“Where—” My voice catches. I clear my throat and try again. “Where exactly am I going?”
She gives me a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’ll be introduced in the lounge. You’ll stand where I tell you. You’ll answer only if spoken to. You’ll keep your face composed.”
My stomach drops. “And if I can’t?”
Her gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “You will.”
I swallow. “How many people are there?”
“Enough.”
She steps aside and gestures down the hall. I move past her, my heels clicking too loudly in the quiet.
The woman leads me toward an elevator. There’s a security guard posted beside it, earpiece in, hands clasped in front of him. He looks at the woman, then at me, and then looks away like I’m not a person.
The elevator doors slide open. We step inside. There are no buttons. She taps a keycard against a small panel and the doors shut.
My reflection appears in the mirrored wall and I can’t stop staring at it. The girl looks pale. She looks like she’s trying to pretend she’s not terrified.
“Are you—” I start, then stop, because I don’t know what to ask.
The woman watches me like she’s seen this a hundred times.
“This is voluntary,” she says, as if she’s reading my thoughts. “If you’ve changed your mind, you can walk away right now.”
The words hit me hard.
I could walk away.
I could go home, crawl into my bed, and pretend I never searched those sites. I could keep working as an assistant, saving money and praying that something changes.
I could do that.
My dad would die anyway.
The elevator hums as it moves, smooth and silent. My throat burns. I blink hard.
“No,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
Her head tilts slightly, like she’s impressed or maybe just satisfied. “Then remember what you’re here for.”
Twenty thousand dollars.
I nod once.
The elevator opens onto a private corridor with darker carpet and lower lights. There are voices at the end of the hall. Catcalls, cheers. I smell whiskey and cigars. My stomach dips, and I force a breath in, then out.
The woman guides me to a door off a small hallway. A man stands there in a suit, older, gray at the temples, his expression neutral.
He opens it for us.
The room beyond is warm and dim, lit by amber lamps and candlelight that flickers across glass and polished wood.
There’s no one in there, but a few places to sit. It’s some sort of staging room.
My mouth goes completely dry.
The woman’s hand comes to the small of my back—light pressure, a reminder to move. I step forward and hear a burst of raucous calls coming from behind a curtain on the far side of the room.
