Chapter 1 “Prologue: The Crimson’s Cost,”

࿐ྂ༻꒦꒷𓇊꒷꒦༺࿐ྂ

“Prologue: The Crimson’s Cost,”

────── ꕥ ⋅ IVORY ⋅ ꕥ ──────

Three minutes before I sold myself, I was still free.

For some reason, I keep thinking about those three minutes.

Those three precious minutes.

Those three minutes were like a song or the time it takes to make coffee. It is enough time to change your mind if you are paying attention.

Yet, in my case? I wasn't really paying attention.

When the curtain opened, and everything after that was just the story of how I survived it.

Backstage smelled like money and hairspray and something else underneath, something sweet and sharp that I couldn't name and didn't even try to.

Chandeliers spilled gold light through the velvet curtains. Even the dust looked expensive in here. Everything was a performance. Even the air.

"Arms up, lady."

A stylist appeared out of nowhere and slid something cold and silky over my head before I could argue.

It was red, a deep dark red, the exact color of what everyone in this building was here to buy.

I then looked at myself in the narrow backstage mirror and almost laughed.

Arterial red. A color like blood. How subtle.

My mind raced with thoughts. God, Ivory, you shouldn't be here.

This wasn't the plan. My paintings were supposed to hang on walls like these.

Not me.

"Lot 24, you're on deck."

A woman with a clipboard said it without looking at me like I was another item to check off  on her list. It felt like something heavy in my chest.

Lot 24.

That was me, now.

Through the gap in the curtains I could see the hall people in suits, glittering jewelry and paddles going up and down. They were deciding something. I thought I knew what it was.

I was scanning the crowd the way you scan a room for the nearest exit when something made me stop.

A man in the front row.

He wasn't doing anything. Hadn't even lifted a paddle. Wasn't even talking to anyone. Just sitting there, still and certain, like the room had been built around him.

He was - undeniably, there's no other word for it that I can think of other than - devastatingly handsome.

He had hair and a face that looked perfect. As if his whole being was carved out of something that didn't make mistakes.

He was staying very still. The kind of still that didn't come from being calm. It came from never needing to move fast because it’s as if nothing could outrun him anyway. As if he’s always in control.

Then he turned, slowly like he already knew I was there.

His eyes found mine straight through the curtain gap.

It was blue. Ice blue. Deep and cold and absolutely direct.

My heart hit my ribs so hard I felt it in my throat.

And then, just for one second, barely a blink…

His eyes shifted.

From blue to amber. From cold to something burning. Something old and wild and completely at odds with the tailored suit and the chandelier light and the two hundred wealthy people surrounding him.

Though, it was gone before I could be sure I'd seen it.

He then smiled. Just barely. The smallest lift at the corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly what just happened to my heart rate and thought it was interesting.

I couldn't look away.

"Lot 24 — NOW."

Someone grabbed my arm and shoved me forward and then there was nothing but blinding light and the sound of a crowd turning to look at me all at once.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The auctioneer's voice was smooth as glass. "Lot 24. A rare find. Untapped artistic genius requiring only proper — patronage.”

Paddles rose.

Numbers climbed.

I stood there completely frozen while my value got counted out in millions and my brain stuck on one thing only.

His eyes changed color. That's not something normal eyes would do don’t they?

The blue-eyed man never lifted his paddle. He didn't need to. At some point he just stood up, quiet, unhurried, and the entire room went still the way a forest still goes when something at the top of the food chain decides to move.

"Five million," he said, low and calm the kind of voice that expects to get what it wants. The kind of voice that wasn't used to being told no.

The gavel came down.

Done.

Five million dollars. For me. For my blood. For whatever came next.

I didn't know yet what I'd actually sold.

I told myself it was just a transaction.

I told myself I was in control.

I told myself the way my pulse jumped when his eyes met mine was just fear.

Just fear. Normal, logical, self-preserving fear.

I was wrong about all of it.

My name is Ivory Marwood.

This is how I died.

And how, through death, I finally began to live.