Chapter 1 : Without warning
Clara was certain her memory wasn’t failing her.
The last thing she remembered: she was at a club, swaying her hips defiantly, and kissing a dark-eyed man who made her forget her own name.
But now?
She woke up handcuffed to the bed. With not a single memory of how she’d ended up here.
She tugged at her hands slightly—a small test to gauge how tightly the handcuffs were secured. Tight enough. Struggling would only make her wrists burn, turn red, or even get injured. She stopped trying.
Her sigh echoed loudly in the room.
“Damn. Was I really that drunk? I’ve never passed out before—let alone in a situation like this.”
She looked around.
The room was large. The maroon walls reminded Clara of her old room, which had been the same color. There was a single bed—where she was handcuffed now—and a TV that was turned off. The room smelled fresh and clean, as if it had just been cleaned for someone who’d never slept there before.
She looked back at the door. There was only one main door and another door to the left, as if it connected this room to another.
Otherwise, it was empty.
It was as if the room had been intentionally left this way, as though the occupant had been reluctant to add any furniture. It felt more like a waiting room than a bedroom.
A soft sigh escaped her lips.
Confusion still lingered. Her mind couldn’t come up with any other possible explanations for this situation. Her head didn’t hurt—she had a high tolerance for alcohol. So this wasn’t a hangover.
Maybe I’m just unlucky.
Or maybe that Latin guy slipped something into my drink—and forced me to play by new rules.
A wave of heat spread through her body. She imagined the dynamics she might experience with that man. Handcuffs. A bed. New rules.
And Clara didn’t hate new rules and games.
She enjoyed them.
Just as her imagination was running wild, the sound of a door opening and firm footsteps snapped her back to reality. She turned her face toward the source of the sound. Her breath caught in her throat.
A man. Around thirty years old. Wavy brown hair left tousled—as if he’d just woken up, or had just returned from somewhere he didn’t want to talk about. His mustache was thin, and those honey-brown eyes immediately locked onto her without any hint of flirtation; he was simply observing her.
It wasn’t that dark-eyed Latin man.
He wasn’t the guy Clara had her eye on at the club earlier.
His shoulders were broad, but not overly so. His muscles were solid—they felt hot even when hidden beneath a neat, expensive suit.
This man… was different in an unusual way.
Oh my God! Who is this? He’s huge; his below must be just as big as his top, because otherwise, I’d have to fake a moan.
The thought just popped into her head—vulgar, but she was used to it because of her comfortable sex life. Especially given her current position. Clara was already imagining the steamy game they were about to play together.
“Hey, handsome~ what’s your name?” Clara greeted him in a teasing tone. She couldn’t help herself—the image of his large hands cupping her breasts and then slapping them hard was enough to make her tremble down there.
The man stopped right beside her bed, his gaze fixed solely on her face even though Clara was trying to tease him. Clara smiled wryly—this game of push and pull was nothing new in bed, and she wanted more, especially when the man leaned toward her, filling her sense of smell with a masculine scent mixed with cedar and musk that immediately sent shivers straight to the center of her intimacy.
Damn! Am I already this turned on? No way! I have to hold on without looking desperate.
That’s how she scolded herself, even though between her thighs she was already wet and trembling with desire.
"Not bad, but I like it when you put up a fight." The man whispered right in front of Clara’s lips, without kissing her or getting any closer. He kept a distance between them, making Clara want to lean in closer, but he held her back.
“I always put up a fight.” Her voice was hoarser than usual—why wouldn’t this man give her any breathing room? His eyes were fixed on her; his breath still lingered on her parted lips, yet he didn’t move any closer at all. Clara licked her own lips. To hell with everything—she wanted this man in her bed right now, making love until she passed out from pleasure.
“Good, because I like it when my victims fight back,” he continued; his hand had already slid down and was squeezing Clara’s left breast, making her moan in surprise and with a hunger she could no longer hide.
The man watched every change in her facial expression. His hands never stopped squeezing; he grabbed Clara’s nipples—which had already been hard for a while—and pinched them a little harder, drawing a soft curse from Clara.
She was already certain that down there, she was as wet as a small pond—and this man had only been playing with her breasts so far.
Damn, I was so wet that the string of my thong was throbbing against my backside. This guy was truly obsessed with dominance. It was fresh and different from anything I’d experienced before.
Clara shifted slightly, trying to coax the man to move somewhere else without saying a single word—testing whether he was experienced in nonverbal communication or needed some guidance first.
The man’s smile widened; Clara forced herself to move closer, but he pressed her shoulder down onto the mattress with one hand.
“I know what you want, but I’ll never go down there until I decide to—” He leaned in slightly and bit Clara’s lower lip—gently, not hard enough to draw blood. “Later…” he whispered between Clara’s lips, now swollen and red from his bite, then he stood up and walked out. Clara was about to protest. They’d just been having fun. Why did he stop so suddenly?
“Oh, I forgot to tell you that I have to handle the process of your sale.” Clara gasped in shock.
What? Being sold? Me? I’m being sold? Who’s selling me? Is this a joke?
“What do you mean? Why am I being sold?” Clara asked sharply; she was still aroused and wanted more, but hearing those words triggered her survival instinct.
The man tilted his head. A soft laugh escaped his lips—low, controlled, like he already knew how this was going to end.
"Your brother, Fernandez Brown, just sold you to me for one billion pounds."
He paused. Let the words sink in.
"So. You're officially my plaything now."
Every spark of heat Clara had felt just moments before—gone. Snuffed out like a candle in a storm.
Fernandez.
Her jaw tightened. Her fingers curled into fists against the cuffs.
You fucking bastard. I'll burn you to death.
