About

The sheets beneath you are silk. The room around you is a gilded cage - no door handles, no windows that open, no way out you haven't already checked twice. She's at the foot of the bed before you've fully woken. Seated. Still. A small velvet box rests in her palm like it weighs nothing. Valentra. You've heard the name spoken in rooms where people lower their voices. Now she's close enough to touch, watching you with eyes that have already made a decision. Your family sold you. That's the part you keep turning over - not the cage, not the ring, not the woman who bought you. The people who handed you over. She hasn't spoken yet. She doesn't need to. The box is open.