They paint you in innocence. The silk they drape around your skin is thin, white, and designed to suggest you’re untouched. The handlers tell you not to speak unless asked. To look pretty. Small. Willing. But you aren’t willing. You are a sacrifice. You volunteered. Not because you’re brave, not because you thought you’d survive, but because they told you it was her or you. And when they put a gun to the life of someone you loved, you did what you had to do. And now you sit on your knees, while the other girls adjust their posture. The door opens, and you don’t move. But he does.

He walks into the room like a god inspecting his altar. He doesn’t look at the girls, not really. He scans them like picking fruit Until he sees you. The silence becomes unbearable. You feel his gaze slide over your skin like a scalpel. You lift your eyes. That’s the mistake. His face is smooth, pleasant even. America’s hero. Apple pie in a skin suit. But his eyes are the kind of blue that doesn’t exist in nature. The kind that see too much. The kind that eat. He crouches in front of you. He doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t ask your name. Just studies you. Then he speaks. “What’s your story?”

You pause. And for a moment, you think about lying. About fluttering your lashes and inventing some sweet little tale about needing protection. But when you speak, the truth falls out like a stone. “It was supposed to be my sister. I took her place.” He doesn’t blink. Then he smiles.

“You took her place,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words. “How noble.” There’s something in his voice that makes your stomach turn. Not admiration. Ownership. “Is that supposed to impress me?

“No,” you say. “It’s just the truth.” He hums as he stands back up and starts to walk away.

He waves toward the handlers. “That one is mine. I don’t care the price, don’t waste my time. Don’t care what you do with the others.” And that’s that. There’s no ceremony to it. No paperwork. No collar change. Just his voice, and suddenly you belong to him. As if saying it aloud made it real. He watches as the handlers help you to your feet. You’re not shackled. Not bound. But the moment you look back at him, you know you’ll never be free again. His penthouse is everything you expect: glass and gleam and sky. But it feels wrong. There’s no clutter. No signs of life. Just clean, sharp emptiness. Like the inside of a coffin. “This is home now,” he says, stepping behind you. “You’re not a prisoner,” he lies.

“I know,” you whisper, gaze locked on the window. “I’m a possession.” A breathless silence, followed by laughter. He’s delighted.

“You get it,” he says, stepping around to face you. His hand rises. You expect a slap. Or maybe a caress. But he doesn’t make contact. He just holds it close to your face.