KETIKA SI BUNGA DESA JADI PEMBANTU DI KOTA

I lay on the cold concrete floor, every inch of my body screaming in pain.

The men who had just tortured me left with satisfied smiles on their faces, laughing and fastening their pants as they walked away.

The air reeked of a nauseating stench, and I retched instinctively, but nothing came up.

Just then, the door opened again, and a few people in staff uniforms walked in.

"Put these on. You can leave now."

One of them threw a few sets of clean clothes at my feet, his tone laced with disdain.

I forced my eyes open from exhaustion and stared at the clothes on the ground, feeling momentarily dazed.

Leave? Leave for where?

My thoughts spiraled out of control and drifted back into the past.

Half a year. It had been a full six months since I'd been imprisoned in this hellish illegal factory.

I was forced to work 16 hours every day. My hands were covered in thick calluses. The skin on my fingertips were cracked and bleeding.

The foremen here beat and cursed at us trafficked workers as if we weren't human. We were just tools in their eyes.

And worse, in this place filled with nothing but men, I couldn't even protect my body. I had even gotten pregnant once, only to miscarry from the extreme labor before I realized what had happened.

This place was like hell, and I had been barely clinging to life for six long months.

Numbly, I picked up the clothes and put them on piece by piece, dressing my bruised and battered body. The clothes were clean, unlike the ragged uniform I'd worn every day for the past half-year.

They shoved me out of the place that had held me prisoner for so long, and my mind went blank.

I couldn't remember how I got on the plane. I didn't remember the flight at all.

The entire process felt like a dream. All I knew was that I was finally leaving that nightmare.

When the plane landed, I finally realized—I was home.

At the exit of the airport, a familiar figure was waiting.

Hylton Miller—my childhood friend, my fiancé, and the one I used to trust most.

The moment he saw me, a gentle smile lit up his face—warm and kind, just like I remembered.

He walked toward me, opening his arms to embrace me. "Lina, you're finally back. I missed you so much."

His voice was still as pleasant as ever, and his eyes shimmered.

But all I felt was a wave of rising nausea.

I remembered the drink he handed me that night. I remembered waking up in a foreign land, consumed by despair.

Most of all, I remembered the recording his secretary, Priscilla Ashton, played for me during the first month of my captivity.

"It's fine. Alina's the young lady of the Winslet family—they won't do anything to her. But Priscilla? She's different. Worst case, I'll make it up to Alina when she gets back…"

In the recording, Hylton sounded calm and calculated.

To him, I was nothing more than a disposable pawn, someone he could offer up and later toss a few scraps of "compensation" to, as though nothing had ever happened.

And now, he had the nerve to come pick me up smilingly as if everything was perfectly normal.

The moment his hand touched me, I felt a surge of revulsion and instinctively flung his hand away. The force surprised even me.

"Don't touch me!" I shouted, my voice so hoarse that it didn't sound like my own.

People at the airport started turning to look, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

Hylton's smile froze. A flash of confusion and hurt passed through his gaze.

"Lina, what's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?" He reached out again, trying to comfort me.

"I said don't touch me!"