You’re Selling Me

Chapter 3: You're Selling Me

Lizzie

“What?” The word came out as a breath, not a scream.

Dad’s eyes were fixed on the floor.

I looked from him to her, waiting for someone to laugh. To admit this was emotional theatrics taken too far.

No one did.

“You can’t be serious,” I whispered.

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she replied. “Do you know how much Kenneth’s father has promised to invest in your father’s new business idea? Do you understand what will happen if they pull out now? Do you even care about us at all?!”

The missing piece clicked into place.

This wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about status. It was debt.

Dad’s small side business had been bleeding money since the layoff. When he said he’d finally found footing again, it had been with backing—from the Greenes.

My stomach twisted.

“You promised me,” I said to my father, voice cracking. “You promised you’d never use me as collateral.”

He looked up then, eyes red-rimmed. “Lizzie, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” I demanded.

“It’s security,” Mom cut in. “For all of us. Kenneth adores you. He'll dip your hands in gold.”

I barked a humorless laugh. “He told me tonight that after marriage I’d stop writing. That my opinions would be better kept inside our home. That a good wife knows when to be silent.”

Mom waved a dismissive hand. “Men say things.”

“And women just endure them?” I shot back.

“Yes!” she cried, as if it were obvious. “That is how marriages last!”

“He laid claims on my body! Aren't you even disgusted?!” I screamed.

“What's so bad about that, Lizzie?!” She pulled at her hair in frustration. “If that's what it takes to get you to be his wife, then yes. He can lay claims for all I care! Don't think too much about those things.”

My vision blurred. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She stood her ground.

“In that case I hope you have a good excuse for him when he bundles me back home to you.” I stepped forward. “I'm not a virgin, mom. I lost it.”

She paused. Actually, she froze. Just like a statue.

Then she finally spoke in a chilling tone. “What was that? What'd you say?”

The horror that crept over me wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was cold.

Luckily my dad stepped in. “Calm down. Both of you.”

But mom was still glaring at me.

Dad took a hesitant step toward me. “It won’t be as bad as you think. Kenneth comes from a respectable family. You’ll live comfortably. You won’t have to worry about bills.”

“I don’t want comfort, dad,” I said. “I want choice.”

“And you have it,” Mom said smoothly. “You can choose to support your family or you can choose to destroy us.”

There it was.

I felt something inside me shift. It didn't break. It hardened.

“So that’s it?” I asked. “If I refuse, what happens? They pull their funding? We lose the house? I get thrown in jail for throwing wine on Kenneth in public?”

Silence answered.

Dad swallowed. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” I said quietly. “It’s simple. You’re selling me.”

“Don’t use that word,” Mom hissed.

“But that’s what this is. A transaction.”

Her jaw clenched. “Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. Be dressed.”

“And if I’m not?”

She smiled. “You will be, Lizzie.”

I searched my father’s face for resistance. For rebellion. For anything. But there was none. He looked tired. Defeated. Small.

And in that moment, I realized I was alone.

“I won’t do it,” I said, though my voice sounded distant, even to me.

“You will,” my mother replied calmly. “Because you love us.”

I let out a breath. “Love shouldn’t feel like a cage.”

She didn’t respond. The conversation was over.

I turned and walked up the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. My legs trembled once I reached my bedroom. I shut the door softly behind me and leaned against it, listening to the muffled argument that resumed downstairs—my father’s low murmur, my mother’s sharper tone.

My cheek still burned.

I crossed to my mirror and stared at the faint red imprint blooming across my skin.

One week. They planned to marry me off in one week.

My gaze drifted to my desk, to the stack of resumes I’d been meaning to send out. To the tiny savings jar hidden behind my books. To the framed photo of dad and me at the beach last summer.

“I never should have let you stay with Savannah.” The words replayed.

My heart began to pound.

Tomorrow at eight, the Greenes would be here. By tomorrow at eight, I couldn’t be.

The thought settled over me with terrifying clarity.

If I wanted to make it out of this house with my life intact—my real life, not the polished political-wife version—they were constructing for me… I had to leave. Tonight.

I pushed off the door and moved to my closet, pulling out a small suitcase from beneath the bed. My hands shook, but my mind felt strangely calm. Focused.

Two pairs of jeans. Three blouses. Underwear. Toiletries. My passport. The little envelope of cash I’d been saving for no particular reason other than instinct.

I hesitated at my bookshelf, fingers grazing the spines. I couldn’t take them all.

Just one.

I chose the worn paperback my best friend, Kira, had given me years ago—the one about a woman who ran away from an arranged marriage and built a life from nothing. I slipped it into the suitcase.

Downstairs, a door slammed. Voices hushed. My heart jumped into my throat.

I turned off my bedroom light and crossed to the window, easing it open. The night air rushed in.

Freedom smelled like this. But fear did too.

I glanced back at my room—the bed I’d slept in since childhood, the faded curtains, the familiar walls.

But tonight, it felt like a cage.

“Tomorrow morning,” my mother had said.

I shook my head. No. There would be no tomorrow morning for Elizabeth Marie Foster in this house.

Only escape.

And whatever waited for me on the other side of it.