Trafficked -- Beaten -- Trapped
When eighteen-year-old Stacy Degray sets off to visit Felipe, a charming guy she met on the internet, she has no idea that she is being lured to his home country Malaguay to be auctioned off as a soldier's bride. All...
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I imagine that growing up, most girls dream about their wedding, and my friend Emily and I used to play brides in my parents' backyard for hours. We made braided crowns of daisies and used Ring Pops as the perfect-shaped rings we slipped onto our fingers. The older we got, the vague faces of our grooms took on more specific features, yet however we imagined our Prince Charming to be, we were madly in love with him.
Maybe I held onto this fantasy for too long, but when I regard myself in the full-length mirror in Naiara's dressing room, my wedding day feels all wrong. The gown is absolutely stunning—more extravagant and lavish than what my parents could ever afford—but the glamor cannot replace the void and uneasiness in my heart.
In just over an hour, I will walk down the aisle on the arm of a man I hardly know to marry his son who terrifies me more and more these days. My mother won't be crying in the front row and my sister Juliet will be missing from the bridal party.
Instead, I will be surrounded by people that mean very little to me and listen to a ceremony I don't understand. No one even bothered to translate the wedding vows; Bettina said I would know when to say sí and that was all that mattered. One word, and the last of my sacred beliefs will go out the window. My promises won't mean anything; in fact, I'm not even sure I intend to keep them.
Naiara straightens the long train. "You look beautiful."
"Yeah," I mumble, more to shut her up. My feet already burn in the high heels she forced me into and knowing my luck, I will stumble and make a fool of myself. The wires of the tight bodice stick into my waist just where the dress fans out into multi-layered skirts, making it hard for me to breathe. I can't even chew those perfectly fake fingernails down to the skin to calm my nerves. My teeth would probably break off on the hard acrylic.
I run my fingers over the top layer of the skirts, careful that my long nails don't snag the delicate lace.
"I think we need a little bit more blush." With a big brush, Naiara carefully applies the powder. It doesn't help. When she's done, my face still looks like that of a pale porcelain doll with big round eyes, framed by long artificial eyelashes. My hair is piled up in a sophisticated braid with a crown-like diadem to hold it all together. I feel like a child's dress-up toy.
"Knock, knock." Santino's cold smile reflects off the mirror. "Is Stacy almost done?"
Naiara nods. "Isn't she beautiful?"
He regards me with puckered lips. "You did a good job, honey. She will look great in front of the cameras." He drapes his arm around his wife's shoulders and smacks a kiss on her temple while his eyes stay on me.
I twitch under his stare. "Cameras?"
"Yes, of course." Santino's voice is calm like that of a patient grandfather. "Did Miguel not tell you? There will be news crews from all over the region. The wedding is the number-one event in our neighboring countries this year. Even the Ecuadorian president sent a card and present together with a representative, and we've never gotten along."
