Page 31 of Jenna's Protector

For Carter.

For the truth I’ve hidden for so long.

Guilt gnaws at me as I flip through the pages. I should have told him from the beginning. I should have been brave enough to face my past.

As I stare at a particularly explicit sketch, the world around me fades, and I’m thrust back into the past.

ELEVEN

Jenna

A few years ago

The harsh fluorescentlights of the enclave beat down on me, their constant buzz an annoying soundtrack. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, fear, and cheap perfume—a sickening cocktail that turns my stomach even now.

“Stand up straight, Jenna.” Lucian’s voice cuts like a whip.

I straighten my spine, ignoring the ache in my muscles from hours of posing. The scratchyfabric of the too-small dress chafes against my skin, a constant reminder of my place here. Around me, other girls move like dolls, their eyes vacant but their movements precise.

Beautiful even.

How could I have been so blind? The signs were everywhere—the locked doors, the strict schedules, the way the handlers’ eyes lingered too long. But I was naive, desperate for escape from my father’s abuse.

A girl to my left stumbles, her exhaustion finally overcoming her. In an instant, Lucian is there, his face a mask of cold fury.

“Focus. Disobedience will not be tolerated.” He grabs her arm. The girl—Sarah, I think her name is—whimpers as he drags her to the front of the room.

What follows is a lesson in cruelty. Sarah endures Lucian’s tirade. Each word is a lash, each gesture a blow, and each moment a test of her commitment to becoming a supermodel.

That is the stated goal.

I watch, my heart pounding, as tears stream down Sarah’s face.

The message is clear: comply or suffer.

That night, in the cold dormitory, I curl into myself, stifling my sobs. The sheets smell of bleach, harsh and chemical, burning my nose. In the distance, there are muffled cries—another girl breaking under the pressure.

I should leave. Being a super model isn’t worth this price.

But where would I go? Back to my father’s drunken rages? To the smell of stale beer and the sound of shattering bottles?

At least here, the pain is predictable. At least here, I know what to expect.

So I stay.

I learn to move gracefully, smile on command, and be the perfect little doll they want me to be. And in secret, late at night, I draw. Every face, every room, and every horrible detail—I capture it all, a silent witness to the nightmare around me.

Of course,I lost those sketches. I’ve always wondered what became of them. What I hold now is part of thetherapyI underwent at the Facility. Hours and hours of rebuilding that book. The sketchbook falls from my trembling hands. The memory fades, but the fear, the shame, and the anger—it all remains, as fresh as if it happened yesterday.

Tears blur my vision as I pick up my sketches.

Carter deserves the truth, all of it. And those girls—they deserve every chance at rescue.

With shaking hands, I select the most relevant sketches. Each is a piece of my soul, a fragment of the horror I endured. But if they can help and save even one girl from suffering what I did, then it’s worth the pain of remembering.

The faces of girls I once knew stare back at me—Laura, Elizabeth, Jenny, and Andrea. A wave of shame washes over me when I realize I never wondered what happened to them.

Were they deemed worthy enough to sell, or were they discarded, returned to the brutal pasts they tried to escape? My stomach churns with guilt. How could I have been so selfish, so focused on my survival?

---