Ruins of Happiness 🔥

Diana pov:

The underground auction hall was a pit of noise and filth. I stood on the stage under a spotlight that felt like a brand, my wrists heavy in iron cuffs. The bidding was a frantic, ugly roar—men shouting prices for a life they intended to break. I kept my gaze fixed on a jagged crack in the floorboards, my soul tucked away in a dark corner where their voices couldn’t reach.

I felt like an object—a piece of antique furniture waiting to be appraised. My memory of how I had arrived at this point was a shattered mirror, sharp and disjointed. I had survived by becoming nothing. I stared at a single, jagged crack in the floorboards, refusing to look at the men who held the power to buy my life.

Then, the noise didn't just stop. It died.

A heavy, rhythmic sound began to echo through the hall. Thud. Thud. Thud. It was the sound of leather boots on stone. With every step the stranger took, the crowd grew quieter, the air thick with a sudden, suffocating respect. Or perhaps it was fear. By the time he reached the edge of the stage, the silence was absolute.

I look up to face him, but his presenceis to much for me. He climbed the stairs with a slow, predatory grace. He didn't speak. He began to move in a slow circle around me, the scent of expensive cedar and cold rain swirling in his wake. I felt his eyes—deep, molten brown—tracing the line of my shoulders, the curve of my neck, the stillness of my hands. He was appraising a ruin, and I refused to give him the satisfaction of a flinch.

He stopped directly in front of me. I could see the polished tips of his boots and the sharp crease of his charcoal-gray trousers.

"What was the highest bid?" he asked.

His voice was a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards beneath my feet. It wasn't directed at me, but at the trembling auctioneer.

"O-one hundred million, sir," the man stammered.

"Two hundred million," he said, his tone as casual as if he were ordering a drink.

He didn't wait for a gavel. He didn't wait for a counter-offer. He reached out and took the key from the auctioneer’s hand. As he stepped into my personal space to unlock the cuffs, a man in the front row let out a jagged, nervous laugh.

"You really did go on your father, didn't you, Daniel?" the man jeered. "He also brought your mother home from a place just like this."

His name is Daniel, I thought to myself, looking at my hand which was in process to uncuff by him.

Daniel didn't pause. Click. The iron fell away from my wrists. Only then did he turn his head, his sharp jawline cutting a silhouette against the spotlight. "At least one of us followed in his footsteps," he said to the heckler, his voice lethal and calm. "Sadly, it was me, rather than a useless son like you."

He placed a hand on the small of my back—a possessive, grounding weight—and forced me to walk with him into the dark.

.

.

Daniel pov:

I had come to this filth-ridden hall for an arms deal, not a girl. But then they brought her out. Amidst the weeping and the trembling, she stood like a statue in a storm. Her eyes were voids, her spirit seemingly extinguished. It was the most fascinating thing I had seen in years. A rush of amusement—a spark of genuine excitement—hit me. I wanted her. Not for her body, but to see if I could find the fire beneath the ash.

Now, sitting in the back of the Maybach, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I slipped into a state of meditation, my breathing rhythmic, slowing the adrenaline of the auction. But I could feel her beside me. I felt her gaze, heavy and curious, tracing the bridge of my nose, the line of my jaw, and my lips. She was dissecting me.

"So, your eyes can actually see, huh?" I said, my voice low and steady.

I opened my eyes and turned to her. She didn't look away. Most people broke under my gaze, but she held it. She was "dead serious," her stare as intense as my own.Up close, she was breathtaking in a way that was almost painful to look at. Her hair was a cascading river of dark espresso, long and heavy, falling in loose, messy waves over her shoulders. A few stray strands clung to her neck, contrasting sharply with her pale, porcelain skin. It was skin that looked like it hadn't seen the sun in weeks—fragile, smooth, and untouched by the filth of the auction. And her eyes are pure black, like a black hole with nothing inside.

My gaze dropped to her mouth. Her lips were full, a natural dusty rose color, but they were set in a hard, straight line that spoke of a defiance she didn't even know she still possessed.

"Does your mouth work too?" I asked, watching the way the streetlights danced in her pupils. "Or did the silence get to you?"

She remained a ghost. "What's your name?" I pressed. "Do you have one? Or might I have the honor of naming you?"

She looked out the window at the dark forest." Diana." She say "My name is Diana." she whispered.

A smirk pulled at my lips. "Diana, as an goddess of war." I said. Her name sure doesn't suits her, but her makeit suitable for it.

When we reached the mansion, I stepped out of the car. "Get out." I commanded. As she step out of the car, I walk slowly towards her. Her expression stays the same. I put my coat on her and said " I am Daniel Blackwood" I stepped closer to her, my voice low but strong " And I am the man who brought your freedom."

Her gaze fixed on a ground, not for once looking up at me or any other things. She's like a ghost that doesn't know how to haunt others.

"Rule number one, Diana," i said, turning my back on her. "You look me in the eye when I speak to you."