I can't… or rather I won't.
But I follow her into the hallway where the other seven girls wait in a line like debutantes at some perverse cotillion.
We're all in white.
All variations on the same theme—young, pretty, terrified.
Some of the dresses are more revealing than mine.
Plunging necklines, bare shoulders, slits up the thigh.
Those girls aren't virgins.
Their value is calculated differently.
Number fourteen.
That's what the small tag pinned discreetly to my dress says.
Not my name.
Just a number.
The girl in front of me—number thirteen—is shaking so hard I can see it through her entire body.
She's the one who wouldn't speak this morning.
Still hasn't, as far as I know.
Just stands there trembling like a leaf in a storm.
I want to reach out, to touch her shoulder, to tell her we'll survive this.
But I don't know if we will.
Don't know if survival is even possible when you've been reduced to a catalog listing.
Gold Tier: Virgin, Age 23, No Family Ties, Compliant Temperament.
That last part is a lie.
I'm not compliant.
I ran from the Sanctuary.
I ran from everything I was supposed to be.
I stole money and escaped in the middle of the night and made it all the way to Little Rock before Sarah found me.
But I signed that contract, and now I'm here, and compliance is the only thing keeping me from something worse.
So, I'll comply— for now.
We're led down a long hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men in old-fashioned clothing.
Dead eyes watch our procession.
The frames are gold-leafed, ornate.
