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PROLOGUE
“Here we are, Princess.”
Angela cringed, hunching her shoulders. She hated the nickname her jailer had given to her. The Foreman introduced her as Princess to his clients, and most used it when they were abusing her.
The masked man in front of her reached across her lap, causing her to flinch. He clucked his tongue chidingly. “Now, Princess, when have I ever hurt you?”
Technically, the answer was never. He hadn’t once touched her. Not to hit her and not to rape her. But he arranged for others to do it. Almost on a weekly basis for the last two years. She stayed silent, her default coping mechanism of late. Typically, she was vocal and defiant. But her time with the Foreman and his clients was crushing her strong, stubborn spirit.
The Foreman proceeded to open the car door on her side. “Time to say goodbye,” he said, gesturing outside.
Angela took a moment to steady herself. Just one moment to remind herself who she was—a person and not a commodity. It was necessary if she was going to make it through the next client mentally intact. When she could breathe without her lungs feeling heavy, she risked a look through the open door. What she saw floored her.
She whipped her head to her captor. “I don’t understand.”
He shrugged broad shoulders that showed he worked out. His eyes, today an ice blue thanks to his colored contacts, met hers levelly. “Your contract has been fulfilled. You’re free to go.”
Angela couldn’t process what she was hearing. “You’re letting me go?” She stared at him in disbelief.
The Foreman sat back, entwining his hands in his lap, and regarded her seriously. “I’m a businessman, Princess. My word is my bond. The terms of your contract are now completed.”
“I don’t believe you.” Her words came out in a whisper. It was too good to be true, too easy. And when things were too easy, they were rarely real. Clients in the past had gotten off on pretending to help her. She was now wary of all good things.
“Ouch. That hurts, Princess.” He dramatically clutched his chest. “I’ve never lied to you, and I’m not about to start now. I pride myself on my honor and ethics.”
Angela stared at the mysterious man for a few more seconds, scoffing internally at his description of himself. Her gaze strayed to a shadowed area high on the left side of his face. It was about the size of a one-cent coin and irregular in shape. It was hard to make out because he clearly made an effort to cover it with make-up or masks. But after trying to discover who he was for two long years, it was the one identifying mark to stay consistent. She was betting on it being a pigmented birthmark.
Her heart clenched as she looked outside once more. Was it possible? Was she truly free? “How do I know you won’t shoot me in the back the moment I get out?” she demanded, raising her chin.
The Foreman’s eyebrows rose. “Now, why would I want to go and do that? There’s no sport in shooting someone in the back. And certainly not in ending a life such as yours. I always find it so fascinating, watching what your kind does in the first few weeks of freedom.”
“My kind?” Angela asked, feeling sick now.
“Broken. Fragmented. Ruined,” he supplied. “The vast majority kill themselves, just so you know. The others take up drugs or alcohol—or both. It’s rarely a happy ending, I’m afraid. But that’s none of my business. My business, as I’ve already told you, has now concluded. Get out, Princess.”
Angela finally forced herself to move, exiting the limousine carefully. She was still recovering from her last spin at the roulette table—a sadistic game one of her regular clients subjected her to. As her tormentor reached for the door, she couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know I won’t go straight to the police?”
He chuckled. “You can try. Many have. But it won’t do you any good. I’m a ghost, Princess. I don’t exist. Farewell. It’s been a pleasure.” Then he shut the door, leaving her standing on the footpath.
She barely heard the limo leave. She stood staring at her childhood home, shivering from the implications of the last few minutes. She was out. But was she saved? Somehow, she didn’t think so.
The house looked the same, yet different. The same roses lined the long driveway, the fountain of swans in the center of the lawn sprayed water in a graceful arch, and the same white lace curtains hung in the windows. But it was different because everything was different to her now, including herself. She no longer felt like Angela Hawthorne, the sixteen-year-old whose biggest concern was what to wear to the mall or how much to charge to her father’s credit card. She felt like how the Foreman described: broken, fragmented, and ruined. Still, there was a part of her that wanted to run inside and wrap her arms around her parents, begging them to never let her go. But another part of her wanted to walk to the closest bridge and throw herself off.
Both scenarios pissed her off. Her parents, the people who had brought her into this world, had sold her to pay off their own debts. They had betrayed her in the worst possible way. The pain was far worse than anything she had ever known, even after two years of torture. It was all the more horrific because until the moment a masked man and two of his goons had dragged her kicking and screaming from her childhood bed, she hadn’t been aware that her parents were monsters.
Had they always been distant and somewhat cold? Sure. They were from money and very entitled. A child, even one that was planned, was still an inconvenience at times. But they had also given her everything she had ever wanted. She’d had a beautiful bedroom and pretty clothes and was taken on plenty of exotic vacations. They had been good to her. Of course, those things were only possible when money was in the bank. And when that disappeared, the selfish nature of her parents came to the forefront and exposed the monsters beneath their high-society masks.
The reminder was like being doused with cold water, and she looked longingly in the direction of the river that was only twenty minutes away. The bridge, with its two-hundred-foot drop, would be a quick and permanent solution to the pain and horror currently locked brutally within her young body. And it was the allure of that peace that annoyed her. Once, she had been strong. Once, she’d had dreams and goals. She wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to help people—to heal them. But now? She felt nothing. Nothing but pain, and fear, and hate. It was a horrible way to live.
For the millionth time since she was sold, she wished her grandmother was still alive. Grom would never have let her be sold like cattle. It was thoughts of her strong, cranky, fun grandmother that had her turning away from the direction of the bridge and walking the path to the front door of the brick home. At the door, she hesitated, wondering if she was walking out of one nightmare and into another. But in the end, she pressed the doorbell, hoping against hope that everything would be okay.
* * *
Everything was not okay.
The reunion with her parents hadn’t gone at all as she’d hoped. There were no tears and no apologies. They hadn’t dropped to their knees and begged for forgiveness. Instead, they greeted her as though she had been away at school. Or worse, on vacation. Her screams and accusations fell on deaf ears and deliberately blank faces. Her attempts to go to the police had failed, likely thanks to her parents’ connections. Plus, there was the intricate and believable paper trail the Foreman had established to cover her disappearance. She even had her GED to prove she was at school and had completed her high school education.
So now, here she was, barely a week into her ‘freedom,’ riding on adrenaline and rage. It was a potent combination to a scarred, broken girl, who managed to track down the address of one of her abusers. Her thoughts spiraled as she took in the house made of glass and stone from where she stood within the tree line. She had two months left until she would receive the money her grandmother had left her. Angela’s parents had tried for years to get the funds for themselves. But Grom had been smart and used a top attorney to ensure her last will and testament were ironclad. Angela, and only Angela, could draw upon the five hundred thousand dollars on her eighteenth birthday.
