CHAPTER 3
1088 Words
Amanda’s POV
I didn’t pack.
There was nothing to pack. My things were already gone. My room stripped bare like I’d never lived there.
Georgina knocked once, sharp, then walked in without waiting. Her heels clicked against the floor. She threw a plain dress onto the mattress.
“Put this on,” she ordered. “You’re leaving soon.”
I stared at it. A simple black dress, loose enough to hide bruises, neat enough to look presentable. Not mine. Nothing in this house was mine anymore.
My voice was small. “Where are you taking me?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at me. She turned, her perfume trailing behind her as she walked away.
The door shut, and I was alone again.
I touched the fabric. Cold. Smooth. Like the clothes they give to strangers. My throat tightened, but I slipped it over my head. The torn dress from last night lay crumpled in a corner. A piece of me I couldn’t carry.
When Georgina returned, I was ready. My shoes scraped against the floor as I followed her downstairs.
The living room was silent except for the ticking of the clock. My father sat in his chair, the glass of scotch untouched on the table beside him. He didn’t look at me. Not once.
Linda was there too. She leaned against the sofa, arms folded, smug smile never leaving her face. Correy wasn’t with her now, but the memory of him beside her burned in my chest.
A man in a black suit waited by the door. Not the same one from before, but close enough—hard eyes, straight posture, a kind of presence that warned me not to speak.
“This is her?” he asked. His voice was flat, businesslike.
My father nodded. Just nodded. Like it was a deal about land or stocks. Not his daughter.
The man gestured toward the door. “We should go. They’re expecting her.”
I froze. My feet felt glued to the floor. My chest rose and fell too fast.
“Go,” Georgina snapped, shoving me forward.
I stumbled, catching myself against the wall. The man’s hand closed around my arm. Firm. Unshakable. He didn’t hurt me, but he didn’t let go either.
I looked back one last time.
My father’s eyes were fixed on the glass. Linda waved her fingers at me like I was a guest leaving a party. Georgina’s face was stone.
No one stopped me.
The night air hit me like a slap. Cold, sharp, smelling of rain. A black car waited at the curb. The man opened the back door and pushed me inside.
The leather seat was cold. The door slammed, and the lock clicked.
I was trapped.
The car pulled away.
---
The city lights blurred past the window. Streetlamps, shop signs, people walking with umbrellas. Normal life. I wanted to bang on the glass, scream for someone to help me. But who would believe me? Who would listen?
The man sat in the front passenger seat. Another one drove. Both silent. Both strangers.
I pressed my forehead to the glass, breathing shallow. My reflection looked pale, hollow. A ghost.
Sold.
The word circled in my head, heavier each time.
I thought of Correy. Of his arm around Linda. His silence when I begged. My stomach twisted. I had no one.
The car drove farther, away from the city center, into darker streets. Buildings grew taller, windows fewer. The lights thinned.
I wanted to ask questions, but my voice wouldn’t come. My throat felt closed.
Minutes, maybe hours passed. Time blurred. My hands clenched in my lap until the nails dug into my skin.
Finally, the car slowed.
A gate opened. Tall, black, iron. The tires crunched over gravel as we drove inside.
I caught a glimpse of high walls. No neighbors. No escape.
The car stopped in front of a large building. Not a home. Not quite a warehouse. Somewhere in between. Wide doors. Few windows. Cold.
The man opened my door. “Out.”
My legs shook as I stepped onto the gravel.
He led me toward the entrance. The doors opened, heavy and slow.
Inside, the air was warmer, but it didn’t feel safe. It smelled of polish and smoke, like a hotel lobby without the welcome.
A woman waited near a desk. Tall, with hair pulled tight and a clipboard in her hands. She looked me over from head to toe.
“This is the girl?” she asked.
The man nodded. “Amanda.”
She wrote something down. Then she handed me a card with a number printed on it.
“Keep this,” she said. Her voice was smooth, empty. “It’s who you are now.”
I looked at the number. 47. Just black ink on white card.
Not Amanda. Not daughter. Not girlfriend. Just 47.
My fingers trembled as I held it.
“Follow me,” the woman said.
I obeyed. My shoes clicked against the floor. My chest felt heavy with each step.
She led me down a hallway. Doors on either side, closed. I thought I heard voices behind one, muffled cries behind another. I didn’t want to imagine.
We stopped at a small room. Inside was a mirror, a chair, and another woman holding a tray of makeup.
“She needs to be ready,” the clipboard woman said.
The second woman nodded, guiding me into the chair. She didn’t speak. She brushed powder over my skin, covered the dark circles under my eyes, painted my lips a soft color.
I sat stiff, staring at my reflection. I didn’t look like myself. I looked like a stranger. A doll.
When she finished, the clipboard woman checked me again. “She’ll do.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, my voice finally breaking out.
The woman’s eyes met mine. Calm. Detached. “You’ll see.”
She turned, already walking away.
I followed, the card clutched in my hand.
---
The hallway grew louder as we moved. Music, faint but steady. Voices, low and eager.
My chest tightened. My breath caught.
We turned a corner. A set of double doors loomed ahead. Light spilled through the crack at the bottom.
The woman stopped. She looked at me one last time. “Stand straight. Don’t speak unless told. And remember—smile.”
Her words chilled me more than the night air ever could.
She pushed the doors open.
And I stepped into the unknown.
- Writer
