The air in the grand Ramielle estate's opulent chamber was thick with a silence that screamed indifference. Scarlett, a living sculpture of defiance and grace, stood before a gilded mirror, maids swirling around her like deferential moths. They called it a gala; she knew it was her slaughter.
Her gown, a vibrant scarlet, clung to her slender frame like liquid fire, the color of rebellion and newly spilled blood. Her strawberry blonde hair, a rare and mesmerizing shade, cascaded down her back, half-braided into a woven diadem crowned with a matching crimson ribbon. It was the artistry of her captors, a breathtaking picture designed for display.
Scarlett's lips, naturally the tint of a pale rose, parted slightly before pressing into the faintest pout as a maid leaned in, applying her war paint. A deep red rouge bloomed across her mouth, regal and illicit, a forbidden flower coming into bloom. "You look beautiful, My Lady," the maid whispered, her voice a reverent murmur.
A slow, confident smile curved Scarlett's newly painted lips. "I know," she replied, a weary statement of fact, devoid of arrogance. Her beauty was her weapon, her gilded prison. Known for her unshakable poise and a charm sharper than any blade, she dealt not in false modesty.
She was a Ramielle, daughter of the calculating Marquess Angus Ramielle and the glacially elegant Lady Cecilia Danette. Unlike her brothers, James and Justin-chips off their father's block, groomed for inheritance-Scarlett was a Danette. Her mother's lineage pulsed in her veins, manifesting in a breathtaking beauty that commanded attention, bending the will of men.
From her earliest memories, her fate was singular: to be the ultimate bargaining chip, married off for greater wealth, forging alliances, and securing prosperity for the insatiable House Ramielle. Suitors, drawn by tales of her ethereal beauty, flocked like moths to a celestial flame. She was trained, refined, perfected for this role, a life where choice was a foreign concept.
To the glittering aristocracy, she was the pampered flower of the Ramielle estate, swathed in luxury. But behind the ornate, soundproof doors, she was a tool. An elegant pawn on her family's grand chessboard.
Who could resist such a pawn? Her long, silky waves of strawberry blonde hair shimmered with an inner light. Her crystalline blue eyes held the very sky captive, framed by delicate, curled lashes. Softly arched brows gave her gaze noble precision. Her nose, a sculptor's dream, led to plush, rose-tinted lips-a silent, tempting invitation. Her porcelain skin glowed with inner luminescence, untouched by sun or flaw. Flawless. A living masterpiece designed to leave even the most disciplined hearts undone.
Yet, her future was carved in stone, a cruel fate adorned in gold leaf. A priceless porcelain doll, displayed behind reinforced glass, admired by all but owned by the highest bidder. Scarlett existed to be displayed, owned, traded. If only they had loved her, treated her as a daughter, not an ornament, not a possession to be bartered. But love was a currency the Ramielle family did not trade in. They, who paraded their noble name like a banner, were ravenous wolves in fine silks, cloaked in smiling, polite, soul-deep malice.
The Ramielle name was infamous, whispered with envy and fear, synonymous with insatiable greed. The Rammestein region, their dominion, flowed with endless wealth, controlled with an iron fist. Rich mineral mines, fertile soil, and industrious towns lined the pockets of the privileged few. The city center, a glittering jewel, was exclusively for those tied to House Ramielle. The rest-workers, peasants, families who built the city with their sweat-were pushed to remote villages, where luxury was a myth, and survival a daily struggle. A kingdom built on a lie, a monopoly on power masked as nobility.
And in the center of this web of deceit, this ambition, was Scarlett. The ill-fated beauty. Burdened by her family's crushing expectations and the secret, ugly truth of their cruelty. Beneath the expensive lace, her delicate skin bore a hidden map of their discipline-bruises blooming in shades of purple and blue, silent proof of their control. They called it duty, correction, but she knew it was cruelty. They had to break her spirit; a girl with a will of her own was a dangerous variable in a family built on absolute control. And so, an invisible leash, velvet-lined but unyielding, had long ago been placed around her neck.
Scarlett was strong-willed, with an unextinguished fire within. But they were cunning. They had discovered her one true weakness, the one thing she valued above all else. They knew exactly what, or rather who, to threaten. A vulnerability so precious, so deeply embedded in her heart, that she could never turn her back on it.
Which led her to tonight. Paraded like prized merchandise, summoned to a glamorous gala. But she knew its true purpose. Beneath the shimmer of chandeliers and the polite symphony of clinking crystal, it was a marketplace. An auction block where she was the main lot, to be sold off to the highest, most suitable bidder.
The oppressive silence of the room shattered as the door creaked inward. Her mother, Lady Cecilia Danette, entered with an air of calm, regal dominance. Scarlett saw her own face in her mother's, perfected by decades of manipulation. "An excellent choice of color," Cecilia remarked, her voice cool and smooth, eyes appraising the red gown like a prized artifact. She moved with a dancer's grace, adjusting delicate lace sleeves with an expert's touch. She stopped before Scarlett, her perfectly shaped lips tightening into a frown.
Without warning, she tugged the neckline sharply downward, baring Scarlett's cleavage, making the display deliberate. "You have a beautiful body," Cecilia murmured, her voice venomous honey. "Use it. Enchant them." Her lips curved into a smile so twisted it was almost a grimace.
Scarlett remained still, her face a mask of serene emptiness. Her silence, her last territory, a rebellion they could not touch. Behind her, the maid, still pretending to work on her hair, kept her head bowed, fingers trembling in the frigid atmosphere Lady Cecilia had created.
Cecilia's gaze flicked impatiently to the ornate clock. "It's time," she announced briskly. She picked up a heavy crystal perfume bottle, spraying Scarlett without hesitation...once, twice, then a third time, enveloping her in a suffocatingly sweet cloud. The final layer of disguise, a scent to mask sorrow, a polish to hide bruises, a beautiful lie to cover the simmering rebellion beneath her practiced smile.
Cecilia extended a perfectly manicured hand, an invitation and a command. Scarlett, her expression unreadable, placed her hand in her mother's. The peach silk glove, reaching her elbow, concealed the faint, betraying tremble in her fingers. Wordlessly, she was led from her room, through the grand corridor, down sweeping marble steps, and out into the crisp night air where the family carriage awaited. Polished to a mirror shine, the Ramielle crest gleamed like a golden warning.
Inside the plush, velvet-lined interior, her younger brother, Justin Ramielle, already stewed in his resentment. His sharp eyes and perpetual sneer barely concealed his irritation as Scarlett climbed inside, settling across from him with a straight spine and forward gaze. Outside, Cecilia gave a small, regal wave, her smile as hollow and perfect as a porcelain doll's, before the footman shut the door with a muted, final click. With a light crack of the whip, the carriage rumbled to life, its wheels turning toward another evening of gilded cages and veiled transactions.
The tension between siblings crackled like static electricity. Justin's gaze slid over her, a slow, deliberate, insulting examination from the ribbon in her hair to her shoes. His lips curled into a smirk.
"As lovely as always, Sister," he drawled, thick with mockery. "So much... on display," he added, eyes lingering pointedly on her low neckline.
With a smooth, unhurried motion, Scarlett tugged the fabric upward a fraction, her expression giving nothing away. "Mother did that on purpose," she replied, her voice a cool, level counterpoint to his heat.
Justin scoffed, throwing himself back against the plush velvet seat. "Of course she did. You're to be sold, after all. Best not be too choosy about the advertising." His gaze dropped to her gloved hands. "Always with your signature gloves," he sneered, laced with contempt. "Why do you keep your arms hidden like a shameful secret?"
"It's just part of my style," Scarlett answered smoothly, turning her head to gaze out at the dark, passing trees, refusing to give him satisfaction.
"Huh, is that so?" he murmured, unconvinced. He leaned forward suddenly, his hand darting out, fingers grasping for her wrist. "You should show more skin. Might raise your value."
The touch was a spark on dry tinder. Scarlett jerked her hand back, shoving him away with surprising, sharp force. "Stop it," she commanded, her voice hardening, losing its constructed calm, taking on a dangerous edge. "Why must you always behave like this? Can't I even have one peaceful ride?"
Her resistance, the unexpected force of her shove, ignited the simmering resentment in him. His eyes narrowed, and the sneer on his face curdled into something far uglier, the prelude to a cruelty she knew all too well.