Sold, Framed, Now She's Free

On my 21st birthday, my fiancé Chandler and my adoptive sister Brenda drugged me and sold my first night at a secret auction.

Then they framed me for arson, and I spent the next three years in prison learning how to survive.

After my release, I fought in underground clubs, bleeding for the money to buy back my family's brownstone. But Chandler found me, calling me a "common harlot" as he tried to drag me home.

He offered me a "last chance" to apologize to Brenda for the crimes she committed. When I refused, he publicly announced the sale of my home.

All proceeds would be donated to the "Brenda Richardson Philanthropic Foundation."

He didn't just take my money; he took my soul. He took the last tangible piece of my parents, of my identity. Everything was gone.

As I collapsed onto the grimy floor, my world shattered, I fumbled for my phone. There was only one name left, one last hope.

"Brien," I choked out, my voice broken. "Please. I need your help. Get me out of here."

Chapter 1

"There you are."

The sound of Chandler Cox' s voice ripped through the stale air of the underground fight club. It was a low, dangerous rumble that would have once sent shivers of excitement down my spine. Now, it just made my gut clench. I didn't turn. There was no point. He always found me.

A rough hand clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around. The force of it almost knocked me off my feet, still unsteady from my last fight. I met his eyes, a hard glare that used to melt into something soft and adoring. Now, it was just… cold.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you' ve caused?" he snarled, his grip tightening. His fingers dug into my flesh, but I didn't flinch. Pain was an old friend.

"Trouble?" My voice was raspy, laced with a mockery I hadn't known I possessed three years ago. "I'm always causing trouble, aren't I, Chandler?"

He recoiled slightly, his brows furrowing. It was a familiar dance. He' d hurt me, then his conscience would prick him, just a little. He' d try to soften, to pretend he cared. It was always a lie.

"Charlotte, please." His voice dropped, a plea that sounded almost genuine. "This… this isn't you. We can fix this. Just come home. Talk to Brenda. Apologize."

My blood ran cold. Brenda. Always Brenda. "Apologize for what, exactly? Existing?" My laugh was harsh, brittle. "Or for not dying in prison like you both clearly hoped?"

His face hardened again. "Don't be ridiculous. Brenda is worried sick about you. She' s been nothing but generous, extending charity to… to people like you." His gaze swept over my ripped clothes, my bruised face, the grimy, blood-stained arena around us. His words were a whip, lashing at my already raw wounds. "Look at you, Charlotte. You look like a street dog. A common harlot. Is this the