I had attended many of my father's parties for his clients and I suspected that this one would be no different. My father had insisted that I dress nice, and his definition of nice is expensive, tight-fitting, and low-cut. The type of nice that showed off my gorgeous body so that he could flaunt me in front of licentious men who hoped for the chance to get me alone. Every event that my father required me to attend with him was specifically for his wealthy friends and clients.
Inside this particular club, the scent of cologne mixed with cigar smoke and alcohol reminded me that I was in the dark, dim world of male lust and power.
My father pulled me through a few groups of men who were laughing and chatting.
The man's eyes glanced in my direction, taking in my ample breasts and my fiery red hair, piled in an elegant updo of curls. No one forgets a redhead. Some of them greeted my father before he guided me into a dim hallway and opened the first door that we came to, jerking me inside. It was a small office with papers on the desk, a small filing cabinet, and a dark green sofa against the wall. He closed the door behind us and began pacing.
"What's going on?" l asked him. His nervous energy was making me anxious.
He stopped pacing and faced me. "You're going to meet your husband tonight, Hannah," he said. I opened my mouth to ask another question before I realized what he said. I frowned and scoffed.
"What do you mean my husband?" I asked him. He began pacing again. "You mean you want me to flirt with your disgusting friends until one of them asks me to marry him?"
"Hannah, I'm broke," he said suddenly. "I have no money left."
"What do you mean broke?" I asked, trying to sort through the confusing bits of information he was giving me. "And what does this have to do with me finding a husband?"
He stopped pacing again and approached me, gripping both of my shoulders in his hands. "Listen to me, Hannah, the creditors are threatening to take what little I have left and I still need more money. The men here are wealthy and they want trophy wives."
I shook my head. "You're not making any sense," I said.
He shook me twice in frustration. "You're not stupid, Hannah, this club is for bidding on women. I'm going to sell you as a bride for one of the men here. They will pay handsomely for a sexy, young, virgin wife."
I searched his eyes to try and find the joke he was making, but nothing in his expression pointed to anything funny. He was on edge, afraid. My father was no longer a wealthy businessman; he was a broken shell of a man who was about to sell his daughter as a bride to pay his creditors.
He released my shoulders and moved to the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but my mind was numb; my throat was too dry to make any sound. Behind me, l could hear my father talking to someone, but I had no idea what was being said. My father was about to sell me to any man who would pay handsomely. This had to be a terrible nightmare. With clumsy fingers, I opened my clutch to find my cell phone. I needed to call someone, anyone.
Someone grabbed my arm roughly and I dropped both my clutch and my phone ass I was jerked from the room. The man who had grabbed me was pulling me further up the dim hallway. I watched my father put his hands in his pockets and turn his back on me as he rejoined the other men in the club.
I gazed up at the muscular bouncer who was taking me God knows where. Was this really happening? Did my father just hand me over to be sold as a wife to a stranger?
The bouncer opened a door into a well-lit room full of women. There was a stench of sweat mixed with sewage, like walking into a portable, outdoor toilet on a hot, humid day.
Some of the women were only girls, no more than fifteen or sixteen. Their evening gowns had likely been purchased from a department store sales rack. Most of them had puffy, red eyes from hours or maybe even days of crying.
This was a human trafficking ring, and my father had made the conscious choice to add me to this morally degrading trade. Every man in that club was there to purchase a woman, and they were not likely to make these women their wives.
This was a sex trafficking ring.
I took a step back and then turned toward the door where the bouncer stood. But this guy wasn't just some bouncer at a club; he was an armed guard.
"I need to leave," I said to the guard. "I'm reporting this to the police."
The guard scoffed. "You're not leaving unless I tell you to leave," he said harshly. I glared at him.
"I have to pee," I lied.
He pointed across the room to an open door. "Bathroom's that way." That must have been where the smell was coming from. Did they not clean the bathroom? Did anyone care about these women and their hygiene?
F*ck this. I remembered the many lessons that my brother, Edward, gave me in self-defense, and I allowed my anger to take hold of me. Stepping toward the man as close as l could get before he could react, I drove my knee into his crotch as hard as could.
The woman gasped behind me as he let out a choked grunt.
When he bent forward to cup his balls I slammed the heel of my hand into his nose and felt the bones break on impact. The man screamed and stumbled back into the wall while snatched the door open and made a run for it down the dim hallway. There was a shout behind me but I didn't look back.
A door opened to my right and I tried to swerve to avoid running into whoever was coming out, but that's exactly what he wanted. I ran straight into another guard who grabbed me by the hair.
The pain ripped through my head and I screamed as he pulled me backward by my hair. I clawed at his hand, screaming for him to stop, to let me go, but he continued to pull me by my hair past the room where the other women stood watching from the open door.
My bare feet were flailing as he dragged me along and my screams pierced the hallway.
"Go get Macalester!" A man shouted. I couldn't think through the searing pain of having my hair pulled so carelessly. The pulling stopped long enough for me to see a man lean over a desk and gaze down at me.
"You're going back into that room and you'd better not try to pull that stunt again," he said. "I won't have you giving the others any ideas," the man behind the desk said. He raised up a syringe of clear liquid. "If you don't stay quiet I'll make you quiet," he threatened. "This will knock you out for hours."
I spat at him and the guard pulled my hair. I screamed in pain.
He opened a door and pulled me by my hair into another room, despite my screams and protests. He dropped me onto the floor and slammed the door shut leaving me alone. Tears poured down my face as I sat up and clutched my head in my hands. This was happening. The guards didn't care. My father didn't care. Sons of b*tches.
My father was going to pay for this.
The door opened and I looked up to see my angry father storming into the room. He flung my high heels at me, narrowly missing my face. They had come off at some point during the scuffle.
"Get up, Hannah," he demanded.
"F*ck you," I said to him. He leaned down and slapped me across the face.
I was stunned. He didn't hit me hard enough to knock me backward, but my cheek stung, and my ear was ringing. He had never hit me before.
"Get up, Hannah!" he repeated through gritted teeth. "You're embarrassing me."
"You're embarrassing yourself," I muttered as I slowly climbed to my feet, adjusting my dress to cover my dark green, silk panties. I met my father's angry green gaze, wishing I hadn't inherited his green eyes.
"If you don't pull yourself together and act like you're my daughter, you're going to regret it," he said.
"I already regret it. I regret being your daughter." I spat the words at him.
He waved a dismissive hand at me before turning away. "Your husband can deal with you," my father said as he made his way to the door. "Clean yourself up," he added.
"I won't marry anyone. I'll run away," I said, tears stinging my eyes.
He glanced back at me. "You'll marry whoever buys you, and if you don't, I'll bring Lorianne here with me next week."
Hearing my little sister's name associated with this place was like a blow to the chest.
"No," I said, "you wouldn't dare bring her here."
"I brought you here, didn't I?" he asked me.
"You're a sick man," I said. "Don't you dare bring her to this sh*thole."
"Then get me my money and she will be safe," he said, just like that, as if we weren't his flesh and blood daughters.
"You're going to pay for this," I said to him, wanting nothing more than to kick him in the balls and break his nose as I had done to the guard.
He scoffed. "There's nothing that you can do to me, little girl," he said before he left the room, closing the door behind him.
"B*stard!" I shouted at the closed door.
There was a full-length mirror in the room. I slipped on my high heels and adjusted the front of my dress. My eyeliner was smudged. My hair was ruined. The elegant updo was now a mess of lopsided curls from the hair pulling.
I snatched out the bobby pins that were holding my curls in place and let them fall to my shoulders.
After running my fingers through my curls to tame them I did my best to wipe away the smudged mascara.
If my father wanted money, I would get him his money. Risking him bringing my little sister here to be sold made me sick. I wasn't going to let that happen.
The door opened and a different guard peeked in. "Come on," he said.
I clenched my jaw and followed him from the room.
"You pull that sh*t again in front of the others and I'll break your neck," the guard said before opening the door, where I was met with the sad gazes of the other women.
He pushed me inside and I found a spot by the wall, setting an unreadable expression on my face and holding my chin high.
A door opened to the right of the bathroom, leading onto a stage, and the women flinched back. The nearest woman, who was actually barely a teenager, was pulled through the door onto the stage and the door was shut behind her. The auction had begun.