Chapter 2: Bargains and Betrayals

All nine women of the Young family were locked up in the county jail, waiting for the governor’s verdict.

We huddled together on metal benches, our breath clouding the chilled air, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they couldn’t decide if we deserved light or not. Some of us prayed, others just stared blankly at the concrete floor. I kept count of the women—my mother, my aunts, my sisters and cousins—because numbers gave me the illusion of control.

But in the end, our fates would be either to be auctioned off or sent to the state women’s correctional facility.

The talk among the guards was cruel and casual—some joked about us as if we weren’t real. The older ones just shook their heads, as if they’d seen too many families like ours, chewed up and spit out by the machine.

“Emily,” my mother called, “what time is it?”

She sounded so small. My mother, who once filled up every room with her energy, now sounded like a child afraid of the dark.

My mother had fallen ill ever since we were arrested three days ago.

Her cough rattled deep in her chest, and the jailhouse doctor offered her little more than aspirin and a plastic cup of tap water. I tried not to show how scared I was.

I looked out through the tiny barred window at a patch of sky and whispered, “It’s about noon.”

A sliver of sun cut across the cinderblock, making the dust in the air dance. The world outside felt impossibly far away, like something I’d watched in a movie.

“Noon…” My mother gripped my hand tightly, repeating the word helplessly.

Her hand was cold, and I tried to warm it with mine. I squeezed back, blinking fast.

Noon was when the Young family fell.

It was the hour our phones started buzzing with frantic texts, the hour reporters camped on our lawn, the hour the first rumors became headlines. I replayed it again and again in my head: noon, when everything shattered.

My father was about to be executed.

That ugly reality hung in the air—no amount of denial could stop the clock now. We all heard the news at the same moment, a wave of shock that passed through the cell like a cold front.

The men of the Young family would be sent to a federal prison upstate.

They would vanish into the system, numbered and processed, their names struck from the record books. No more Sunday dinners. No more laughter echoing down the hallway. I felt like I was grieving ghosts, even though they were still alive.

My mother wept bitterly, and my aunts and cousins cried along with her.

The crying was raw and unfiltered—ugly, animal sobs that vibrated in my bones. I stared at the wall, counting the cracks, willing myself not to join them.

Aunt Sarah begged me, “Emily, go beg Jason. Ask him to save you four sisters, that’s enough—he can do it.”

Her voice was ragged from crying, her eyes bloodshot and pleading. She clutched my arm so tightly I thought her nails might draw blood.

Jason is my fiancé. Four years ago, he was a newly minted law school grad. My father admired his talent and arranged for us to get engaged.

Back then, he had a way of looking at me like I was the answer to a question he’d been asking all his life. He sent flowers, opened doors, remembered my favorite kind of chocolate. The Young family welcomed him like a son.

His career soared; he was promoted again and again, earning the governor’s trust.

There were photos of him at fundraisers, shaking hands with the mayor, beaming at charity galas. He wore ambition like a well-tailored suit, and he wore it well.

But now, he’s also the prosecutor who destroyed the Young family.

He looked right through me in court, his words sharp and cold, each sentence another nail in our coffin. I tried to find the man I once loved in his face, but all I saw was the prosecutor.

I wiped Aunt Sarah’s tears. “He won’t help us.”

I said it gently, but the finality of it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Aunt Sarah threw herself into my arms, sobbing. My cousins clung to me, crying, calling out, “Sis.”

Their cries were like little hands trying to hold back a tidal wave. I hugged them tight, running my hands over their hair, whispering empty reassurances.

I looked at the beam of light shining through the window.

It sliced across the floor like a spotlight, illuminating the dust and grime, making the ordinary cell feel almost holy in that moment. I found myself wishing I could step into that light and disappear.

It was too high, too unreal—impossible to reach.

Just like freedom now. The light felt like something from another life: summer afternoons on the porch, lemonade sweating in my hand, my father laughing at something on the radio.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind me. I turned, expecting the deputy to announce the sentence, but to my surprise, it was Jason.

His shoes shined like mirrors. He looked so out of place, all clean lines and cologne in this grimy, windowless world. I braced myself.

He wore a crisp red tie and a suit, his head held high, chest out, separated from me by a metal gate. Our eyes met.

I hadn’t seen that color on him since prom night—the same shade as the roses he gave me. Now, it looked like a flag or a warning. He kept his distance, but his eyes lingered on me longer than they should have.

In that moment, I thought of the first time I met Jason.

He wore a faded gray hoodie, stepped forward, and nodded to me. “Hi, I’m Jason.”

I was late to student council that day, juggling textbooks, and he offered to carry my bag. That memory felt like it belonged to a different lifetime—a sweeter, simpler world.

Now, he holds high office, and I am a prisoner under his gaze.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Life could turn on you fast, and Jason’s rise had been my family’s undoing.

Aunt Sarah pleaded with him to save the four of us sisters. She said their deaths didn’t matter, but we sisters, raised in comfort, could never survive in the state facility.

Her voice cracked on the word ‘death,’ and she squeezed my hand with a desperation that made my heart ache. I hated how small we’d all become.

Jason listened in silence, his eyes always on me.

He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, just stared like he was weighing me on some invisible scale. I felt naked under that gaze, stripped of every defense.

He suddenly asked, “Why doesn’t Emily beg?”

His tone was taunting, a challenge thrown into the cold air. Everyone stopped breathing. I could feel the weight of nine sets of eyes on me.

The cell fell silent. My aunt’s hopeful eyes turned to me.

The silence was like a dare. If I said nothing, hope would die. If I caved, I would owe Jason everything.

I understood what Aunt Sarah meant, and I knew what Jason wanted.

He wanted to watch me kneel. He wanted to see the proud Young girl brought low. I hated him for it, but I also understood him—maybe too well.

My knees wobbled. I’d promised myself I’d never beg for anything again, not after Dad fell. But pride doesn’t keep your family alive. I knelt before Jason.

The floor was cold and gritty beneath my knees. I felt my pride die a little, but I kept my chin down, hands folded in front of me like a penitent child.

“I beg you, Mr. Parker, please help us sisters.” I bowed my head. “If you do, I’ll repay you in this life, even if it means working myself to the bone.”

The words tasted like ashes, but I forced them out. I pictured myself mopping floors or washing dishes for the rest of my life, as long as my sisters survived.

Three feet apart, separated by a metal gate, Jason let out a muffled, satisfied laugh.

It was the laugh of a man who had finally won. I could smell his aftershave, sharp and citrusy, and I wanted to be sick.

He half-squatted, teasing, “So what, you want me to keep all four of you on the side? That’s your big ask?”

His voice was low, mocking, as if he didn’t care who overheard. My cheeks burned, but I kept my head down. I heard a gasp behind me.

I paused for a moment, then continued to bow my head.

I gripped the fabric of my jeans so tightly my knuckles turned white. This was humiliation, but I kept my voice steady.

I replied, “You’re successful and charming. To be with you would be a blessing for us sisters.”

The words tasted like vinegar, but I forced a smile I knew he could hear.

He laughed again. “I didn’t know you could bend and yield so well.”

There was a mean glint in his eyes, like a boy who’s just drowned a kitten for fun. I felt something in me break.

I bowed my head, not answering.

I focused on the scuffed floor, refusing to meet his gaze, even as I felt his eyes burning into me.

“But it may be your blessing, but my misfortune.” Jason stood up, brushing his suit jacket aside, his cold voice falling on my head.

I could smell the starch and cologne as he brushed past. His voice echoed, final and unyielding.

“Emily, I’ll come to the state facility to visit you.”

He let the promise hang in the air like a threat.

Jason finished, laughed loudly, and left.

The sound of his laughter clanged off the bars, mocking and victorious. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter.

I straightened up, calmly watching his departing back.

His shoulders were rigid, but I imagined he felt invincible, walking away with every advantage.

I wiped my palms on my jeans. They were slick with sweat. I’d never felt so small.

“Emily.” Aunt Sarah hugged me, apologizing, “It was foolish of me. I shouldn’t have asked you to beg that cold-hearted man.”

Her arms shook around me. I patted her back and tried to look brave, even though I wanted to curl up and cry.

I comforted her, then turned my gaze to the cell next door, where a man hung by his arms from shackles.

There was something almost mythic about him—broad shoulders, tangled hair, the kind of muscle you get from years of hard work, not the gym. He was the kind of guy local news called a hero and Twitter called a myth. He looked more like a caged animal than a man.

His messy hair covered his face, sitting cross-legged in the corner, unmoving for three days.

Sometimes, I’d watch for a flicker of movement—a twitch of a finger, a shift in breathing. Mostly, there was nothing, just the slow tick of time.

I thought he was dead, but just now, I heard the sound of the chain on his cuffs.

The faint rattle was almost a comfort. There was still life in him—maybe hope for us, too.

He was still alive.

A heartbeat in the dark, reminding me not to give up yet.