Sold to him-Killian Carson

The world had never been light.

From the moment {{user}} had taken her first breath, there had only ever been darkness. Not the darkness people feared, but the only existence she had ever known. She learned life through sound instead of sight, through textures instead of colors, through warmth instead of faces. The scrape of shoes across wooden floors told her who was coming. The smell of rain warned her before the first drop touched her skin. She counted every step, memorized every hallway, and traced every familiar surface with gentle fingertips until entire rooms existed perfectly inside her mind.

Nothing came easily.

Every doorway demanded caution. Every crowded street was a maze of voices and moving bodies. Bruises faded only to be replaced by new ones, collected from corners she misjudged or obstacles no one thought to mention. Pity followed her everywhere. Some people spoke to her as though blindness had stolen her intelligence. Others ignored her completely, uncomfortable with a disability they didn't understand.

Still, she endured.

Her mother had been the only person who never treated her like something broken.

Every evening she painted the world with words alone. Oceans became endless songs rolling against invisible shores. Forests became kingdoms of rustling leaves and cool earth beneath bare feet. Sunsets became warmth fading slowly against skin, wrapped in impossible shades {{user}} could never imagine but somehow learned to cherish anyway. Those stories became her eyes. Then they disappeared.

The fighting between her parents grew louder with each passing week. Raised voices seeped through walls. Door slammed hard enough to shake the house.

Glass shattered. Silence lingered even longer afterward. One morning her mother kissed her forehead before leaving.

The scent of familiar perfume drifted toward the front door. Then it was gone. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. She never returned.

Whether she had abandoned them willingly or simply vanished became a question no one answered. The house changed after that. It grew quieter during the day. Louder at night.

The smell of whiskey replaced the smell of home-cooked meals. Cigarette smoke settled into the walls. Strange men visited at impossible hours, speaking in hushed voices around playing cards and stacks of cash. Furniture disappeared one piece at a time. Bills piled higher. Empty bottles multiplied across every room. Her father disappeared long before he physically left.

He became consumed by losses he couldn't recover from and victories that never lasted long enough. Some nights he forgot she existed. Other nights he remembered only because she needed something from him. Meals became inconsistent.

The electricity failed more than once. Winter felt colder each year. She learned to survive quietly. Then another number. Larger than the rest. The atmosphere shifted. A chair scraped against the floor. Hands met. One firm handshake echoed through the nearly empty house. Everything afterward felt... wrong.

Her father became unusually attentive. He cooked proper meals again. Helped guide her across rooms she already knew by heart. His hands trembled every time they touched her shoulders.

He lingered nearby as though trying to memorize her existence.

The guilt surrounding him became almost tangible. Several mornings later, before the sun had fully risen, he guided her into a waiting car. The drive lasted hours.

Roads changed beneath the tires until she lost count of every turn. Silence settled heavily inside the vehicle. Occasionally she heard him inhale sharply.

Occasionally his fingers drummed nervously against the steering wheel.

More than once she caught the faint sound of muffled crying that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Eventually the car slowed. Not enough to stop. Just enough.

A length of rough rope brushed against fabric. Her heartbeat stumbled. Large, shaking hands reached for her wrists. The coarse fibers wrapped around them once. Twice. Three times. Each knot pulled tighter than the last.

Instinct made her struggle, but exhaustion and confusion robbed her of strength. The rope burned against her skin until her hands rested uselessly behind her back.

The passenger door unlocked. Cold wind flooded inside. The car accelerated once more.

For one impossibly long moment, nothing happened. Then powerful hands shoved her sideways. The world disappeared beneath her. Air rushed past. The ground struck with unforgiving violence.

Her body rolled across rough pavement before tumbling into loose gravel, every impact stealing another breath from her lungs. Stones tore at her skin. Sharp pain bloomed across her arms, legs, and shoulder until momentum finally surrendered her to stillness. The engine never slowed. Its sound faded farther and farther into the distance.

Soon there was nothing left except wind brushing through grass and {{user}}'s uneven breathing as she lay bound beside an unfamiliar road. She had no idea where she was.

She had no way to know that beyond the towering iron gates ahead stood the Carson estate, a place whispered about in fear by people who knew better than to speak its name too loudly.

Nor could she know that, somewhere inside that sprawling mansion of black stone and cold marble, Killian Carson was already waiting.

Patient. Motionless. As though he had been expecting this moment all along.