Chapter 1 #2
The elevator doors slide open. We step inside. There are no buttons. She taps a keycard against a small panel and the doors shut.
My reflection appears in the mirrored wall and I can’t stop staring at it. The girl looks pale. She looks like she’s trying to pretend she’s not terrified.
“Are you—” I start, then stop, because I don’t know what to ask.
The woman watches me like she’s seen this a hundred times.
“This is voluntary,” she says, as if she’s reading my thoughts. “If you’ve changed your mind, you can walk away right now.”
The words hit me hard.
I could walk away.
I could go home, crawl into my bed, and pretend I never searched those sites. I could keep working as an assistant, saving money and praying that something changes.
I could do that.
My dad would die anyway.
The elevator hums as it moves, smooth and silent. My throat burns. I blink hard.
“No,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
Her head tilts slightly, like she’s impressed or maybe just satisfied. “Then remember what you’re here for.”
Twenty thousand dollars.
I nod once.
The elevator opens onto a private corridor with darker carpet and lower lights. There are voices at the end of the hall. Catcalls, cheers. I smell whiskey and cigars. My stomach dips, and I force a breath in, then out.
The woman guides me to a door off a small hallway. A man stands there in a suit, older, gray at the temples, his expression neutral.
He opens it for us.
The room beyond is warm and dim, lit by amber lamps and candlelight that flickers across glass and polished wood.
There’s no one in there, but a few places to sit. It’s some sort of staging room.
My mouth goes completely dry.
The woman’s hand comes to the small of my back—light pressure, a reminder to move. I step forward and hear a burst of raucous calls coming from behind a curtain on the far side of the room.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
The noise behind the curtain swells again—louder, uglier, like whatever’s happening on the other side is a joke everyone has been waiting to hear.
The woman guides me farther into the staging room, and the heavy curtain becomes the only thing between me and the men I’m about to be displayed for. Between me and the clearly full room, even if I can only sense it at this point.
A small podium sits off to the side, and near it, a narrow table with a stack of cards and a sleek black device that looks like a remote control. A man in a suit stands there. Clipboard. Earpiece. Neutral expression like he’s clocking inventory.
He glances at me, then at the woman, then back down at his clipboard.
No one asks my name because it doesn’t matter.
The woman’s hand drops from my back. I miss the pressure immediately, even though I hated it. It was something solid in a room that makes me feel like I’m going to drown.
She looks me over again.
“Stand there,” she says, pointing to a spot near the curtain. “When I tell you to move, you move.”
My throat tightens. “Do I—do I say anything?”
“No,” she answers instantly. “Smile. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”
I nod, because nodding is all I can manage.
I step where she points and clasp my hands in front of me so she won’t see them shaking. My fingers feel too cold. My palms are damp. The silk of the dress slides under my grip like it’s alive, and I hate how little control I have over it. Over any of this.
The curtain ripples slightly as something brushes it from the other side. A shadow shifts across the fabric.
A laugh bursts out beyond it. A deeper voice follows; words lost under the noise.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep my breathing quiet. In through my nose. Out. Slowly.
The staging room is too warm. Or I’m too warm. Heat crawls under my skin while my stomach keeps rolling like there’s a tide in there. I taste acid at the back of my throat.
Twenty thousand dollars.
I say it in my head like a spell.
Twenty thousand.
A shot.
A man steps into the staging room from a side door. Security, maybe. He doesn’t look at me as a person either. He looks at me the way the woman did—as if he’s checking that I’m still here, still compliant, still ready to be delivered, like a piece of live merchandise.
He speaks into the mic clipped to his collar. Murmurs a response. Nods once.
Then he moves away again and stands with his back to the door, arms folded.
My pulse climbs.
There’s no exit.
I know it intellectually, but standing here makes it feel physical. Bolted windows upstairs. Guards at doors. Men in suits who don’t smile.
Discretion is guaranteed.
Security is present.
I repeat it again, trying to make it matter.
I squeeze my eyes shut for one second—one—then open them, because closing them for too long feels like surrender. It feels like letting myself fall apart, and I can’t afford that. Not yet.
I stare at the curtain like I can burn a hole through it with focus alone.
Another burst of sound from the other side, and this time I catch a few words—something about generosity, something about exclusivity—followed by laughter that makes my skin crawl.
My shoulders creep higher toward my ears. I force them down.
The woman moves to stand near me again, not touching now, but close enough that I can smell her perfume—clean, expensive, professional. Like she belongs in a boardroom.
She checks her watch.
“Two minutes,” she says.
Two minutes.
My stomach drops hard.
I can’t do this.
The thought flickers in bright panic, sharp enough to steal my breath.
And then I see my dad’s face again—head tipped back in the recliner, mouth open slightly, the lines around his eyes deeper than they used to be. The way he pretends he isn’t tired. The way he asks if I’ve eaten. The way he tries to joke when he can’t climb the stairs without stopping.
Kidney mass.
The words still don’t sound right in my head. They sound clinical, distant. But it’s our reality. The reality is my father shrinking in front of me while I stand there with empty hands.
Twenty thousand dollars.
I can do anything for twenty thousand dollars.
I can.
I can.
I can.
My nails press into my palms. The pain is small and sharp and grounding.
The woman turns her head, listening to something in her own earpiece. Her expression doesn’t change, but she shifts her weight like the timing is tightening.
A voice rises on the other side of the curtain—smooth, practiced, louder than the rest. The host. The microphone. The room settling into anticipation.
“And now,” he says, voice carrying. “We have something special.”
A ripple of reaction. Low sounds. Someone whistles. Someone laughs.
My mouth goes completely dry.
The woman’s gaze slides to me, assessing. Like she can see the fear trying to climb out of my skin.
“Smile,” she murmurs.
I try.
I think I do.
My lips lift a fraction. It probably looks like a grimace. It probably looks like I’m about to cry. I force my jaw to loosen.
Smile like you want this.
My heart hammers so hard I can feel it behind my eyes.
The host continues, warm and confident.
“Tonight is about discretion,” he says. “Tonight is about privilege.”
More noise. More approval. A chorus of men who think they’re at a party.
For them, this is a party. This isn’t a lifeline.
The curtain shifts again, and this time I can see the outline of a person moving behind it. Someone stepping into position. Someone ready to pull it back.
The woman’s hand comes to the small of my back again. Light pressure. A reminder. Not gentle. Not cruel. Efficient.
“This is you,” she whispers.
My knees feel weak.
I swallow hard. The swallow doesn’t work. My throat stays tight.
The host’s voice lifts a little higher, leaning into performance.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “thank you for your patience.”
The curtain begins to move.
My stomach heaves.
The woman’s hand presses again. “Walk.”
I take a step.
My heel clicks on hardwood and the sound seems too loud, too exposed. Like it announces me.
I take another.
The curtain opens wider.
Noise hits me in a wave—voices, laughter, the low murmur of money and hunger.
I keep my chin up, mouth soft, eyes forward.
I step through.