?"

His jaw ticked, just slightly.

She noticed.

"You're not the first to ask," he said. "But you might be the first to mean it."

He stepped past her, brushing so close she could smell his cologne-dark spice and leather.

"You'll stay here," he continued. "You'll eat what you're given. You'll wear what's provided. You will not leave unless escorted. You will speak when spoken to."

"And if I don't?"

He paused at the door, looking back.

"Then I'll remind you who you belong to."

⸻

She didn't cry when he left.

She waited.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

Then she tore through the room. Every drawer, every cabinet. No phone. No weapons. No window that opened. Just luxury and control disguised as hospitality.

She found a bathroom-massive, white marble, gleaming-and locked the door behind her.

She sank onto the floor.

Not crying.

Not yet.

Her mind was racing too fast for that. Calculating exits. Replaying every second of the night.

You were chosen.

You were sold.

Her whole body shook.

She didn't even know his name.

⸻

Dominic watched her through the camera feed.

She moved like prey-nervous but aware, intelligent enough to know she was being hunted.

It was... exquisite.

He didn't enjoy cruelty. Not for its own sake. But submission? The quiet, slow kind that came from the mind unraveling piece by piece?

That was art.

And Isla Hart would be a masterpiece.

Jules appeared again, clipboard in hand.

"She's clean," he said. "No drugs. No diseases. No criminal record. Top of her class in school. BA in English, partial scholarship. Dropped out after her mother got sick. Been working minimum wage ever since."

Dominic nodded once. "Family?"

"Mother's dying. Father's gone. No siblings we could trace."

"She had a sister," Dominic said. "Violet."

Jules hesitated. "No record of a Violet Hart anywhere in the system."

Dominic's eyes narrowed. "Find her."

"Yes, sir."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Dominic leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.

He hated lies.

And Isla Hart had just told a big one.

⸻

Later that night

She didn't sleep.

She refused to touch the food. Not because she was brave-because she was terrified.

What if it was drugged?

What if it wasn't?

When the door opened again, she was standing.

Not cowering. Not crying. Just waiting.

The woman from earlier returned, arms full of folded clothes.

"You'll change into this," she said. "Then you'll come."

"Where?"

"To him."

Isla set her jaw. "I'm not going anywhere."

The woman blinked. "Do you know how many women would kill for this room?"

"I'm not most women."

"No," the woman agreed, setting the clothes on the bed. "But that won't save you."

She left the door open behind her.

A test.

A trap.

Isla stayed still for five minutes, staring at the clothes-black lace. Thin. Barely modest.

She changed.

Not because she was giving in.

Because she needed to know what kind of man he really was.

The hallway outside her room was hushed, blanketed in dim lighting. Each step Isla took echoed off the marble tiles like a countdown. She didn't know where she was being led-only that the woman from before was gone, replaced by a tall man with a gun at his hip and a dead expression on his face.

They walked in silence.

She didn't ask questions. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her afraid.

The hallway curved into an open chamber-wider, darker, colder. There was a fireplace lit low in one corner, its flames dancing across the glass surfaces and steel beams. Bookshelves lined one wall. A piano sat untouched near the window.

Dominic Vale stood by the fire.

He hadn't changed since she saw him last. Still in that perfectly tailored suit. Still standing like the world belonged to him.

It probably did.

"You wore it," he said.

Isla crossed her arms. "Would you have dragged me out if I hadn't?"

"I don't drag," he said simply. "I break."

She stiffened.

He motioned to a leather chair across from him. "Sit."

"No."

A long silence stretched between them. His eyes didn't waver. He didn't repeat the command.

He walked instead-slowly, deliberately-around her. Not touching. Just circling. Observing.

"You don't flinch," he murmured. "You hold eye contact. You question everything."

She swallowed hard. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You don't disappoint me, Isla." His voice dropped an octave, low and controlled. "You fascinate me."

"I'm not here for your entertainment."

He stopped behind her, too close. She could feel the heat of him against her spine. "You're here for obedience. But I'll enjoy the fight."

She turned slowly to face him. "Why me? Out of all the women tonight-why bid on someone who won't kneel for you?"

His eyes gleamed, but his face remained cold. "Because submission from someone like you is worth a hundred others."

"You'll be waiting a long time."

He smiled, the first real one-though it held no warmth. "I'm very patient."

She moved to the chair but didn't sit. "What exactly do you want from me?"

He tilted his head, amused. "Everything."

Her throat tightened. "Define 'everything.'"

"Your time. Your body. Your silence. And eventually..." He stepped closer. "Your loyalty."

Her nails dug into her palms. "So you're not just some rich sadist with a taste for auctions."

"I don't need to buy obedience, Isla. I choose to."

Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs. "I'm not for sale."

"But you were," he said calmly. "And I bought you."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

"I won't be yours," she said quietly. "No matter what you paid."

He moved toward the drink cabinet. "You will."

"How can you be so sure?"

He poured a glass of whiskey and handed it to her. She didn't take it.

"Because I've never failed before."

⸻

That night, Isla stared at the ceiling, her mind refusing to quiet.

The dress itched her skin. The room, though luxurious, felt more like a cage than ever. The air was heavy with unspoken threats and the strange, simmering awareness of Dominic Vale.

She didn't know how to play this game-but she was sure of one thing:

She'd rather burn than bow.

⸻

Down the hall, Dominic stood before a wall of monitors, watching her.

She'd lasted longer than most without cracking.

He admired that.

He didn't want her broken all at once.

He wanted her shattered... carefully.

Piece by piece.

Until she didn't just kneel-but chose to.

Until obedience wasn't survival-but devotion.

And when she finally whispered his name, it would be with reverence.

Not fear.

Not hatred.

But surrender.