Chapter 1

The acceptance letter from the university felt thin in my hands, but its weight was immense. It was a full scholarship, the first one anyone from my small, forgotten town had gotten in over a decade. For a moment, a real, warm feeling spread through my chest. It felt like hope.

My name is Chloe Davis. For eighteen years, I had kept my head down, studied until my eyes burned, and aimed for this single piece of paper. It was my ticket out.

When I showed it to my father, Robert, his eyes lit up in a way I hadn't seen in years. Not with pride for me, but with a greedy, calculating glint I knew all too well. He was a mechanic whose hands were always stained with grease and whose pockets were always empty from gambling.

"A celebration!" he declared, slapping the kitchen table so hard the salt shaker jumped. "We're going to have a celebration for my brilliant daughter!"

My mother, Susan, just smiled her usual weak, tired smile. "That's nice, dear."

The "celebration" wasn't what I expected. My father rented out the drab town hall and invited men I had never seen before. They weren't family friends or neighbors. They were all older, single men from the surrounding counties, their faces weathered and their eyes too sharp. They smelled of stale beer and cheap cologne.

My father, usually in a dirty jumpsuit, wore a tight, shiny suit he must have rented. He pushed me onto the small, makeshift stage at the front of the hall. The room was decorated with a few sad-looking balloons and a banner that said "CONGRATULATIONS CHLOE" in crooked letters.

"Look at her, gentlemen!" my father announced, his voice booming artificially. "Straight A's, top of her class. And smarts aren't all she's got. A real beauty, isn't she? Takes after her mother."

He turned me around like I was a car he was trying to sell. I felt his rough hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. My body went rigid. I wanted to shrink, to disappear, but I just stood there, my face frozen in a polite smile I had perfected over years of enduring his moods.

The men in the crowd watched me. They weren't clapping. They were assessing me, their eyes crawling over my face, my body, my simple dress. It felt dirty. It felt wrong.

Then, the "gifts" started. It wasn't cards or small presents. One by one, the men came up to the stage. They didn't speak to me. They spoke to my father.

"She's a bright one, Robert," a man with a thick gut and a gold chain said, peeling a hundred-dollar bill from a thick wad. He didn't hand it to me. He stuffed it into my father's shirt pocket.

Another man, older and thinner, with watery eyes, walked up. He looked me up and down slowly, a small, unpleasant smile on his lips.

"Good teeth," he said to my father, as if I were a horse. He handed my father a sealed envelope. It was thick with cash.

My heart started to pound, a slow, heavy drum of dread against my ribs. I felt a wave of nausea. This wasn't a celebration. It was an auction. And I was the prize.

My eyes scanned the room, desperate for a friendly face, for someone who saw this was wrong. But there were no other women. No girls my age. Just these men, my father, and my mother, who stood by the refreshments table, smiling vaguely at anyone who looked her way, completely avoiding my eyes. I was utterly alone in a room full of strangers who were deciding my worth in cash. A cold realization washed over me. My scholarship wasn't a ticket out. To my father, it was just another feature that raised my price.