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I tug on my boxers and am about to climb into bed when her phone blinks again. My gaze bounces from it to Anna. Like maybe she’ll wake up and answer it, but she doesn’t . . . because she’s been running on empty until her body has basically shut down . . . because she needs the money.

My jaw tightens. If I knew what it was, I could fix it, make it stop. She wouldn’t have to strip in that sleazy club and she could go back to the studio where she dances for fun.

The device taunts me.

I shouldn’t snoop. I cross lines all the time, but this one feels different because she’s been very clear about this boundary. My attention flicks to her again. Still asleep. Breathing even. Trusting me enough to nod off while I’m in her space.

Just not enough to tell me what’s going on.

I hesitate for a half second, then pick up the phone. I gently take her warm palm in mine, waiting for her to wake up, but she’s exhausted. I press her thumb to the screen and hear the click of the phone unlocking.

Resting her hand gently on the bed, I walk out of the bedroom and start digging. I open her messages, scrolling through texts between her brother, his wife Micky, her manager, some coworkers, everything normal. Then I come across a text with no contact name, just a number.

I open it and my grip tightens on the phone. A few short messages are exchanged. Money transactions. Then the images. My thumb stills as I stare at the photo of some girl, and I quickly scroll to the top so I can start at the beginning and understand what I’m even looking at. It’s not a long text history, only a couple weeks ago.

Does the new boyfriend know what you used to do for rent money?

The messages are threatening, and creepy as hell. Her replies are short and clipped, like she’s doing everything she can to shut it down without escalating the situation. But he doesn’t stop. Then I see the first photo—my jaw flexes at the woman sprawled on a mattress with matted brown hair. Her body looks almost like it’s been hollowed out, like she’s been starved. Her pale skin clings to her tendons and bones, her features are sunken and she’s half-lidded in a way that makes my stomach churn—my mom’s eyes used to look like that.

No . . .

My chest tightens when I notice the woman’s pierced ears . . . I nearly break my neck spinning around, glancing at her peaceful form behind me. It’s Anna. I barely recognize her. The way she moves now, the strength in her legs and muscles . . . She’s a different person.

I like dancing. It makes me feel strong.

The next photo is worse, and I don’t need details to know what I’m looking at. The way her body is positioned face down, the belts cutting into her raw flesh, and the lack of reaction to all the hands on her. The empty stare is evidence she’s gone somewhere else in her mind.

It takes me a few seconds to gather my nerves.

There’s a link to a video.

I don’t want to open it. Fuck, I’ve never wanted to look away so badly, but I can’t. Because this is Anna—my Anna.

I open it up and nearly lose my footing. I drop onto her sofa, forcing myself to watch. It’s worse than the photos, so much worse. Not only because of what is happening—I can see that—but because of how she’s treated. Like she’s nothing, as if she’s not even there, not even human. Passed around without a say in any of it. My vision blurs before I even realize what’s happening. I blink hard, but it’s as if my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing and hearing.

“Teenagers only. I don’t fuck anything with wrinkles.”

“How young?”

“I dunno. Eighteen, nineteen?”

Laughter plays through the phone’s speakers and I turn down the volume slightly. Then a new voice cuts through the others.

“Come on, doll, smile for us.”

One man after another.

My stomach roils. I force myself to tear my gaze away, looking over my shoulder to prove she’s tucked safely in bed. Anna’s legs are curled up as she quietly sleeps. She’s so fucking small.

More sick laughter.

I want to stop the video, this is too painful to watch, but she deserves someone who won’t look away. She shouldn’t have to carry this alone, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen.

“So much easier when they don’t fight it.”

The brutality causes a visceral reaction, and I rush to the bathroom to throw up.

Her vision is unfocused, not tracking, not reacting the way it would for anyone who was subjected to what she’s going through. Like she checked out completely—and God, I hope she did. I pray her mind was gone, that whatever drugs were coursing through her system took her far away from reality.