Auctioned by Unfaithful Husband

My fingers trembled as I folded the last cashmere sweater into my suitcase. The bedroom—once ours, now practically Ana's—felt like a foreign country where I no longer held citizenship. The morning light filtering through the curtains cast long shadows across the floor, matching the darkness spreading through my soul.

I'd made my decision in the hospital, lying in that sterile bed after watching my own blood flow into the woman who was systematically replacing me. The shrine of photographs in Marcellus's drawer had simply confirmed what my heart already knew—I was living in a house of mirrors, all of them reflecting someone else's face.

"Going somewhere?"

I froze, the silk scarf in my hands suddenly as heavy as chains. Marcellus stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable except for the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered, hating how my voice shook. "This isn't a marriage. It's a hostage situation."

He crossed the room with deliberate steps, each one making my pulse quicken with dread. When he reached the suitcase, he ran one finger along its edge, as if testing for dust.

"You're upset," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "You're not thinking clearly. Let me help you with that."

Before I could react, he snapped the suitcase shut, nearly catching my fingers in the process, then picked up my phone from the nightstand and slipped it into his pocket.

"We're having a special dinner tonight," he announced, as if we were discussing weekend plans rather than my attempted escape. "I've instructed the chef to prepare something... memorable."

The dining room gleamed under the chandelier's light when I entered that evening, escorted by one of Marcellus's security staff who hadn't left my side all afternoon. Ana was already seated at the table, wearing a dress I recognized from my own closet—a Carolina Herrera I'd worn only once before it mysteriously disappeared.

"Serenity, so glad you could join us," she said, her smile never reaching her eyes. "Marcellus has arranged such a lovely meal."

My stomach dropped as I saw what awaited me. The table was laden with seafood—oysters glistening on ice, lobster tails arranged like a crown, shrimp cocktail in crystal glasses. The unmistakable scent of shellfish permeated the air, making my throat tighten in anticipation.

"Marcellus," I said quietly, "you know I can't eat this. My allergy—"

"Sit." The command left no room for argument.

I sank into the chair, my legs suddenly too weak to support me. A server appeared, placing a plate before me—scallops in butter sauce, surrounded by mussels.

"Eat," Marcellus said, lifting his wine glass in a mock toast. "Every bite."

Ana leaned forward, her eyes bright with malicious anticipation. "The chef worked so hard, Serenity. It would be rude to refuse."

I stared at the plate, then at Marcellus. "You're trying to kill me."

"Don't be dramatic." He smiled coldly. "The EpiPen is right here." He patted his jacket pocket. "But you'll only get it after you clean your plate."

My first bite sent immediate warning signals through my body. By the third, my lips began to tingle and swell. I could feel hives spreading across my chest and neck, my breathing becoming labored. Still, Marcellus watched impassively, occasionally prompting me to continue when I paused to gasp for air.

"Please," I finally wheezed, pushing the half-empty plate away. My vision was blurring, the room spinning around me. "I can't—"

"You can and you will," he said, pushing the plate back. "Or perhaps you'd prefer another stay in the basement?"

The fork clattered from my swollen fingers. I tried to stand but my legs gave way. The last thing I saw before collapsing was Ana's satisfied smile as she sipped her wine, watching me fight for each breath as if it were dinner entertainment.