He Sold His Blindfolded Mistress To The Highest Bidder

The morning of the surgery arrived with a sense of dread that settled deep in my bones. Two of Alexander's security personnel escorted me to a private medical suite that had been set up in the east wing of the penthouse. The clinical smell of antiseptic couldn't mask the underlying scent of fear—my own.

Dr. Alistair Finch was waiting, a tall man with silver-streaked hair and hands that moved with practiced precision as he prepared his instruments. His eyes never quite met mine when he spoke.

"The procedure is relatively new," he explained in a detached tone, "but I've performed it successfully many times. You'll experience some discomfort afterward, but nothing severe."

I searched his face for any hint of compassion, any indication that he might help me. "Is this even legal?"

His expression flickered momentarily before smoothing over. "Mr. Blackwood has signed all the necessary waivers."

Of course he had. My body wasn't my own—not according to the contract.

Victoria appeared in the doorway, her smile bright and venomous. "Comfortable, Sarah? Dr. Finch is the best in his field. We spared no expense."

She approached, leaning close enough that only I could hear her next words: "Blue eyes will suit you better. They'll remind Alexander of what he lost every time he looks at you."

The anesthesia mask descended over my face before I could respond, Victoria's triumphant smile the last thing I saw before darkness claimed me.

I woke to agony.

White-hot pain seared through my eyes, radiating outward like lightning strikes. I tried to scream, but my throat produced only a ragged gasp. My hands flew to my face, only to be caught and restrained.

"Don't touch the bandages," Alexander's voice came from somewhere to my left. "Dr. Finch says it will compromise the healing."

"It hurts," I managed to whisper. "Something's wrong."

"Pain is expected," he replied dismissively. "It will pass."

But it didn't pass. Hours stretched into a day, then two. The pain remained constant, vicious. When the bandages were finally removed, I blinked, waited for shapes to form, for light to filter through.

Nothing came. Only darkness.

"I can't see," I said, panic rising in my voice. "Alexander, I can't see anything."

There was a moment of silence, then Victoria's voice, feigning concern: "Dr. Finch mentioned this might happen. It's temporary, isn't it, darling?"

"Of course," Alexander agreed, though something in his tone suggested uncertainty. "Your sight will return gradually, Sarah. Be patient."

But I knew. In that moment, I knew with terrible certainty that Victoria had arranged this. That my blindness was no accident, no temporary side effect. It was deliberate—another level of imprisonment.

Days passed in darkness. My world shrank to sounds, smells, and textures. The soft whisper of silk sheets beneath my fingertips. The distant hum of Manhattan traffic far below. The scent of Victoria's cloying perfume lingering long after she'd left a room.

My other senses sharpened to compensate for what I'd lost. I began to navigate my small quarters by memory and touch. I counted steps, memorized the location of furniture, learned to identify who was approaching by the sound of their footsteps.

One night, unable to sleep through the persistent ache behind my useless eyes, I heard voices from beyond my room. Soft footsteps, a door opening and closing. Curious, I slipped from my bed, using the wall as a guide. The anklet remained silent—I was staying within my permitted area.

I followed the sounds to the study door, left slightly ajar. Inside, Alexander and Victoria were speaking in hushed tones that gradually gave way to other sounds—the rustle of clothing, soft moans, Victoria's breathless encouragement.

"We don't need to wait," she whispered between kisses. "She's blind now. Helpless. We could end the contract early."

"No," Alexander replied, his voice thick with desire. "I want to do this properly. Just a few more weeks, then we'll be free of her for good."

The sound of a desk being cleared, items clattering to the floor. Victoria's delighted laugh. "I love when you take charge."

I stood frozen, listening to them make love in the study—the same room where Alexander had once told me I would pay for my supposed crimes for the rest of my life. The same room where Victoria had convinced him that I had destroyed their chance at happiness.

Their passion escalated, uninhibited by any concern that I might hear. Why would they worry? I was nothing to them now—less than nothing. A blind, broken doll awaiting disposal.

I retreated to my room, a new understanding taking root in the darkness. This was never about punishment. It was about Victoria wanting Alexander, wanting his wealth, his power. I had simply been in the way.

The next evening, Alexander insisted I perform despite my blindness. "Your muscle memory should be sufficient," he said coldly. "My guests are expecting entertainment."

Without sight to guide me, I stumbled across the platform, arms outstretched in a grotesque parody of dance. Laughter rippled through the audience as I collided with a decorative column, nearly falling.

"How the mighty have fallen," someone murmured, triggering more cruel laughter.

"Careful, Blackwood," a deep voice—Mr. Harrison—called out. "Damaged goods fetch lower prices, even at Silas Croft's exclusive auctions in Los Angeles. Though I must say, a blind dancer has a certain... novelty appeal. The collectors would pay a fortune for something so unique."

A hush fell over the room, followed by Victoria's melodic laugh. "What an interesting thought, Mr. Harrison. Isn't it, Alexander?"

In the darkness that had become my world, I felt a chill run down my spine. An auction. Los Angeles. Suddenly, I understood exactly what they planned for me when the contract expired.

They weren't going to free me.

They were going to sell me.