Sold To Be The Alpha's Caged Slave

Piper’s POV I’VE ALWAYS imagined betrayal as something you feel before you see it. A whisper in your gut. A strange chill down your spine. But when it came for me, it didn’t warn me at all. It sucker-punched me the moment I opened the door to my boyfriend’s apartment. The air smelled like sweat, perfume, and something raw—something that shouldn’t have been here. My heart did a strange skip, then stuttered in my chest. I knew that perfume. I knew that voice. “Brandon—” Allison’s voice was breathy, laced with something close to panic. “What if Piper comes back early? She’s supposed to be at the library—” “She’s too boring to skip studying,” Brandon cut in with a low, amused growl. “All she ever does is read and talk about her stupid scholarship. She’s not even half as fun as you.” A sharp gasp from her, followed by a soft, needy moan. The bed creaked in a steady rhythm. “You are way better at f*****g than that nerd,” Brandon said, followed by a laugh. “God, harder—” The sound ripped through me like glass, each syllable splintering under my skin. I stepped inside before my brain could tell me to turn away. My hands were numb, my legs moving on autopilot. The bedroom door was wide open, as if they wanted me to see. And there they were. Brandon. My boyfriend of two years. And Allison. My best friend since we were twelve. Her nails were digging into his shoulders, her head thrown back, moaning like she’d never even heard of shame. His hands were on her hips, pulling her down on him with a ferocity he’d never used on me. I froze. I couldn’t even breathe. My ears rang, my vision tunneled until the world was just them. Brandon’s eyes flicked to me first. No guilt. No panic. Just… irritation. “Piper,” he said flatly, like I’d interrupted something as casual as a phone call. Allison smirked over his shoulder, her skin flushed, her lips slick. “Oops,” she said, with absolutely zero apology. Something inside me snapped. “You—” My voice broke, then came back sharper, harder. “You absolute pieces of shit.” Brandon had the audacity to roll his eyes. “You’ve been so distant lately. What did you expect?” My laugh was sharp, manic. “Distant? I’ve been busting my ass in class, working double shifts—so I could save for our future. And you—” I pointed at Allison, my hand trembling with rage. “You were supposed to have my back. You were supposed to be my sister.” She tilted her head, looking almost bored. “You’re so dramatic, Pipes. You’ve always been… intense. It’s exhausting.” The words burned worse than the sight of them together. Intense. That was Allison-speak for too much. I’d been hearing it my whole life. I didn’t cry. Not then. Not when Brandon shrugged and went right back to touching her. Not when I turned and walked out, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled. I saved my tears for later. By the next morning, the fallout had begun. Photos of me—private ones—were suddenly circulating in group chats. My professors received an anonymous “concerned citizen” email accusing me of cheating. My scholarship committee sent me a cold, official notice: “Your academic conduct is under review. You are hereby suspended from all extracurricular activities pending the investigation.” Allison was quick to post a vague, manipulative caption on i********:: "Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are. Protect your peace." Everyone knew who she meant. And Brandon, of course, liked the post. BY THE end of the week, I was radioactive. Friends I thought I could count on stopped replying to my texts. The stares in class weren’t sympathetic—they were hungry, curious, cruel. When my aunt called from three states away, her voice soft with concern, I almost broke. “Come home, sweetheart,” she said. “You don’t have to do this alone.” But shame was a heavy thing. And pride… pride was heavier. I wasn’t going to crawl home, not like this. “I’ll figure it out,” I told her, forcing a laugh. “It’s just… a bad patch. I’ll land on my feet.” I hung up before she could hear my voice shake. That night, I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop. My bank account was a joke. My rent was due in two weeks. The campus jobs board was empty except for low-paying shifts that wouldn’t even cover groceries. I was seconds away from closing the screen when I saw it. PRIVATE TUTOR NEEDED Exceptional pay. Flexible hours. Must be adaptable, discreet, and willing to travel. Email: stclair.associates@privateclient.com The pay listed was absurd. Like… “too good to be real” absurd. It didn’t say what subject. It didn’t list qualifications. Just “must be adaptable.” Every instinct screamed sketchy. Every instinct also knew my fridge had one jar of peanut butter left and nothing else. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the trackpad. What was the worst that could happen? I get scammed? My life was already a dumpster fire—what was one more spark? I clicked “Reply.” I didn’t expect an answer within minutes. Ms. Black, We appreciate your interest. Our client has very specific needs. Your profile suggests you might be suitable. An in-person meeting will be required. Transportation will be provided. If you accept, be ready at 10 p.m. tomorrow. — St. Clair Associates No name. No address. Just “transportation will be provided.” Every red flag in the world was waving at me. But my hand still typed: I accept. The next twenty-four hours were a blur of second-guessing and grim determination. I didn’t tell anyone. Not my aunt. Not the one remaining classmate who still occasionally sat next to me. At exactly 10 p.m., a sleek black car pulled up outside my building. The driver didn’t speak. Just opened the door, gestured for me to get in. The city blurred past in the dark, neon lights flashing over the tinted windows. I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t know who “the client” was. But as the car descended into a gated underground lot and an elevator took us even deeper, I had a sinking feeling that whatever I’d signed up for wasn’t tutoring. We stopped in a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The driver opened a door and gestured again. I stepped inside—and froze. It wasn’t a meeting room. It was a dressing room. A silver collar lay on the vanity. Beside it, a set of delicate but unbreakable restraints. A woman in a sleek black dress entered behind me. Her eyes raked over me like I was being assessed for something I couldn’t name. “You’ll do,” she said finally. “Our client prefers his acquisitions… spirited.” Acquisitions. The word made my skin crawl. Before I could ask what the hell she meant, two men stepped in. They moved fast—too fast for me to react. A sharp prick at my neck, a rush of heat through my veins. My knees buckled. My vision swam. The last thing I saw before darkness took me was the glint of that silver collar, waiting.