Slave or millionaire, chapter 1

[Some_guy]

Chapter 1 – The Couch Date

Emily Carter sank deeper into the worn gray couch, bare feet tucked under her thighs, wine glass cradled against her chest like a shield. The living room was dim except for the blue-white glow of the sixty-five-inch television dominating the opposite wall. Ryan sprawled beside her, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, fingers brushing the nape of her neck in that absent, possessive way he had when he knew she was already half-distracted.

On screen, the logo for Slave or Millionaire pulsed in metallic crimson letters before dissolving into the sweeping drone shot of the Big D Auction Arena. Twenty young women stood in a perfect crescent on the polished black stage, spotlights carving sharp shadows under their collarbones. Each wore the same charcoal-gray sheath dress—sleeveless, knee-length, clinging just enough to hint at what waited underneath. No jewelry. No shoes. Bare feet on cold composite flooring. The camera loved that detail.

“Twenty perfectly ordinary girls,” the host’s voice rolled out, warm and practiced, “each one convinced she can walk off this stage five million dollars richer. Or…” He paused for the inevitable chuckle from the studio audience. “…she can leave in steel and a new owner’s name tattooed somewhere discreet.”

Emily snorted softly. “Discreet my ass. They brand them right above the cleft now. Everyone knows.”
Ryan’s fingers tightened fractionally on her neck. “You’ve been reading the forums again.”

“I skimmed the Big D handbook last week. For… research.” She took a swallow of pinot. It tasted sour and thin. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
He grinned without looking away from the screen. “I’m thinking you’re cute when you pretend you’re above this.”

The first girl stepped forward when her number flashed—Contestant 17, a lanky brunette with a dancer’s posture. Twenty-six years old. Five-foot-nine. Thirty-four C. Student debt: one hundred eighteen thousand. Reason for entering: “I want to be debt-free before I’m thirty, and I’m not afraid of a little risk.”

The host smiled like a kindly uncle. “A little risk. I like the optimism. Let’s see what the market thinks of that optimism.”
Numbers began scrolling up the side of the screen in real time. Online bids only for Round 1—no private rooms yet. The ticker climbed steadily: $18,000… $24,000… $37,000…

Emily shifted. The dress on the girl was riding up slightly as she turned for the crowd. No one corrected it. That was the point.
“God,” Emily muttered. “She’s shaking.”
Ryan’s thumb traced a slow circle behind her ear. “Would you shake?”
“I wouldn’t be standing there in the first place.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t uh-huh me.” She elbowed him lightly. “I’m serious. That’s insane. Five million is life-changing, sure, but the downside—”
“Is permanent,” he finished for her. “Yeah. I know the rules.”

On screen, Contestant 17’s bid froze at $41,200. Respectable for the opening round. The host gave her a nod of approval and moved on.
Emily exhaled through her nose. “Okay. She’s safe. For now.”

Ryan tilted his head toward her. “You’re keeping score already?”
“I’m… observing. There’s a difference.”
“Sure there is.”

The next ten minutes passed in a blur of nervous laughter, rehearsed backstories, and steadily climbing numbers. A curvy redhead with $92,000 in medical bills hit $78,000 and visibly sagged with relief. A petite Asian girl who said she needed the money for her mother’s cancer treatments stalled at $19,900 and had to be prompted twice to keep smiling.

Then came Contestant 12.
Blonde. Twenty-four. Five-foot-six. Thirty-two D. Reason for entering: “I’ve always wondered what I’d actually be worth.”
The studio audience made an appreciative sound—half gasp, half hungry murmur.

Emily felt heat crawl up the back of her neck. She pressed her thighs together without meaning to.
Ryan noticed. Of course he did.
“She’s ballsy,” he said mildly.
“She’s an idiot.”
“She’s honest.”

The bids started slow—$15,000—then jumped. $29,000. $45,000. $68,000. The ticker kept accelerating. Contestant 12 turned slowly, hands clasped behind her back the way the pre-show instructions had demanded, chin up, eyes locked on the main camera like she was daring every bidder in the country to look away.

Emily’s pulse was loud in her ears.
When the round-one cutoff buzzer sounded, Contestant 12 was sitting at $94,700—third overall. Safe.
The bottom five were not.
The host’s voice turned brisk and professional, the same tone used for livestock reports. “Contestants 4, 8, 11, 16, and 19—please step forward.”

Five girls moved like they were walking through water. One was crying already, mascara streaking. Another kept repeating “It’s okay, it’s okay” under her breath like a prayer.
Steel collars—simple, matte-black, three centimeters wide—were brought out on velvet trays. The handlers were efficient, almost gentle. Click. Click. Click. Each collar locked with a small, final sound that the arena microphones captured perfectly.
Emily’s stomach flipped.

“They don’t even get to say goodbye,” she whispered.
“They signed the waiver,” Ryan said quietly. “Six weeks ago. They knew.”
“I know they knew. I still—” She stopped. There was nothing useful to say after that.

The newly collared girls were led stage-left through a wide black door that slid shut behind them with a pneumatic hiss. The camera didn’t follow. It never did in Round 1. The audience would see processing footage later—after the bids were finalized, after the ownership papers were digitally signed. For now the show moved on.

A commercial break cut in.
Bright, upbeat music. A smiling woman in a crisp white lab coat stood beside a naked girl on an examination table. The girl’s arms were raised in the standard inspection pose, legs apart, eyes down. A digital overlay appeared beside her: GRADE: 87.4 – Prime

“Uncertain about your new acquisition?” the voice-over chirped. “Big D Certified Grading gives you peace of mind. Full physical, endurance testing, sexual responsiveness index, and our exclusive defect report. Know exactly what you’re buying—or selling. Book your appointment today at BigDGrading.com. First-time owners get 20% off full certification!”
Emily stared at the screen until the ad ended.

Ryan’s hand had slid from her neck to her shoulder, thumb brushing the strap of her tank top. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“You’re breathing funny.”
“I’m… processing.”
He laughed under his breath. “Good word choice.”

The show returned. The host stood center stage again, smiling like nothing had happened.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Round 2. Fifteen contestants remain. And now… we start removing the packaging.”
Emily reached for the wine bottle on the coffee table and refilled her glass without asking if Ryan wanted any.

She took a long drink.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t trust herself to speak.