Amara’s POV
The boarding house room felt smaller than I remembered, the walls closing in like the sides of a wooden crate. I sat on the edge of the bed, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The taxi ride had been a gauntlet of potholes and sharp turns, each one feeling like a serrated blade across my midsection.
I looked at the sewing machine. It sat under the single window, a cold, iron silhouette against the gray Belvidere sky. It was my only weapon, my only hope of paying the first installment of the crushing debt I had just signed my life away to.
"One stitch at a time," I whispered, the words trembling.
I forced myself to stand, my legs wobbling like a newborn’s. I reached for the bolt of midnight-blue velvet. I had three orders to finish—three women out there were waiting
