97 Million Reason (eBook)

Anna Teleki (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
200 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-112275-8 (ISBN)

Infos

Paris is not the City of Love. It is a city of transactions.

​To the world, Alaiah Harid is invisible. To the fanatical 'Order of the Pure,' she is a pristine asset, a rare diamond whose destiny is decided by the raise of a hand. In a secret auction, the price of her innocence climbs until one number defines her existence: 97 million euros.

​Her purchaser is Romain Dior. Charismatic, cold-blooded, and driven by a vendetta that runs deeper than his pockets.

​Romain isn't looking for a bride. He's looking for blood. The money was simply the entrance fee to destroy the Order from within. His strategy is precise: secure the girl, dismantle the cult, and restore her liberty.

He creates a single, unbreakable boundary: He will not touch her.

​But fate creates its own leverage.

After a catastrophic attack wipes Alaiah's memory, Romain is forced into a deception far more dangerous than his undercover persona. He must live alongside the woman who should hate him, guarding her from the shadows while waging war against his own darkening heart.

​How do you whisper 'I love you' when your very existence is built on a lie?

How do you reveal to the woman you adore that you are the monster who bought her?

​A dark, intoxicating romance about forbidden desire and the heavy price of redemption.

Textauszug

Twelve hours before the auction

​“Spread them.”

​The command snaps coldly against the tiled walls, cutting sharper than surgical steel. Alaiah Harid flinches, but her body obeys. The paper sheet on the exam table rustles loudly beneath her naked thighs as she parts her knees.

​She stares at the ceiling. She searches for a tiny crack in the plaster. Anything her gaze can anchor itself to, just so she doesn’t have to look at her mother.

​Leyla stands beside the doctor. Her face is motionless, impassive as marble, watching the procedure with arms crossed. There is no worry in her posture, no maternal pity. Only calculation. She looks like a trainer inspecting a racehorse before a derby, ensuring the investment will yield a return.

​“Relax, Miss,” the doctor says with the boredom of a seasoned professional. “If you fight it, it will hurt.”

​It will hurt. As if that matters.

​Alaiah’s nails dig into her palms. The cold touch of the latex glove against her skin burns like acid. She squeezes her eyes shut. In her mind, she escapes—flying out the window, over the rooftops of Paris. Anywhere where she is not Alaiah Harid, the “Pure One.” Anywhere where her body belongs to her, and is not merely the most valuable asset in an investment portfolio.

​“Cervix closed,” the woman dictates, as if taking inventory. “Mucosa healthy. Hymen intact.”

​Intact. Untouched.

​Alaiah’s stomach turns. She loathes that word. She is sixteen years old, yet they speak of her like a product on a shelf in its original packaging.

​“Done.”

​The glove comes off, the snap echoing in the sterile silence. The doctor tosses the used tool into the bin, then turns to her mother.

​“Mrs. Harid, your daughter is in perfect condition. Flawless. Her cycle is regular; she is currently in her most fertile window. She could conceive as early as today.”

​That specific smile spreads across her mother’s face. That triumphant, satisfied smile that Alaiah hates more than anything in the world.

​“Excellent,” Leyla nods. “That will drive up the bidding.”

​The bidding.

​Alaiah sits up and quickly pulls the silk robe around herself, as if the thin fabric could shield her from the weight of their words. Her heart hammers in her throat. Until now, she had only guessed. She had heard rumors about the dark dealings of the “Order of the Pure,” the secret auctions where the fates of girls like her were decided. But now, it has been spoken aloud.

​“The bidding,” Alaiah echoes hollowly.

​“Get dressed,” her mother throws at her, not even looking in her direction as she adjusts her own headscarf in the mirror. “Your father and Onur are waiting downstairs. Tonight is a big night.”

​“I won’t do it,” Alaiah whispers. Her voice trembles, but the defiance rising within her is searing hot.

​Leyla turns slowly. Her gaze, satisfied only a moment ago, turns to ice.

​“What did you say?”

​“I’m not going.” Alaiah lifts her chin. “I am not an object. You cannot sell me!”

​Her mother steps closer. With two fingers, she ruthlessly grips Alaiah’s chin, forcing her head up to meet her eyes.

​“Listen to me closely, my little daughter,” she hisses. “Do you think you have a choice? Do you think you live in one of your novels where the prince arrives on a white horse? This is reality. And in reality, you are a Harid. Your blood is pure. This is your duty. Your father’s business is failing. Onur’s future is at stake. The family’s future.”

​“And what about my future?” Alaiah forces the question out as tears well up in her eyes.

​“Your future is secured.” Leyla releases her chin as if she had touched something filthy. “A man is buying your hand who will pay more for you than you will ever see in your lifetime. You should be grateful.”

​She starts toward the door but stops at the threshold. She looks back.

​“Now pull yourself together. They are expecting us at the Four Seasons. And Alaiah... Smile. Buyers love happy merchandise.”

​There are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. The wheels of fate are already in motion, though Alaiah doesn’t yet suspect that the world she knew is about to shatter into pieces.

​The morning light cuts sharply into the foyer as Omar Harid enters. The man, in his fifties, looks impeccable: his muscular build is draped in a perfectly tailored, exorbitantly expensive suit; his graying hair is carefully combed. He radiates the confidence of a successful businessman accustomed to the world obeying him. In itself, this wouldn't be a problem. Omar himself isn't the problem. The problem is what his presence signifies: for Alaiah, the time for goodbyes has arrived. The safety of the family home, which had kept her in a bubble until now, is about to dissolve.

​Down in the living room, Omar and his son, Onur, wait in silence. The silence is tense, heavy with unspoken words. The doctor’s footsteps click on the stairs, breaking the anticipation.

​“Everything is in order, Mr. Harid,” she says, handing the medical certificate to Omar.

​The paper—Alaiah’s ticket to the auction. And her luck, too, at least according to the laws of the Order. Because those Pure Ones who fail this exam, who do not meet the requirement of perfection, end up only as concubines, stripped of rights and dignity.

​The ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel is crowded, but not for the Order. They remain hidden. Leyla herds Alaiah into the elevator, gripping her arm tightly as if afraid the girl might bolt at the last second. They glide up to the sixth floor. The gilded doors slide open soundlessly; the plush corridor carpet swallows their footsteps. Her mother knocks firmly on the door of Suite 654. A woman dressed head-to-toe in black opens it.

​“Finally!” she welcomes them with a wide, yet visibly artificial smile. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

​The Order of the Pure... It is not a religion, though it builds upon Islamic traditions, twisting them. It is merely a sect, a closed, elitist community whose sole purpose is preserving the “purity” of wealthy Turkish and Syrian families living in France. Isolation from mixing, the consolidation of fortunes. A strange, distorted ideology that pays for power with human lives.

​Alaiah is immediately processed. Her body is anointed with sweet-smelling, narcotic oils, as if preparing a sacrificial lamb. Her long, thick hair is combed out, then artistically pinned up to leave her neck exposed. Finally, they dress her in a heavy, all-concealing silk gown and headscarf. Now, only her face and snow-white hands are visible beneath the layers. They mask her individuality, leaving only her beauty.

​The woman in black switches on the camera mounted on a tripod.

​“Smile, Alaiah!” she commands the girl, her voice brooking no argument.

​On the laptop connected to the camera at the adjacent table, tiny windows pop up one by one. Faceless names, clusters of pixels from different corners of the world. Now, every pair of eyes is fixed on her. They scrutinize her. They measure her.

​Her father and brother sit before a screen in another room. They see the girl—flesh and blood—as the final minutes of her freedom tick away. Alaiah wants to scream, to knock over the camera, to tear herself out of the dress, but her throat constricts. Fear paralyzes her. She is unable to smile. But from the camera’s blind spot, her mother glares at her severely. Her eyes shoot daggers.

​Smile! she mouths silently, threateningly, shaking her fist.

​Alaiah closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath, tries to swallow her tears, and forces a faint, trembling smile onto her face. In this moment, she breaks. In this moment, she surrenders to the inevitable.

​The woman’s slightly alto voice rings out in perfect, measured Arabic.

​“Gentlemen! You have been seeking a wife for the past weeks. The auction is nearing its end. I present to you this beautiful girl, our seventh and final candidate of the year. Our most valuable piece. Introduce yourself, let them hear your voice!” she turns kindly, yet imperiously, toward Alaiah.

​The girl chokes back her tears, straightening her posture as much as her strength allows. The air feels heavy in her lungs, as if she were breathing lead. She hasn't spoken her mother tongue in a long time, but now, the words must obey.

​“My name is...” she swallows, her sweating palms clasping tightly in her lap. “Alaiah Harid. I am sixteen years old. Pure. And...” her words stall. Her throat is parched. Her mother signals impatiently from the background, urging her on. “I ask Allah that my path...” her voice trembles, nearly cracking, “...that my path leads me to a loving husband...” she finishes in a whisper, staring rigidly into the camera as if begging for mercy through the lens.

​“Gentlemen,” the woman in black takes over, her voice carrying the cold professionalism of a business executive, “The starting price for Pure Alaiah is one million euros.”

​The numbers begin to spin on the laptop display like a mad game of chance.

​Omar and Onur watch the sums in shock. 1,000,000... 2,500,000... 3,200,000... The bid climbs unstoppably, rising by millions every second. On the other monitor, the two men browse the candidates’ data. Banker, CEO, hairdresser......

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 15.12.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-112275-4 / 0001122754
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-112275-8 / 9780001122758