After My Groom Chose the Student Over Me

The bids kept coming, each one more degrading than the last.

"Twenty thousand for the professor's underwear!"

"Fifty thousand to watch her beg!"

The crowd's voices blurred into a cacophony of cruelty, their faces twisted with excitement. I tried to close my eyes, to escape into darkness, but Jericho's voice cut through my haze.

"Look at them, Sofia," he commanded, his fingers digging into my jaw. "These are the people who want you. This is your worth."

My worth. Seven years of love, of sacrifice, of believing I was building something real—reduced to a bidding war in a warehouse full of strangers.

"One hundred thousand!" A man in the back shouted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.

The crowd cheered. Whitney clapped her hands together, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Sold!" Jericho announced, his voice booming through the speakers. "To Mr. Blackwood for one hundred thousand dollars!"

A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, with a mask covering half his face. He approached the stage with deliberate steps, the crowd parting before him like water.

"Your highest bidder," Jericho whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Time to see what you're really worth."

The man climbed onto the stage, his eyes fixed on me with cold calculation. He circled my chair slowly, like a predator assessing prey.

"Seven years," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Seven years I gave you everything."

Jericho's laugh was sharp and cruel. "Seven years of taking, you mean. You were never anything but a convenience, Sofia."

The words sliced through me more painfully than any knife could have. All those nights I'd lain awake wondering if I was enough for him—if I loved him enough, if I gave him enough. Now I knew the truth.

"You never loved me," I said, the realization settling into my bones like ice.

"Love?" Whitney scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "You were a project, Sofia. A pathetic little experiment in control."

Mr. Blackwood leaned down, his fingers brushing my cheek. I flinched away, but couldn't escape the bindings on my wrists and ankles.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "I can see why they were so eager to break you."

---

The warehouse gave way to darkness, then to a different kind of hell.

I don't know how long I was in that car—hours, maybe, or days. The windows were tinted black, the interior filled with the scent of leather and something metallic that made my stomach turn.

When the door finally opened, cold air rushed in. I stumbled out, my legs weak from confinement, only to find myself in front of a cabin nestled among towering pines.

"Welcome home," Whitney said, shoving me forward. "Your new accommodations."

Inside was sparse—a bed, a table, a single window overlooking endless forest. But what made my blood run cold was the camera mounted in the corner, its red light blinking steadily.

"We'll be watching," Jericho said, adjusting something on his phone. "Every move you make, every breath you take."

They pushed me inside and locked the door behind me. Through the window, I could see them retreating to another building nearby—close enough to monitor me, far enough to enjoy their victory.

I sank onto the bed, my body shaking uncontrollably. The camera's eye followed my every movement.

"Please," I whispered to no one. "Someone help me."

---

"Good morning, Sofia."

Jericho's voice came through a speaker somewhere in the cabin. I jolted awake, my heart pounding against my ribs.

"Time for your daily tasks," he continued, his tone cheerful as if we were discussing the weather. "Whitney needs her laundry done. And I could use some entertainment."

On the small table beside me, a tablet screen flickered to life. On it was a list of demands—each more humiliating than the last.

"Dance for us," Whitney's voice joined in. "Or maybe sing? We've never heard you sing, have we?"

I remained frozen on the bed, my eyes fixed on the camera.

"That's not very cooperative," Jericho said, his voice hardening. "Remember what happens when you don't cooperate."

The tablet screen changed, showing footage of me from the night before—bound and helpless while they filmed me.

"We have so much material to share," Whitney purred. "Your colleagues would be fascinated to see what you get up to in private."

My hands trembled as I reached for the tablet. They'd found my weakness—my fear of being exposed, of losing whatever dignity I had left.

"Please don't," I begged, hating how weak I sounded.

"Then do what we ask," Jericho replied simply. "Or we'll make sure everyone sees exactly what kind of woman you really are."

I looked at the camera, at the unblinking eye that watched my every move. Somewhere out there, they were waiting for me to break completely.

And I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.