"Yeah."
"I didn't tell you everything."
I stay where I am with my back against the wall. Hands on my knees.
"Before the auction," she whispers. "Before he tried to sell me. He'd already been using me."
My pulse kicks. "Using you how?"
Her hands curl into fists against her shins. When she speaks, her voice is so quiet I lean forward to hear it.
"I was in nursing school. Home on breaks. He started bringing me into the private wing of the hospital he'd funded. Girls would come through. Young. Scared. He told me they were patients ina discreet care program. Wealthy families who wanted privacy." She swallows. "He had me do vitals. Check charts. Sign medical clearance forms."
The floor shifts under me.
"Alice Brighton ran the logistics," she says. The name lands with the weight of everything I've been afraid to hear. "She'd show up in the wing and treat me as part of the operation. Told me how valuable I was. How natural." Her voice cracks. "And I believed it. I filled out the paperwork. Initialed the bottom of every form. S.M. Told myself those girls were going somewhere better."
She presses her forehead to her knees. "I knew. Somewhere under all the excuses I was building, I knew. I just didn't let myself see it."
Guards outside the door. Guards. Private wing. People who weren't supposed to be there. The compound. The interpreter's family locked in the back room. "Guards posted," the CO said. "They're safe in there." We were ordered to stand down. The family wasn't safe. We stood down anyway.
I blink hard, focusing on the here and now. Living room. Sloane's voice. Her shaking hands. I force myself back.
"Then Anna," she says, and the name comes out as if it's made of glass. "Anna Prescott." Anna. The name she gave me in the car two years ago. The friend she couldn't save. "We were friends," she continues, voice distant now. Somewhere darker. "Her father was a senator. A different one from the man my father had lined up for me. We kept ending up at the same fundraisers, the same galas. She was younger than me, but she made it feel less lonely. We'd text. She'd tell me about dorm life and bad coffee and this professor she loved." Her voice wavers.
"She came home for winter break. We were supposed to meet for lunch. She didn't show. Then my father called. Said the hospital needed me." She whispers it. "Private wing. Guardsoutside the door. I opened it expecting an allergic reaction. A fainting spell." I wait. "She was on a table. Hooked to an IV. Unconscious. Nurses I'd never seen before and a doctor I'd only ever seen in rooms where nothing got written down. They were talking as if this was routine. Coordinating. Checking lab work. Dosing suggestions."
Her fingers dig into her arms, holding herself so tight. "Anna was the one I couldn't pretend away. She had a name. A face I knew. She told me about her favorite professor three weeks before they put her on that table."
"What did you do?"
"I panicked. Ran to Tobias, her security guard. He'd been with her for years. He believed me right away. Grabbed his keys. Moved." Her laugh comes out wet, broken. "We were too late. By the time we got back, the room was empty. She was gone." She wipes her face, rougher. "My father found me there. Dragged me into his office and told me I'd embarrassed him. Talked about timelines. Contracts. Talked about her as if she was a line item that had already gone through. He told me I needed to 'grow up' and 'be useful.' That girls with Anna's profile were going to be taken with or without me. That I could make them more… presentable. That if I helped, it would at least look clean."
"He wanted you to prep them," I say. "Medically."
She nods, sharp and brittle. "He walked me into another room. A girl. Younger than me. Terrified. I had a chart in my hands. Instructions. The doctor told me what to do. Dose. Protocol." Her voice goes almost soundless. "I stood there and tried to talk myself into it. Because he said if I didn't, he'd find someone else. Someone worse. That it would be my fault if she suffered."
I force the rage down. Lock it somewhere she can't see it. "What did you do?"
"My hand shook. I dropped the syringe. I ran." Good. My fists press hard into my thighs. Good. "That night, I heard him onthe phone. He thought I'd gone to bed. He said I'd become more trouble than I was worth." Her mouth twists. "He said he'd sell me instead."
I already know this part. She told me in the car, shaking so hard the door rattled. But hearing it again, with the full weight of everything that came before it, guts me in a way I wasn't ready for.
"So I ran," she says. "Grabbed a bag, cash, and my car keys. Ended up in a hotel bar in Chicago."
"And found me," I say quietly.
She nods. Her whole body shakes. I can't sit still anymore. I push forward until I'm right in front of her. Rest my hands carefully on her knees.
"Sloane. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry that happened to you."
She shakes her head violently. "You don't get to apologize for him."
"Look at me." I wait until she does. Tears are streaming down her face. She's absolutely devastated. "You were a kid. In nursing school. Your father put a chart in your hands and told you it was care. That's coercion."
"That's what I tell myself," she whispers. "But it's the easy version."
"It's the true version."
