The Girl for Bidding
When I was sixteen, the loud crash of the security door being kicked open was the last memory I had of 'home.'
My mother shoved me into the wardrobe and stood blocking the door herself. As the last muffled groan escaped her, I clutched the half-knitted scarf she had made, my nails digging into the wooden panel.
Later, I became a wandering soul on the streets, stealing rice balls from the convenience store during the day and sleeping under the bridge at night. Fighting was an everyday occurrence—living day by day seemed all I could do—until that rainy night when I turned eighteen.
A group of people surrounded me, brandishing iron rods, saying they wanted to 'repay their father's debt.' I was already braced for the beating when someone suddenly stepped in front of me.
It is Yale Shawn.
He wore a clean white shirt but bore those rusty sticks without flinching. Before he passed out, he grabbed my wrist and said, "Viola Scott, from now on, I will protect you."
That hand was so warm—warm enough to bring me to tears.
I began to learn how to wear skirts without holes, to replace the utility knife with lip balm, to act like a "normal person," and to speak of "love" aloud.
Yale Shawn said he had a twin brother named Calvin Shawn, who lived abroad most of the time; whenever he returned, his gaze toward me was always sharp.
But Yale Shawn said, "You're just overthinking it," and I believed him.
And then there was Vivian Jones, whom Yale Shawn described as a "good friend who had grown up with him since childhood." She would poke my forehead with her red-painted fingernails whenever no one was around.
"Viola Scott, an orphan like you, is not worthy of Yale Shawn."
I didn't argue; at that time, I thought that as long as Yale Shawn loved me, no one's words mattered.
Until the day Vivian Jones invited me to a café, saying she had a gift from Yale Shawn to give me.
When I arrived, she was the only one there, sitting by the window, playing with a silver pen in her hands; the red on her nails looked like freshly congealed blood.
"Viola, come over and sit."
She smiled and waved; the glitter on her eyelashes dazzled my eyes painfully.
Just as I sat down, something struck the back of my neck, my vision went dark, and I lost consciousness.
When I woke again, I found myself lying inside a cold iron cage, my clothes replaced by an almost transparent silk nightgown.
Noisy voices surrounded me, and the spotlight was so bright I could barely open my eyes.
This was the Underground Market — a place I had built with my own hands, which had now become the stage where I was auctioned.
Vivian Jones stood on the auction platform, twirling a leather whip in her hand, followed by two men, walking toward me.
"Everyone, today's auction item is Yale Shawn's girlfriend, Viola Scott."
Her voice came through the microphone, tinged with a harsh laugh: "Starting bid, five hundred thousand?"
Below the platform, some people whistled, others raised bidding cards; their gazes pierced me like needles. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.
Then I saw them—two Yale Shawns.
One wore a black suit and gold-rimmed glasses, affectionately tousling Vivian Jones's hair.
Another man in a white shirt, with the top two buttons undone, stared at me with the disdainful look of someone assessing trash.
"Just a dog we've finished playing with, and he thinks he's worth a million?"
The man in the white shirt, 'Yale Shawn,' spoke; his voice was identical to Yale Shawn's but laced with venom.
I stood inside the iron cage, my body trembling.
It turned out that the story Yale Shawn told about his "younger brother being abroad" was a lie; all along, I had been a fool.
Vivian Jones, whipping her lash, leaned in and tried to hit me inside the iron cage: "Give the bosses a smile!"
Just as the whip was about to strike my cheek, I grabbed its tip with my opposite hand and pulled with all my strength.
Vivian Jones lost her balance and stumbled forward; seizing the opportunity, I pulled the whip inside the cage and fiercely swung it out — the leather whip hissed through the air and struck her face hard.
"Ah!" she screamed, clutching her face as fresh blood seeped through her fingers. "I will kill you!"
I opened the iron cage door — this lock was of my own design, and only I knew how to unlock it from the inside.
Walking onto the auction stage, I snatched the microphone; my voice was as cold as ice: "The final auction begins now. The item for sale: Yale Shawn, Calvin Shawn, starting bid one dollar."
The audience instantly fell silent.
Those who had been eyeing each other fiercely just moments ago now kept their heads lowered; no one dared raise their placards. They all knew who held authority in this underground market.
Yale Shawn, dressed in a black suit, finally spoke, pushing up his glasses: "We deceived you, but since you hurt Vivian, we're even."
"You tied us up here; I will settle this score."
His eyes held no guilt, only the displeasure of being offended.
I wiped the blood from the whip onto my white dress; the metallic scent filled my nostrils, strangely making me somewhat exhilarated.
I lifted Calvin Shawn's chin. "And you? Is there anything else you want to say?"
Suddenly, Calvin bit down on the web between my thumb and forefinger, his teeth sinking deeply until he tasted blood, then released. "Still acting so defiant?"
"Brother, what are you afraid of? You once shielded her from the blows; her life belongs to you!"
He shouted at Yale Shawn, "She dares to auction off the Shawn family members—she wants to die!"
Whispers began among the crowd below, and the bidding paddles in their hands were quietly lowered. No one dared to provoke the Shawn family's power in South City.
Calvin Shawn seized the moment to break free from the bodyguards, drawing a dagger and stabbing it into the wall behind me—the blade's tip was only a centimeter from my back.
He clutched my neck tightly, his fingers pressing hard: "Give Vivian the best medicine! If there are any scars, I'll make sure you can't survive in South City!"
The pain in my neck intensified, yet I suddenly laughed.
The rush of tearing away this disguise was more exhilarating than anything before.
"What are you laughing at?" Calvin Shawn's grip loosened slightly, his eyes filled with confusion.
Just as I was about to suffocate, Yale Shawn pulled him aside: "Enough, get Vivian to the hospital first."
His eyes were filled with disappointment as he looked at me: "Viola Scott, I thought you had changed, but I never expected you'd still be so ill-mannered."
The words "ill-mannered" pierced my heart like a knife.
I remembered my mother lying in a pool of blood and the nights I trembled frozen under the bridge—I had no upbringing. I didn't even have a family.
Yale Shawn's words before he lost consciousness, "I protect you," still echoed in my ears, yet now he stabbed me with the most hurtful words.
Rage flooded my mind, and coughing, I spat a mouthful of blood onto his face: "Sanctimonious."
He wiped his face, then grabbed my wrist with such force it felt as if he would crush my bones: "Come with me to the hospital. Vivian is in bad shape, and don't think you can save face."
In the hospital room, Vivian Jones's face was wrapped in bandages like a mummy, with only her eyes exposed.
She saw me and suddenly raised her hand to slap me.
"You b*tch! What are you pretending to be, some innocent flower?" she screamed. "Yale, Calvin, teach her a lesson for me!"
Calvin kicked the back of my leg. I lost my footing and slammed my knee hard against the tile floor, pain instantly bringing me back to full awareness.
"Apologize to Vivian!" Calvin Shawn's voice was thick with impatience.
I looked up at Yale Shawn; he stood by the window, his back facing me, his profile as cold as ice.
Suddenly, I found it laughable.
For his sake, I suppressed my antisocial nature, learned to be gentle, learned to be forgiving, yet he didn't even say a word in my defense.
Gathering strength in my abdomen, I stood up and struck the back of Calvin Shawn's head with my elbow—he let out a muffled groan and lost consciousness.
I grabbed the dagger from the ground, seized Vivian Jones's hair, and plunged it fiercely into her abdomen.
Blood splattered on the white dress. I gripped the dagger and stepped toward Yale Shawn. "Tell me, whose command is faster—my blade or your orders?"
Yale Shawn turned around, his voice laced with regret. "How did you become like this? I thought you had changed."
I plunged the dagger into his shoulder; blood ran down the blade.
He merely frowned. "If this will calm you, I'll go along with it."
"Vivian was only joking. Perhaps we should reconsider our relationship."
His tone was flat, as though commenting on the weather.
I clenched the dagger tightly, my hand trembling. "Yale Shawn, you're truly disgusting!"
Yale Shawn finally changed his expression: "I saved you! You're an orphaned girl, using my influence to enter high society—shouldn't you be grateful?"
I spun the dagger sharply: "So, I am just your creation, am I not?"
"Yes."He showed no hesitation.
That single word sent chills through my entire body.
I loosened my grip, and Yale Shawn immediately lunged at Vivian Jones: "Vivian, don't be afraid, I'll get the best doctor!"
Seeing his anxious expression, I recalled three years ago—when over a hundred people blocked our way, and I was beaten until I suffered internal bleeding in my abdomen trying to save him.
The doctor said I would never be able to have children again. Yale Shawn held me and wept, "Viola, I will never let you suffer again."
It turns out that a man's words are always lies.
I returned to the Underground Market and gathered all the things related to Yale Shawn on the floor—his necklace, our photos, and the letters he wrote.
The moment the lighter flickered to life, the black smoke choked me into coughing, yet my heart felt somewhat lighter.
A month later, I was taken to a photography studio by men dressed in black.
Vivian Jones sat on the sofa and handed me a knife: "Shoot something intense—you probably don't mind, do you?"
She clapped her hands, and a group of rough-looking men closed in: "She dares to bully you? We'll help you teach her a lesson!"
I looked up to the second floor—Yale Shawn and Calvin Shawn stood there, watching as if it were a performance.
"If you can't learn to behave, then endure more hardship."Yale Shawn's voice came through the speakers, cold and merciless.
"Brother, Vivian's method is better; no need to get your hands dirty."Calvin Shawn's laughter brimmed with schadenfreude.
When those men closed in, I smiled.
I had already been warned; I knew they were setting a trap.
The door was suddenly kicked open, and my confidant rushed in with reporters, camera flashes flashing relentlessly.
Vivian Jones's face turned instantly pale: "You knew all along? You deliberately lured us into a trap?"
"We should thank you for losing your temper."I sneered, "Everything that just happened was streamed live."
"You'd better focus on how to deal with the steep drop in the Shawn family's stock price."
Reporters swarmed forward, surrounding Yale Shawn and Calvin Shawn.
Calvin Shawn tried to pull me away, but the reporters blocked him.
I stood at the doorway, locking eyes with Yale Shawn and revealing a triumphant smile.
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