Sophia's POV
Her father's pen scratches across the paper and her entire world ends.
Sophia watches from the chair across from his mahogany desk. The contract is three pages long but he only signs the last one like the rest doesn't matter. Like the details of trading away your daughter are irrelevant as long as your name is at the bottom.
His hand doesn't shake. His voice doesn't crack when he finally speaks.
"It's done."
Vivian stands in the doorway smiling that smile. That cruel, satisfied smile that's been part of Sophia's life since her father married her five years ago. Since her mother died and he decided that remarrying was easier than actually parenting. Vivian's smile says she finally won. That the problem of the weak Omega daughter is officially someone else's burden now.
Sophia opens her mouth to ask something. Closes it. Opens it again because there's one thing she needs to know.
"Do I get to say goodbye to anyone?"
The silence that follows is the only answer she needs. Her father finally looks at her but there's no warmth in his eyes. No regret. No last moment of fatherly affection before he sends her away forever. He just looks at her the way you look at a problem that's finally been solved.
"The car comes in an hour," Vivian says. She walks into the office and places a hand on her husband's shoulder. A gesture of possession. Of victory. "You should pack what you need."
Sophia leaves without waiting to be dismissed. Without waiting for her father to change his mind or say something to make this hurt less. She climbs the narrow stairs to her bedroom on the third floor. The smallest room in the house. She's never complained about it because she learned early that Omegas don't complain.
She pulls a canvas bag from under the bed.
Three shirts. Two pairs of pants. Her journal where she writes thoughts no one is supposed to read. Thoughts about freedom and power and things that don't exist for girls like her. Her mother's silver bracelet even though wearing it means admitting she believed in possibilities that will never happen. A photograph from when her mother was still alive and smiling and the world felt safer. A book she stole from the library years ago. A book about ancient Lunas who had real power and didn't have to kneel to anyone.
Everything she is fits into one canvas bag.
She sits on her bed and stares at it. The bag looks smaller than she expected. The sum total of her life feels like it should take up more space. Should weigh more. Should matter more.
The clock on her wall says forty-five minutes.
She doesn't spend them crying or writing letters or doing any of the things girls probably do when their fathers sell them away. She just sits on her bed with her hands folded in her lap and tries not to think about what comes next.
At thirty minutes Vivian appears in her doorway. She doesn't say anything. Just stands there watching like she's making sure Sophia actually leaves and doesn't try to hide somewhere in the compound.
At fifteen minutes a guard comes to collect the bag.
The car is waiting at the front gates. Black and expensive and sleek. The kind of vehicle that Alpha packs use for important business. Sophia gets in the back seat and doesn't look back at the compound. Doesn't look at her father standing on the porch with his hand half raised like he's trying to remember if he should wave. Doesn't look at Vivian watching from the window with that same cruel smile.
The driver is professional and silent. He wears a dark uniform and keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn't ask her where she's going or what she's feeling or any of the uncomfortable questions people ask when they don't know what else to say. He just drives like her life isn't ending. Like this is just another job.
The compound gets smaller in the rearview mirror. The gates disappear. The road curves deeper into forest and eventually there's nothing behind her but trees.
Sophia puts her head against the window and watches the world pass. Forests become thicker. The sky gets darker. They drive for hours without stopping. She doesn't sleep. Doesn't eat. Just sits in the back seat breathing recycled air and trying not to think about the man she's being traded to.
Trying not to wonder if he's cruel or kind or something worse than both.
The car eventually leaves the main road and takes a smaller path that winds upward into mountains. The trees get thicker. The air gets colder. Everything about the landscape screams danger. Screams that civilization is being left further and further behind.
By the time they reach the gates of the Blackthorne compound the sun is setting.