Chapter One: JUNE

"Our best product is finally on display here.” The voice crackled over a microphone, hollow and smug, as if relishing the depravity of the moment. Hands gripped my arms—cold, unyielding hands—and dragged me forward.

My shaky and bound legs faltered with each step, but they didn’t care. They released me with a harsh shove, and I stumbled, barely catching myself before falling.

The voice grew louder and closer, oozing mockery and self-satisfaction.

“Please meet Miss June,” the man announced, his words theatrical, like I was some rare artifact. My stomach churned as he described me in clinical, dehumanizing detail. “June Luper—5’8”, slender, with curves to die for. Our tests confirm she’s clean; it looks like she hasn’t been touched in a long time. Gentlemen, you’ll have a very good time indeed.”

Tests? What tests? A chill ran down my spine. My memories were a haze—a jumble of fragments I couldn’t piece together. When had they touched me? My skin crawled at the thought, and panic bubbled under the surface, threatening to consume me.

The man yanked me back to the present with a sharp tug, and I was pushed to the ground like an object—an offering. My knees hit hard, pain shooting up my legs.

The impact jolted something loose in me, something raw and angry, but I bit down on the cry rising in my throat. The crowd erupted in cheers, a sickening symphony of voices revealing my humiliation.

The air was cold against my skin, cruel and biting. My dress—if you could even call it that—barely covered me, the fabric cheap and short, designed to expose rather than protect.

The cold traced my legs—a harsh reminder of my vulnerability. I clenched my fists, the rope around my wrists digging into my skin.

I was blindfolded, but I could feel their eyes on me—hungry, predatory, stripping away what little dignity I had left. The man’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding.

“Are you all ready to contribute some money?” He asked, his tone laced with sinister amusement. “Let’s start the bidding!”

The blindfold was ripped away, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of light. Slowly, cautiously, I opened them. The room was dim, save for the harsh spotlight pinning me in place.

Men in tailored suits and masks filled the room, their faces obscured, but their intentions laid bare.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” someone called out.

“Fifty-five thousand,” another countered.

The numbers climbed higher, each bid tightening the knot of dread in my chest. My breath came shallow, my mind racing. Was this my life now—a thing to be bought and sold?

And then, cutting through the chaos, a voice rang out:

“One billion dollars.”

The room fell silent.

My head snapped toward the direction of the voice, but the spotlight made it impossible to see anything beyond the silhouettes. There was something hauntingly familiar about the voice, but I couldn’t place it.

My heart betrayed me with a flicker of hope, but I crushed it just as quickly. Hope was dangerous in a place like this.

The auctioneer recovered quickly, his voice booming with excitement. “Sold! To the gentleman in the black tuxedo for one billion dollars.”

Two men appeared out of nowhere, their hands rough and unyielding as they hauled me off the stage. I barely registered the transition from the garish spotlight to the dimly lit room they threw me into.

The soft flicker of candles should have been calming, but it only highlighted the harshness of my reality.

They tossed me onto a bed like luggage, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. The metallic taste of blood grounded me, a bitter reminder to stay silent.

“Bitch, you got lucky,” one of them sneered, his words like acid.

The other chuckled, giving his companion a playful shove. “Mind your manners. But damn, look at her. This is a jackpot.”

I glared at them, defiance burning in my chest, but my voice failed me. I tried to speak—to scream—but only a rasp emerged. My throat felt raw, as if something had been taken from me, stolen along with my freedom.

They left, their laughter fading down the hall, and I was alone. The ropes around my wrists and ankles were tight, chafing against my skin with every movement. My head spun from whatever they had injected into me, but I forced myself to focus.

The room was simple—too simple. A bed, a nightstand, and across the room, a bathroom door slightly ajar. No weapons. No escape. But that door was a sliver of hope.

I slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a dull thud. Pain radiated through my knees, but I pushed it aside, biting down on the cry that threatened to escape.

Inch by inch, I crawled toward the bathroom, the cold tile beneath me a stark contrast to the heat of my desperation.

The bathtub was half-filled with water. I didn’t hesitate. Climbing in was awkward, the ropes restricting my movements, but the shock of the cold water jolted me back to life.

My limbs felt lighter, my mind clearer. For the first time since this nightmare began, I felt a spark of control returning. My breathing slowed, and I let myself sink into the water, my thoughts racing with plans.

A faint voice called my name, soft and distant, like a thread connecting me to the world beyond this nightmare. I turned toward it, my heart stuttering with recognition.

And then the darkness came for me again. Before I can even see who was calling my name.