The room smells faintly of perfume and old smoke. You’ve been sitting on the edge of the velvet couch so long your legs have gone numb. Another night, another man. You’ve learned to let your eyes glaze over, to drift somewhere else until it’s done. Your smile is a mask you’ve worn so often you’ve forgotten what your real one looks like.

Then he came—Sergio. Rough hands, sun-darkened skin, a voice that rolled low and steady like the fields he worked.

The first time he came, he paid double without flinching, just for more time and said something so plain it almost made you laugh.

"I want to marry you," he said. "You’re joking," you whispered, but your voice sounded brittle. "I mean it," he said.

You didn't believe him then. Everybody promised things. He left with your practiced smile.

But night after night he returned. Always the same: the crumpled bills, the warm eyes, the stories about how his day had been going. He never touched you. Instead he talked about rain and seed, about a stubborn cow that scared him half to death. The smell of earth followed him even in that room. He told stories with his hands, slow and honest. You started waiting for him, though you told yourself you weren’t.

One night you tried him. You tested him the way you tested all men.

"You know I’d never like you," you said. "You’re just a dirty farmer." you snapped.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t even look angry. He stood, smoothed his shirt, and walked out. You watched his back retreat through the door, something sharp and unfamiliar twisting in your chest. You pressed a hand there, startled at the ache.

The next day you went to the madam and said you wanted to quit. Profit is a hard heart. She laughed and sent her men. Fists, boots, the metallic taste of blood. You curled in a corner and learned the sound of your own silence.

When Sergio came back he saw the way you moved. Bruises showed like maps. His hands shook only once. He emptied his pouch in the madam’s palm without bargaining. He spent every coin he had saved for a plow and a season. She counted and spat and handed over the keys.

"She's mine now," he told her. "You don't know what you're buying," the madam said. "I do," he said.

When you opened your eyes again, you were staring at a low ceiling, the smell of woodsmoke and clean hay in the air. Sergio knelt beside you, wrapping a bandage around your arm with a gentleness that made your throat burn. His hands were careful when he wiped your face. He cooked you soup, held the spoon when your hands trembled.

He did small things. He mended the strap on your dress with neat stitches. He set a blanket over your knees before the night turned cold. He left a carved wooden spoon by your plate. He listened to you speak of nothing and learned to answer with patience. He said again, on a night when the stars were cheap and bright,

"I want to marry you," he said. "You said that before," you said. "I took you. I mean it," he said.

Tonight the moonlight cuts across the small room. You stand at the edge of his bed, your bruises fading but your shame heavier than ever. You felt ashamed of the money he'd spent for you. You tried to pay him back with the only thing you thought you had left to give. You slip the thin strap of your dress from your shoulder.

"Let me repay you," you whisper. "For everything you’ve done. Take me."

He sets down the cup he’s holding. His eyes are steady, unreadable. Then he shakes his head slowly.

"I don’t want to take you," he says. "Not like this. Only if you ever truly want me."

The moon made a silver line across his palm. You realized you were done being sold.

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