Prologue
Hope
Roman’s dark, penetrating gaze assessed me as I settled nervously in the fancy, black leather-cushioned chair in his office. The salt-and-pepper haired human male possibly held the key to my future and, consequently, to my daughter’s safety.
His imposing darkwood desk, adorned with simple straight lines, screamed functional luxury. It ate up half the space of his small office. Considering he didn’t lack real estate in the high-end loft that served as both his residence and place of business, I assumed he’d made his office this small to give it an intimate feel. For me, despite the off-white walls meant to make it feel roomier, it just felt like another cage.
“You requested a meeting with me, Ms. Morak,” Roman said in a professionally warm voice. “How may I be of assistance?”
I licked my lips nervously and tucked a lock of my long silver-white hair behind my ear.
“Indeed, Mr. Tusk. I—”
“Please, call me Roman,” he interrupted gently. “I’ve been a rogue too long for this kind of formality.”
“Roman, then,” I said with a nervous smile, “but only if you call me Hope.”
“Very well, Hope. How may I help you?”
“I have come to you because your reputation for fair dealing and having your client’s best interests at heart is legendary,” I said in a deliberately submissive and awed tone. The discreet smile stretching his thin lips and the almost imperceptible way he puffed his chest at the praise told me I’d scored some positive points with him. I needed him on my side at all costs. “I have gotten myself into a serious bind, and I need help to get out of it.”
“Are we talking about a debt?” Roman asked in a neutral tone.
“Yes, of sorts,” I replied, clasping my hands on my lap.
“Of sorts?” Roman insisted.
“I am an Indentured Servant to Luther Stromland, the owner of Bacchus,” I said with a slightly shaky voice. “I need someone to buy my contract, renegotiated with better terms.”
“What’s the amount of the debt you’ve enslaved yourself to him for?” Roman asked.
“Two point five million credits,” I said almost in a whisper, still overwhelmed by the size of the debt.
“How long have you been serving it?” Roman asked.
“Four years.”
Roman’s furry brow shot up. “Four years? And you still owe two point five million?”
I nodded, my eyelids blinking rapidly to suppress the tears pricking my eyes.
“What was the original amount of the debt?” he asked, a slight frown creasing his broad forehead, giving his ruggedly handsome square face a slightly intimidating edge.
“Two point five million,” I replied, feeling defeated.
His face closed off. He had enough experience to understand I’d been suckered into permanent slavery. The Eastern Quadrant was ruled by contracts, and the party that didn’t respect the terms of the one they’d entered into would face dire consequences. Therefore, people were strongly encouraged to hire a professional—be it a lawyer or a broker like Roman—to negotiate the terms on their behalf to avoid getting conned into far more than they intended. But the poor and the desperate were always the ones getting screwed by the predators on the prowl, like I had been.
“The agreement was that I would work for him at Bacchus, food and lodging provided, and that seventy percent of my wages would be withheld to repay my debt,” I explained grateful for the absence of condemnation or disdain on his face; only professional curiosity. “With his older girls like me making an average of 120,000 to 160,000 credits per month, I figured it would take a maximum of three years to repay him, less even if I worked overtime.”
“First of all, with indentured servitude, the repayment value is never one for one, but usually seventy percent of it. Meaning, according to that same calculation, you should have repaid a little less than one point eight million credits in little under two years,” Roman grumbled. “Furthermore, it is illegal for him to prevent you from working or from doing the standard basic weekly hours,” Roman added, in a slightly clipped tone.
As floored as I felt at realizing even more how completely Luther had exploited me, Roman’s apparent anger on my behalf made my heart soar. His outrage meant he’d possibly go the extra distance to make sure to free me of this nightmare.
“Oh no, he’s no fool,” I answered bitterly. “I do regular hours like everyone else, some overtime even. But we never agreed what my duties would be. Luther makes sure I only do the less lucrative roles: bartending, stripping, and massages.”
“No blowjobs, hand jobs, or full service?” Roman insisted.
“Occasionally the first two, never the last one. Or rather, never with the customers. Luther had included in the contract that he could use me for his pleasure when he sees fit as part of his side benefits. But that doesn’t lower my debt in any way,” I said angrily.
“But why?” Roman asked, clearly baffled. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a beautiful woman, and I can see why he would want you, but that seems a little excessive just to bed you.”
“He wants my soon-to-be-twelve-year-old daughter. He wants me to be desperate enough that I will cave in.”
Roman recoiled. “He wants to bed your daughter?” he asked with the proper amount of outrage.
I shook my head. “Not him. He has a client who wants a rare virgin for his son’s first bedding. Considering how much Luther has been increasing his pressure tactics on me, I’m assuming the time is nearing for when he’s supposed to deliver her to him. I will not let him have my baby.”
“Four years is a mighty long time to plot such an elaborate scheme. What’s so special about your daughter to warrant all that?”
I immediately closed off. Even if I’d come here for his assistance, some questions I really didn’t care for.
“That’s beside the point,” I said, my voice slightly more clipped than intended. “The only question that matters is whether you think you can help me find someone willing to buy my contract with better conditions and the promise I will be free in a couple of years or so.”
The broker narrowed his eyes at me. For a moment, my heart constricted with the fear I might have rubbed him the wrong way. If he kicked me out of his office, I’d have no one else to turn to.
“You will learn, Hope, that I don’t ask questions to pry or out of misplaced curiosity. The more I understand your situation, the better I can help you,” Roman replied after a beat, his voice vastly less warm than before. “But you are welcome to your secrets.” He gestured at the small open area to the left of his desk. “Please remove your clothes so that I can see what we’re working with.”
I swallowed hard, feeling inexplicably humiliated. Rising to my feet, my pulse racing with growing apprehension, I removed my coral bandeau top, then slipped down my matching, barely-below-the crotch mini-skirt. That color flattered my lightly tanned complexion, and I had hoped with so much skin exposed, stripping wouldn’t have been required. It wasn’t uncommon for brokers to ask to ‘sample’ the goods. Had I been wrong thinking Roman above such slimy practices?