Chapter 1

My name is Ethan Roland. After high school, I bounced between dead-end jobs, barely keeping my head above water. Instead of saving up, I dug myself into a $20,000 hole—half of it from sketchy online loans. The collectors hounded me nonstop, calling at all hours until I couldn't take it anymore. So I ran—straight to my family's old house in the middle of nowhere, praying they wouldn't find me.

Then, one day, there was a knock at the door.

Not a debt collector.

My uncle, Vincent Roscente—a trucker with years of hauling freight through Yunnan. He wasn't exactly rolling in cash, so when he offered me a job promising to wipe out my debt in one run—plus "extra perks"—I was skeptical. But desperate? Absolutely.

I took the deal.

A few days later, after endless winding roads through the mountains, Vincent nudged me. "Check her out."

Up ahead, a girl stood by the roadside—tight clothes, backpack, holding a sign:

"Need a ride."

Vincent pulled over. She climbed in like it was nothing.

Too easy.

And then I saw her—really saw her. Through the rearview, I caught every curve, every shift of her body. My grip on the wheel tightened.

"Now, or later?" Vincent asked out of nowhere.

"Your call," she answered.

Before I could blink, Vincent was in the backseat, yanking her clothes off. She didn't fight him—hell, she helped him.

I nearly choked.

Years of grinding through life, and I'd never even touched a woman like that.

"Quit gawking. Drive," Vincent barked.

I swallowed hard and did as I was told.

The next half hour was a blur of moans and heavy breathing behind me. I kept my eyes locked on the road, knuckles white on the wheel.

When it was over, Vincent motioned for me to stop at the base of a mountain. The girl dressed fast, grabbed her bag, and disappeared without a word.

I opened my mouth—

"I know what you're thinking," Vincent cut in. "Backpackers trade rides for fun. Standard deal. Want one? I'll set you up next time."

My pulse kicked up. A job that paid my debt and came with women? No way I was walking away from that.

Not long after, we found two more.

One was curvy, mid-forties, confident. The other—Sophia Lowell—was younger, delicate, her hands shaking as she climbed in.

"The older one's mine. The kid's yours," Vincent said.

My stomach twisted. "But they didn't even have signs—"

"They know how this works," Vincent scoffed, already grabbing the older woman.

Sophia flinched, tears welling up.

"Man up," Vincent snapped at me. Then, to Sophia: "Keep crying, and I'll ship you off as a mule."

She froze. Wiped her face in a hurry.

A mule?

Before I could ask, Sophia was peeling off her jacket, her movements stiff, like she'd done this before.

And just like that, I realized—this wasn't just a ride.

This was something much, much darker.