The Wife Auctioned For One Dollar Chapter 02
“It’s not that it’s beneath me.”
I forced myself to look directly into Vito’s eyes—so familiar, yet so alien now.
“I’m simply verifying that this lot actually exists.”
“If a buyer pays and you can’t deliver, it’s the auction’s reputation on the line.”
Vito’s smile deepened.
“Relax. She’s at home right now, lying in bed.”
“She’s not going anywhere.”
“Two million dollars.”
A bald man sitting in the far corner suddenly raised his paddle.
“She looks about five months along, doesn’t she? Seven days, and I can do whatever I want with her—is that right?”
His words drew a wave of vulgar laughter.
I felt bile rising in my throat.
Vito sat there, unhurried, and replied: “As long as you leave her breathing.”
“Do whatever you like.”
My husband. In front of over a hundred men. Pricing me like a piece of merchandise that had no life, no soul, no name.
With trembling hands, I tried to activate the emergency auction halt protocol.
It was the one privilege I had as the house’s top-tier host.
But a line of searing red text flashed across the screen.
**[System Alert: Forced additions initiated by S-Class clients cannot be terminated by the host.]**
My access was locked out.
There was nowhere left to run.
“Three million dollars!”
Another paddle went up.
The fat man in the boar mask. His competitive streak had been ignited.
“You know what? I’ve got my eye on her. I’ve always had a thing for other men’s wives.”
The room erupted.
Vito was clearly pleased with the price.
He even picked up his glass of red wine and gave it a lazy swirl.
“Miss Nightingale, it seems this lot is quite popular.”
“If you could speed things along—I still need to get home and tuck my wife into bed.”
I closed my eyes and dug my nails viciously into my thigh.
The pain kept me conscious.
“Three million dollars, going once.”
“Three million dollars, going twice.”
I raised the gavel and held it suspended in midair.
“Miss Nightingale, what are you waiting for?”
Vito pressed.
“I’m waiting for you to confirm an additional condition.”
I set the gavel down, my gaze cutting through my mask and straight into Vito.
“Sir, since this is about avenging your first love—”
“Don’t you think simply selling your wife off isn’t quite satisfying enough?”
The room went quiet.
Even Vito seemed momentarily thrown. He clearly hadn’t expected the host to interject.
“What do you mean?”
I forced down the tremor in my voice.
“During those seven days, what if the buyer just locks her in a basement and keeps her fed and comfortable?”
“How would you know she’s actually being punished?”
Vito narrowed his eyes.
He was interested.
“So what do you suggest, Miss Nightingale?”
“Simple.”
I gripped the microphone until my fingers ached.
“Require the buyer to submit a video every day.”
“Each video must show the lot on her knees, begging for mercy, sobbing uncontrollably.”
“If they can’t deliver, the transaction is voided automatically. Full refund.”
I was gambling.
Gambling that these creatures of the dark feared hassle above all else—and feared even more the kind of ironclad evidence that a video would create.
It worked.
The moment the words left my mouth, the bald man and the boar-mask bidder both fell silent.
“It’s just a video. What’s the big deal?”
Someone muttered in protest.
Another voice hissed back: “Are you stupid? Leave behind video evidence, and if the FBI or NYPD ever gets hold of it, that’s kidnapping, extortion, and human trafficking—open and shut. Who’s going to risk their own neck for a week with some woman?”
The temperature in the room plummeted.
The white-hot bidding war died in an instant.
Vito’s expression darkened.
He hadn’t expected me to dismantle his entire scheme with a single move.
But he wasn’t about to give up.
He picked up his voice-distorted microphone, and his tone turned even more vicious.
“Videos are too much trouble. Let’s simplify.”
“Whoever buys her must call me from her phone every night at eight o’clock.”
“I want to hear for myself—how she cries and begs for me while you’re on top of her.”
The entire room sucked in a collective breath.
Even the hardened criminals who’d spent years haunting these underground auctions were stunned by the sheer depravity of it.
I stood on that stage, nails buried so deep in my palms that thin lines of blood seeped through.
He didn’t just want to destroy my body.
He wanted to crush my dignity into dust.