The Wife Auctioned For One Dollar Chapter 01
At the last auction I ever hosted, a VIP mystery buyer announced, out of nowhere, that he wanted to put his pregnant wife up for sale.
His explanation was calm, almost rehearsed: “My first love had a miscarriage. And my wife was the one responsible.”
“Not only that—my wife made a habit of flaunting her pregnant belly in front of my first love, deliberately tormenting her.”
“I want to punish my wife. But I can’t bring myself to do it.”
“So I’m asking everyone here tonight to do it for me.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd below. A few numbered paddles rose tentatively into the air.
I drew a deep breath, ready to announce the opening bid per standard protocol.
The next second, the massive screen behind the auction stage flickered to life.
The moment the lot photo appeared, I froze as though I’d been nailed to the floor.
The woman on that screen.
Was me.
…
As the host of New York’s underground black-market auction, I’d sold stolen antiquities and watched Mafia families quietly trade in human organs.
Behind a black velvet mask and a fake identity so clean not even a forensic accountant could poke holes in it, I’d held court under the name “Nightingale” in this world that could never see the light of day—for five full years.
So yes, seeing myself up for auction caught me a little off guard.
The man continued through his voice distorter, his tone so calm it bordered on cruelty.
“I’m only auctioning off one week of her time.”
“If no one bids, she got lucky.”
“If someone does—well, then my wife had it coming.”
The crowd studied the photo on screen, and eager expressions spread across their faces.
“A pregnant woman, belly and all?”
“Face is blurred, but the body’s not bad. Three hundred thousand dollars.”
A fat man in the front row wearing a boar mask was the first to raise his paddle. His voice dripped with a revolting kind of excitement.
I stood on the auction stage.
In that moment, every drop of blood in my body seemed to stop flowing. My hands and feet went cold, as though they didn’t belong to me anymore.
The photo on the giant screen had been taken yesterday morning, in front of my bedroom’s full-length mirror.
I’d been wearing a new maternity dress, head tilted down, both hands resting gently on the slight swell of my belly.
I had sent that photo to exactly one person.
My husband, Vito.
Which meant the man sitting in the VIP section below—silver mask, voice distorter, offering me up like merchandise—was the same man who kissed my forehead every morning and swore he’d hold me in the palm of his hand for the rest of his life.
I clenched my back teeth so hard my jaw ached. It was the only thing keeping me from trembling.
“Three hundred thousand is too low.”
Vito pressed the button on his microphone. The synthetic voice echoed through the cavernous underground hall.
“I said—one week.”
“And three hundred thousand doesn’t even begin to cover the psychological damage my first love suffered after her miscarriage.”
Another stir swept through the crowd.
“This guy’s ruthless. Selling his own wife.”
“But you have to admit, this kind of game is thrilling. I like it. Five hundred thousand.”
Another paddle went up.
I felt my stomach lurch. A chill crawled up my spine.
Then Vito pulled out his phone.
He patched the call directly into the auction’s public speaker system.
The line connected.
A painfully delicate female voice came through, nasally and trembling.
“Vito? You’re still not done? I’m all alone at the hospital… I’m a little scared.”
It was my best friend, Lily.
So she was Vito’s first love all along?
“Lily, I’m putting together a very special gift for you.”
Vito’s tone carried a patience I recognized well.
“A gift that will finally let you get all that rage out of your system.”
Silence on the other end. One beat.
“Vito, don’t do anything crazy. Evelyn is pregnant, after all…”
“I know she’s always showing off about being pregnant. I know she keeps posting those ultrasound photos to get under my skin.”
“But it’s okay, really. Don’t hurt her because of me.”
Lily’s voice grew softer with each word until it finally cracked into a barely restrained sob.
She played the part of the innocent saint beautifully.
But the ultrasound photos I’d posted to my private Instagram story? I had always blocked her from seeing them.
So where exactly had she seen them?
The only explanation was that Vito had shown them to her himself—then held her while she cried about how wronged she felt.
“She doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”
Vito’s voice turned ice-cold.
“If she had the nerve to rub salt in your wounds, she should be prepared to pay the price.”
“Lily, be a good girl and wait for me. Every cent from this auction of Evelyn will go straight into your account.”
He hung up.
The atmosphere in the room had reached a fever pitch.
Curiosity, voyeurism, the desire to inflict pain—all of it burned in the eyes behind those masks.
“One million dollars! I want her!”
A tall, thin man shot to his feet, his gaze locked on my photo on the screen.
Vito settled back into his leather sofa with a look of satisfaction.
He tilted his head up, and the eyes behind his mask fixed directly on me, standing on the stage.
“Miss Nightingale, someone just bid one million.”
“You’re supposed to be the best auctioneer in the business. Why so quiet?”
My knuckles had gone white around the microphone.
I inhaled deeply. My voice, filtered through the distorter, came out cold and formulaic.
“Sir.”
“Per underground auction regulations, any last-minute addition involving a live human subject requires authorization from the highest clearance level.”
I was stalling.
“Authorization?”
Vito let out a soft laugh.
He reached unhurriedly into his jacket and produced a black metal card, setting it on the table.
It was an S-Class clearance card from the Syndicate Commission.
The Syndicate Commission was the supreme arbitration body recognized by New York’s entire underworld.
S-Class cards were issued only to top-tier families and key financial backers. They signified that the cardholder commanded sufficient wealth, power, and Commission-endorsed credibility.
In all of New York—above and below the law—fewer than five people held one.
To sell me off, Vito had played his ultimate trump card.
“Authorization was submitted and approved by the system.”
His long fingers tapped lightly on the table. His posture was relaxed—the pose of a gambler who believed he held every card.
“What’s the matter, Miss Nightingale? Is this lot too dirty even for you to bring down the hammer?”