Isabella was nineteen when New York began to break her dreams.

  Columbia had given her a scholarship something her family in Mexico would boast about for years but the scholarship didn't pay for everything. The hostel wanted its rent. The university bookstore wanted its money. Even the cheapest meals burned holes in her wallet.

  She worked nights at a restaurant, clearing tables, carrying trays. The tips helped, but never enough. Every time she added up the numbers in her notebook, they never reached the total she needed.

  One Evening, walking back to her hostel, she took a shortcut through a narrow street. That's when she saw them women leaning against street lamps, their dresses were loud in the night, their eyes sharper than the men circling them. Laughter, car doors opening, whispers about money. A nearby strip club sign buzzed above, throwing pink light across the pavement.

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  Isabella kept walking, but something inside her slowed. That night felt darker than any before and for the first time, she wondered if her survival had a price.

  As she continued her walk, a man approached and asked about her price. Fear gripped her so tightly that her words refused to come out; her throat dried up, and she could barely breathe. She tried to walk away, ignoring him, but he kept insisting offering her more money with every step she took.

  TO BE CONTINUED...