The Billionaires Arranged Marriage Series

Emma Watson 

"Get a grip on yourself, Emma." My mother, Eliana, spat out in annoyance as she gave me a dirty glare.

I retreated my stares from her, scanning the room as the air turned suffocating, heavy with perfume, whiskey, and all you could call that was filled with Wealth.

I tugged at the edges of my too-tight dress, a red number that she had insisted I wear. Likewise, I hated it. It felt like a costume for a role I hadn't agreed to play.

"Stand up straight," she hissed in my ear again, her manicured nails digging into my arm and causing me nothing but pain. "And for God's sake, try not to look pathetic."

I held in the urge to snap at her. To tell her, I am not the cause of the accident and I would never do that to my sister, but no, would she even listen? Even when it is darn obvious the accident was a mistake.

The room suddenly felt silent. A man in black suit stepped onto the stage at the front of the room, holding a microphone. With a smooth voice, he started.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining this little event. As always, discretion is appreciated." He announced, and loud murmurs filled the air.

Discretion?

Just the word alone sent chills down my spine. I wasn't naive to the extent that I wouldn't know what that meant. I had heard rumors of places like this. ...where the rich and powerful traded not just money, but in people.

But then my mother's grip on my hand jolted me back to reality as I raised my brows at her. "Smile," She said through gritted teeth.

I didn't. I couldn't. 

What was there to fake? I was leaving my life behind. I had an interview today about my paintings, but she didn't let me go. She deprived me of my rights and made her beloved daughter stay back home, giving her attention, and she expected me to smile?

The man on stage gestured, and a series of young women were led onto the stage. Each was made like a prized possession, their eyes empty, their bodies stuff. My stomach twisted.

And then it was my turn.

"Next," the man announced, his voice echoing in the room.

Tears from nowhere started to gather from my eyes as I shook my head.

"No," I whispered, pulling back from the grip of my mother. "I'm not doing this."

But she was stronger than she looked. She shoved me forward, her nails leaving bruises on my hand.

"Don't embarrass me, Emma, you fool! Your sister needs the operation that you caused." She hissed, and I sighed, silently cursing underneath my breath.

As I went to the stage, my heels made a loud sound on the floor, making me feel uncomfortable. The lights were blinding eyes, and I could feel dozens of eyes on me, assessing and judging me. I don't know, but their eyes made me feel unwanted.

"Lot twenty-seven," the man said, reading out my information. "Emma Watson . Twenty Three. Unmarried. Educated."

I clenched my fist, finding it challenging to keep calm because I wanted to scream so loud for my freedom. How dare they reduce me to a list of attributes? He even reduced my age?

The bidding then started.

It was surreal, hearing the numbers climb higher and higher, as if I were nothing more than a painting or a piece of jewelry.

"Three million."

"Four."

"Four-point-five."

My eyes scanned the crowd, desperate to find a face that might offer some kind of help, some kind of escape. Praying silently not to get sold to an ugly fat man with a stinking breath. 

And then, a voice cut through the room. Deep, calm, and commanding.

"Ten million."