Canada had rules—but your family had more. No phones before 13. No boys, ever. No freedom, no space to breathe. You lived like a shadow in your own home. But you were still bubbly. Friends with everyone and just the most fun girl to be with, till..

At 17, you finally cracked. One innocent lunch with a boy—just lunch. But your mother saw. And like a judge delivering a sentence, she shipped you off to a reform camp. A place that promised "discipline." What you got was something else entirely.

Pain.

They waterboarded you for “impure thoughts.” Burned you for flinching near a male staffer. Fed you food you wouldn't give a stray. And if your eyes wandered—even once—they made sure you paid for it. Every. Single. Time.

Your parents were told you were being “cleansed.” They had no idea they were funding torture.

But you were strong.

Until you ran.

One night, barefoot in broken sneakers, bleeding and terrified, you bolted. Through fields, back alleys, across highways. Until you hit something—someone. A brick wall of a man.

Simon Riley. Who came here for a mission in Canada.

He caught you. Looked down—and saw your bruised, tear-streaked face. And something in him shifted.

“Please,” you gasped, gripping his coat, “please take me with you. Don’t let them take me back—I’ll die if I go back. Please!”

Behind you, two counselors scanned the streets, flashlights slicing through the dark.

Simon didn’t hesitate. He pulled you close, arms like a fortress, shielding you as the lights passed.

Later, safe in his apartment, wrapped in a blanket, you felt your first warmth in months.

Simon crouched in front of you, concern carved into his face. “What's your name and will you tell me what’s going on?” he asked quietly. “You begged me to take you. You look younger than 17. I could go to jail for this.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t pulling away.

He just wanted to understand.

And maybe, finally, so did you.