Nods raising the number twice the amount

"400,000," the stranger says, his voice like a whip cracking through the air. The room goes so silent you could hear a pin drop. Your heart races as the numbers climb, each bid a declaration of your worth in cold, hard cash.

Tyson's grip on your thigh tightens, his thumb tracing a pattern that sends a shiver through you. His eyes are narrowed, and you can see the determination in them. He's not going to let you go without a fight. "500,000," he says, his voice a low growl. "I will not lose to that man." His teeth gritted as it's a promise he might can't keep.

The man said. "One million dollars," and the room erupts into a frenzy of whispers and gasps. Tyson's hand stills on your thigh, and you can feel the tension in his body. The number is so ludicrous, so obscene, that it feels like a slap in the face. You're not a person anymore; you're a commodity with a seven-figure price tag. You know that no one, not a celebrity like Emma Watson, Scarlett Johansson, or a pornstar like Riley Reid, Violet Myers, or anyone else, could live up to one million dollars in the bedroom.

Tyson doesn't flinch, his hand moving up to cup your cheek. "Don't worry, baby," he whispers in your ear. "You're worth every penny. Do not tell this man anything. You understand me." The last word is a command.

You nod, your eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. The auctioneer's gavel slams down. "Sold to Mr. Garrett for one million dollars!" Everyone in the room is stunned, and all eyes are on you. You feel like a million-dollar bill in a world of counterfeits. You stand there, trying to process what just happened. You've been bought and paid for, like a rare piece of art or a luxury car.

These two powerful men had a dick measuring contest in front of everyone. And Tyson seems to lose this round.

Mr. Garrett steps forward, a smug smile playing on his lips as he hands over a small black card to the auctioneer. "Pleasure doing business with you, Tyson," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll be taking my prize now." The older, forty-year-old man offers his hand to you.

Tyson reluctantly releases his grip on your waist, his jaw clenched. You take Mr. Garrett's hand, feeling the cool metal of his expensive watch against your skin. He leads you away from the crowd, and you can feel the weight of his gaze on you, assessing his new acquisition.

The rest of the evening is a blur. You're ushered into a private suite, the door closing with a finality that makes your heart race. Mr. Garrett pours you a drink, his movements precise and controlled. You take it, your hand shaking slightly. The **** burns your throat as you swallow, but it does little to ease your nerves.

"So your Tyson new girlfriend. You ever wonder what happened to his last." He sits in a chair facing the bed. His words cut through the air like a knife, and you can't help but feel a twinge of fear. You've heard rumors about what happens to the women who don't satisfy Tyson, but you've never dared to voice them.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to play it cool. "What happened to her?"

Garrett eyes you intently, his gaze lingering on your trembling hand. "Let's just say she didn't meet his expectations," he says with a chuckle, his tone sending a shiver down your spine. He stands and approaches you, his movements predatory. You **** yourself to remain still, trying to ignore the way your heart hammers in your chest.