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 legacy you want for your family? Your father would be ashamed."

My breath hitched. The words hit a nerve, a raw, exposed wound that never truly healed. My father. My brownstone. My legacy. I clenched my fists, the urge to lash out almost overwhelming. But I wouldn' t give him the satisfaction. I wouldn't break. Not here. Not now.

"Let me go." My voice was low, trembling with a fury I fought to keep caged. I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron.

"Don't you remember, Charlotte?" His voice was a seductive whisper now, laced with poison. "Remember how good it was? Before all this mess. Before you threw everything away." His thumb brushed against my wrist, a phantom touch that ignited a spark of revulsion.

Three years ago, on my twenty-first birthday, that same hand had slipped a diamond ring onto my finger. Three years ago, he was my fiancé, my guardian, the man I loved and trusted more than anyone. Three years ago, he sold me out.

A flash. The dimly lit ballroom, the glittering crowd, the champagne that tasted too sweet. Brenda, my adoptive sister, smiling, offering me another glass. The room spinning, the world dissolving into a haze. Then the auction block. My body, displayed like a prize. The leering faces. The sickening realization that Chandler, my Chandler, was there, his eyes cold, impassive, as bids for my first night were shouted from the crowd. He was the one who had brought me there. He was the one who had ensured my humiliation.

He was the one who had betrayed me.

"No," I whispered, the word a razor blade against my throat. "I remember everything." The humiliation, the terror, the blinding rage that had led me to set fire to that cursed place. The police sirens, the handcuffs, the headlines branding me a "coke-whore heiress" who tried to burn her sister alive. Three years in a cage, where I learned to fight, to survive, to hate.

A snort of laughter rippled through the small group of men who had gathered, drawn by the commotion. Their eyes raked over me, hungry and dismissive. Shame, hot and bitter, washed over me, but I shoved it down. I wouldn't give them that either.

Chandler' s jaw tightened. He hated being ridiculed, even indirectly. His pride was a fragile thing, easily bruised. "You're making a scene, Charlotte," he hissed, his voice barely audible above the growing murmur. "Just come with me. We can talk about the brownstone. Your parents' house."

The brownstone. The only thing left of my past, of my parents' love. The only reason I was still here, fighting in these godforsaken pits. I needed money. Enough money to buy it back, to reclaim what was mine.

My gaze drifted past him, to the ring of fighters now preparing for the next match. A hulking figure, twice my size, was flexing his muscles, his face a mask of brutal intent. He was known as 'The Beast,' and he was my opponent.

Just then, Brenda appeared, slinking out from the shadows, her perfectly coiffed hair and designer clothes a stark contrast to the grime and sweat of the arena. Her eyes, usually so calculating, were wide with feigned concern.

"Chandler, darling, what's taking so long?" she cooed, wrapping her arm around his bicep. Her gaze flickered to me, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips before she twisted her face into a pitying frown. "Oh, Charlotte. Still can't let go, can you? It's pathetic. You know, I actually feel sorry for you."

She leaned closer to Chandler, her voice dropping, though I could still hear her. "I told you, Chandler. She's addicted to the thrill. The money. She doesn't care about anything but herself."

Chandler looked from Brenda to me, his expression unreadable. "Charlotte," he said, his voice flat, "Brenda is willing to forgive you. To let bygones be bygones. All you have to do is publicly apologize to her. And then… I'll consider letting you have the brownstone back."

My breath hitched. Apologize? To her? For the life she stole, the reputation she ruined, the years in hell she condemned me to? My gaze hardened. "No." The word left my lips, sharp and final.

Chandler' s eyes flashed with a dangerous anger. "Don't be a fool, Charlotte. This is your chance. Your last chance."

"I don't need your chances," I spat, my gaze fixed on The Beast. He was a monster, but I was a survivor. My parents' brownstone. That was my only chance. My only redemption.

Brenda laughed, a tinkling, high-pitched sound that grated on my nerves. "She's always been stubborn, hasn't she, Chandler? So ungrateful. Well, if she wants to fight, let her fight. I've already placed my bet." Her eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure. "On The Beast, of course. He' s going to make her regret everything."

Chandler' s eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He looked from Brenda to me, then back to The Beast, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

"So," he said, his voice dangerously low, "you refuse to apologize?"

"I won't apologize for your lies, for her manipulations, or for the hell you put me through," I said, my voice rising. "You want me to beg? You'll be waiting a lifetime."

His face contorted, a mask of rage. "Fine," he roared, his voice echoing through the arena. "Let her fight! She wants to be a beast? Then let her face one!"

The crowd roared, sensing the animosity. The Beast smirked, cracking his knuckles. My heart pounded, a frantic drum against my ribs. This wasn't just a fight for money anymore. This was a fight for my soul.

I stepped into the ring, the ropes groaning under my hand. The Beast lunged, a blur of muscle and fury. I ducked, his fist whistling past my ear. My training kicked in, years of prison brawls and underground fights. I moved, a shadow, weaving through his powerful blows, landing quick, sharp jabs. He was bigger, stronger, but I was faster, fueled by a rage that burned brighter than any flame.

A solid punch connected with my temple, sending stars dancing before my eyes. I stumbled, my vision blurring. He followed up with a vicious kick to my stomach, doubling me over. Pain exploded in my abdomen, a white-hot agony that threatened to consume me. I tasted blood, metallic and sickening.

Chandler' s face, pale and grim, appeared in my hazy vision. His eyes, fixed on my bleeding form, held a flicker of something I couldn't decipher. Fear? Regret? Pity? I didn' t care. It was too late for any of that.

"Give up, Charlotte! For God's sake, just give up!" he yelled, his voice raw.

I spit out a mouthful of blood, shaking my head. "Never." My family's brownstone. My parents. I wouldn't let them win. Not now. Not ever.

The Beast raised his fist for the final, crushing blow. Then, a sudden, sharp whistle cut through the air. The fight was over. Chandler, his face ashen, had thrown in the towel. He strode into the ring, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and something else, something I couldn't name.

"What are you doing?!" Brenda shrieked from the sidelines. "She could have won! That was my money!"

Chandler ignored her completely, his gaze fixed on me. He reached out to touch my face, his hand trembling. I flinched away, my body screaming in protest. The last fragile thread of hope, of any lingering affection I might have held for him, snapped. It was shattered, irrevocably broken.

"You took my money," I rasped, my voice barely audible. "I earned that. I need that."

He stared at me, his eyes filled with a desperate, pleading look I' d never seen before. "Charlotte, please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Let me help you."

I laughed, a harsh, painful sound. "Help me? You? You' re the one who put me here."

He tried to take my arm, but I yanked it away, stumbling out of the ring. My body ached, every muscle screaming in protest, but I had to get away from him. Away from the suffocating hypocrisy, the poisonous lies.

"Charlotte! Wait!" he called after me, but I kept walking, limping towards the exit.

I didn't make it far. As I pushed through the swinging doors, a voice, amplified by a loudspeaker, boomed through the building.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen! Chandler Cox, CEO of Cox Enterprises, is proud to announce the sale of the historic Graves family brownstone! All proceeds will be donated to the Brenda Richardson Philanthropic Foundation!"

The words hit me like a physical blow. My brownstone. Sold. To Brenda. My vision blurred, the world tilting on its axis. He didn't just take my money; he took my soul. He took the last tangible piece of my parents, of my identity.

My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the grimy floor, the concrete unforgiving beneath me. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down my bruised face. Everything was gone. My home, my family, my future. There was nothing left.

My hand fumbled in my pocket, grasping for the only lifeline I had left. A faded business card, tucked away for years. Brien Ross. The name was a whisper of a distant past, a forgotten friendship.

My fingers, slick with blood and sweat, finally dialed the number. The line rang, once, twice, three times.

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