The heavy metal gate of Blackwood Correctional Facility groaned open, the sound reverberating through my hollow chest. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days of my life, gone within these concrete walls for a crime I never committed.

I clutched my paper bag of belongings—a worn photograph of my parents, a dog-eared paperback, and the small silver locket I'd managed to keep hidden. Everything else I owned in this world was gone, just like my dignity, my voice, my will to live.

The bright sunlight assaulted my eyes as I stepped outside, squinting against the glare. Freedom should have felt different. It should have felt like something. But I felt nothing at all, just the same emptiness that had been my companion since the day the cell door first clanged shut behind me.

Then I saw it—a sleek black Bentley idling at the curb, its engine purring like a predator. My heart stuttered painfully in my chest when a tall figure emerged from the driver's side.

Allen Percy.

Even after everything, the sight of him still made my traitor heart skip a beat. The boy I'd loved since I was ten years old. The man who had testified against me in court. The reason I'd spent three years in hell.

For one foolish moment, hope flickered in my chest. Had he come to apologize? To tell me he'd discovered the truth?

His face answered before his words could. Cold. Hard. Beautiful in its cruelty.

"Teresa." My name on his lips was an accusation, not a greeting. "Still breathing, I see."

I couldn't speak. Hadn't spoken in months. The prison psychiatrist called it selective mutism brought on by trauma. I called it surrender.

"You should have died in there," Allen continued, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper as he stepped closer. "Rotted away in that cell where you belong."

I flinched, the paper bag crinkling in my grip. The hatred in his eyes burned hotter than any fire I'd been accused of setting.

"Get in the car." Not a request. A command.

My feet moved of their own accord, following the path of least resistance. When had I become this person? This empty shell who obeyed without question?

The car's interior smelled of expensive leather and Allen's cologne—sandalwood and something sharp. The scent I'd dreamed about during countless prison nights. Now it made me nauseous.

"Don't get comfortable," he said as he slid behind the wheel. "This isn't a rescue. This is just the beginning of what you deserve."

We drove in silence through the city, each mile taking us further from the prison but somehow not toward freedom. I stared out the window, watching the world I'd been removed from for three years—people walking dogs, children playing, couples holding hands. Normal life continuing as though mine hadn't been destroyed.

The car descended into an underground parking garage beneath what appeared to be a luxury hotel. Allen cut the engine and turned to me, his green eyes chips of ice.

"Do you know what this place is?" he asked.

I shook my head slightly.

"It's where people like you get what they deserve."

He gripped my arm, fingers digging into skin that hadn't felt the sun in years, and pulled me from the car. We entered through a service door, down a corridor, and into an elevator that required a special key card.

When the doors opened, the opulence was jarring—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, men in custom suits sipping champagne. But something was wrong. The energy was predatory, the glances calculating as Allen dragged me through the crowd.

"Lot 47," a smooth voice announced over hidden speakers. "A special acquisition for our distinguished clientele."

With horror, I realized where we were. What this was.

An auction. And I was the merchandise.

Allen pushed me onto a raised platform, under lights so bright they made me squint. Dozens of faces looked up at me—wealthy men with cold eyes assessing my value like I was livestock.

"Gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, "Lot 47. A convicted arsonist with a particular talent for destruction. Bidding starts at one million."

The world tilted sideways as I stood there, trembling. This couldn't be happening. Not even Allen could be this cruel.

But as the bidding war escalated and men approached to inspect me more closely—one even reaching out to touch my hair—I realized there was no bottom to his hatred. No limit to how far he would go to punish me.

When the bidding reached ninety million, a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

"One hundred million."

Allen stood at the back, hand raised, a cruel smile playing on his perfect lips.

"Sold," the auctioneer declared with obvious surprise, "to Mr. Percy."

Allen climbed the steps to the platform, his eyes never leaving mine as he approached. He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear.

"You're mine now, Teresa," he whispered. "And every day for the rest of your life, you'll pay for what you did to Jane."

In that moment, I knew the prison had been only the beginning of my sentence.

The Bentley glided through the city, Allen's knuckles white against the steering wheel. I couldn't bring myself to ask where we were going after the auction. The humiliation still burned raw, making my skin crawl with each passing second. One hundred million dollars. That's what my suffering was worth to him.

We pulled up to a pristine white building on the outskirts of the city, its clinical appearance more reminiscent of a laboratory than any place meant for healing. No signage adorned the exterior, just smooth walls and tinted windows that revealed nothing of what lay inside.

"Welcome home," Allen said, his voice devoid of warmth as he yanked me from the car.

The interior matched the sterile exterior—white walls, polished floors that reflected the harsh fluorescent lighting, and the unmistakable scent of antiseptic that burned my nostrils. Medical staff in crisp uniforms moved with quiet efficiency, their eyes carefully avoiding mine as Allen dragged me down a corridor.

He stopped at a nondescript door, punching a code into the keypad before shoving it open. "Your accommodations," he announced, pushing me inside.

The room was small and windowless, containing nothing but a hospital bed with restraints hanging from its sides, a small metal sink, and a toilet partially concealed by a flimsy curtain. No personal touches, no comfort—just the bare necessities for keeping a body alive.

"Allen," I mouthed silently, my voice still refusing to come. *Why?*

"Don't look at me like that," he snapped, his handsome features twisting with disgust. "You're lucky I don't keep you chained to the wall."

Before I could process his words, a woman in a white coat entered, her clipboard clutched to her chest like armor.

"Mr. Percy, everything is prepared as you requested," she said, her eyes flickering briefly to me with what might have been concern.

"Good. Dr. Chen, this is Teresa Olsen. She'll be providing the blood samples we discussed."

Blood samples? My confusion must have shown on my face because Allen's lips curled into a cruel smile.

"You see, Teresa, Jane has been suffering from a rare form of anemia since the trauma you caused her. She needs regular transfusions, and as luck would have it, you're a perfect match."

The next few hours passed in a blur of needles and vials as Dr. Chen and her team extracted sample after sample. They took so much blood that spots danced before my eyes, my body swaying dangerously as they worked. Through it all, Allen watched from behind a glass partition, his expression impassive.

When the results came back, Dr. Chen's eyes widened. "Mr. Percy, she has the universal donor blood type, but her hemoglobin levels are dangerously low. She appears to be suffering from severe malnutrition and—"

"Perfect," Allen interrupted. "Then she'll be useful after all. Prepare her for the first extraction tomorrow."

"But sir, in her condition—"

"Did I stutter, Dr. Chen?"

The doctor's mouth snapped shut, and she nodded stiffly before leaving us alone.

The next morning, they came for me early. Two orderlies transferred me to a different room, this one dominated by a reclining chair surrounded by machines. They strapped me in despite my lack of resistance—my body too weak to fight even if I'd wanted to.

The needle they inserted was larger than the ones used for testing, and I winced as it pierced my vein. Behind the glass, Allen stood watching, his eyes cold as the machine began to hum, drawing my blood into collection bags that would go to Jane.

As minutes passed, the room began to spin, my vision narrowing to a pinpoint. Through the growing darkness, I saw Dr. Chen approach Allen, her gestures animated as she pointed to the monitors displaying my vital signs.

"...too much... could cause permanent damage..."

"Continue," came Allen's firm reply. "She deserves far worse than discomfort for what she did."

When they finally unhooked me, I could barely stand. The orderlies had to half-carry me back to my room, where I collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted even to cry.

But physical weakness was only the beginning of my punishment. The next day, Allen had me brought to his penthouse apartment, a spacious haven of luxury that made my prison cell seem almost merciful in comparison.

"Clean it," he ordered, throwing a bucket of supplies at my feet. "Every inch. And if I find a speck of dust anywhere, you'll start over."

On hands and knees, I scrubbed floors that already gleamed, my fingers raw and bleeding as Allen followed behind me, deliberately knocking over vases for me to clean up, dropping food for me to scrub away. When my movements slowed from blood loss and exhaustion, he kicked over my bucket, soapy water spreading across the floor I'd just finished.

"Pathetic," he spat. "Just like you were pathetic in court, crying those crocodile tears while Jane suffered in the hospital. Start again."

As I reached for the mop with trembling hands, I caught my reflection in the polished marble floor—a ghost of the woman I once was, hollowed out by hatred. And somewhere deep inside, where even Allen's cruelty couldn't reach, a tiny spark flickered to life—not hope, but something darker and more dangerous.

Survival.

The days blurred together in a haze of blood draws and exhaustion. Each morning, I woke to the same sterile white ceiling, the same antiseptic smell burning my nostrils, the same hollow ache spreading through my body as machines drained me of blood I couldn't afford to lose. Allen had turned me into a human blood bank for Jane, and there was nothing I could do but endure.

Dr. Chen's face grew increasingly concerned each time she checked my vitals, but Allen's orders were absolute. Take more. Always more.

I was dozing in a half-conscious state when the click of heels against the polished floor jolted me awake. The sound was different from the soft-soled shoes the medical staff wore—sharper, more deliberate. I forced my heavy eyelids open just as the door to my room swung wide.

Jane.

She stood in the doorway like a vision from another world—cashmere sweater draped elegantly over her shoulders, diamonds glittering at her throat and wrists, honey-blonde hair falling in perfect waves. The contrast between us couldn't have been more stark—me in my faded prison-issue clothes, skin pale as parchment, body withered from malnutrition and blood loss.

'Teresa,' she cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she glided to my bedside. 'Look at you. Finally where you belong.'

I stared at her silently, my voice still locked away somewhere I couldn't reach. Jane didn't seem to mind my silence; in fact, she seemed to relish it, settling into the chair beside my bed as if preparing for a pleasant chat with an old friend.

'I wanted to come see you personally,' she continued, adjusting her diamond bracelet. 'To thank you for your... contribution.' Her eyes flickered to the bandage in the crook of my arm. 'The doctors say your blood is saving my life. Isn't that ironic? After you tried so hard to end it?'

The lie hung in the air between us, as tangible as the beeping monitors tracking my weakening pulse. I hadn't set that fire. I hadn't tried to hurt her. But without a voice, I had no defense.

'The nightmares are the worst part, you know,' Jane leaned closer, her perfume overwhelming the clinical scents of the room. 'I still wake up screaming, feeling the flames licking at my skin, the smoke filling my lungs.' She traced a manicured finger along my blanket. 'Allen holds me when I cry. He promises me you'll pay for what you did. And look—he's keeping that promise.'

Her smile never reached her eyes, those cold blue pools calculating my reactions to her performance. I wondered if Allen knew how well she could lie, how convincingly she could play the victim while her eyes remained as dead as a shark's.

'It was worth it, you know,' she whispered, leaning even closer. 'Watching you rot in prison for three years. And now this? It's even better than I imagined.'

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the triumph in her gaze. When I opened them again, she was standing, smoothing her expensive clothes as if touching me had somehow contaminated her.

'I'll be back soon,' she promised. 'After all, we're connected now, aren't we? My life depends on yours.' She laughed softly. 'What's left of it, anyway.'

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with the knowledge that she had orchestrated everything—the fire, my imprisonment, and now this slow, methodical draining of my life. And Allen, blind with devotion to her, was her willing executioner.

The next morning, Dr. Chen arrived earlier than usual, her face tight with concern as she examined me. Her fingers paused over the inside of my wrist, then moved to push up my sleeve. I tried to pull away, but I was too weak, and the fabric slid up to reveal what I'd kept hidden for years.

Scars. Dozens of them. Thin white lines crisscrossing my skin like a roadmap of pain, some old and faded, others pink and newer—from the prison days when pain was the only thing that made me feel alive.

Dr. Chen's sharp intake of breath echoed in the quiet room. 'Teresa,' she whispered, her professional detachment cracking for the first time. 'How long have you been doing this?'

I couldn't answer, couldn't explain how the blade had become my only friend, the only way to release the pressure building inside me when words failed.

She gently rolled up my other sleeve, revealing matching patterns there. Her fingers trembled slightly as she documented each scar, her clinical assessment belied by the moisture gathering in her eyes.

'Mr. Percy needs to know about this,' she said finally, releasing my arm. 'These are signs of severe depression and trauma. You need psychological help, not...' She gestured vaguely at the blood collection equipment. 'Not this.'

I wanted to laugh at her naivety. Allen wouldn't care. My suffering was the point, not an unfortunate side effect.

I was right.

When Dr. Chen reported her findings, Allen's face remained impassive, unmoved by the evidence of my despair etched into my skin.

'Treat any life-threatening conditions,' he instructed coldly. 'Nothing more. She's getting exactly what she deserves.'

As he turned to leave, something flickered across his face—so brief I almost missed it. Not concern. Not compassion. Something darker, more complex. For a moment, I thought I glimpsed the boy I'd once known, the one I'd loved for twelve long years, trapped behind the mask of the monster he'd become.

Then it was gone, and so was he, leaving me to wonder if I'd imagined it—a trick of the light, or perhaps just the desperate wish of a dying heart.