Prologue

Hope Rankin-Glover exhaled as she drove along Highway I-85 South, bypassing the outskirts of North Carolina Correctional Institution for Women. A single tear slid down her oval shaped face, not for the women confined behind the prison walls but for the stroke of fate that nearly constricted her heart, mind, and body to a life sentence of human trafficking. 

The sun beamed inside her white Range Rover, casting a streak of heat against her face. Firmly gripping the steering wheel, moisture formed between Hope’s slender fingers as she reflected on the damnation of being shuffled as a child through drug-infested abandoned buildings. Fleeing from her mother’s unstable nest after graduating from high school didn’t erase the dreadful memories of Hope’s childhood. Fleeing surely didn’t prevent Hope from weaving a web of resentment toward her later rehabilitated drug-free mother or instill any degree of sympathy in Hope’s heart for her now ill-stricken, dying mother, Gloria Rankin.  

A stream of cool air flowed out of the vents inside the Range Rover, brushing against Hope’s pink shirt. Listening to soft jazz pressing against her eardrums, Hope embraced the invaluable gift of being able to hear. Sadly, this gift did not transcend to her children, fraternal twins at birth, causing Hope’s fragile heart to splinter into a million pieces. 

Wiping a tear from her cheekbone, Hope reminisced about the daily struggles of learning American Sign Language (“ASL”) to communicate with her twins, Jayla and Jayden. With every thought of her twins being deaf, bitterness settled at the core of Hope’s heart which forced her to question the true essence of motherhood.  

Hope winced, wondering whether her experience with her twins was an act of Karma. She had lived several years of voluntarily refusing to communicate with her mother, and especially with her sister, Ivey, who was the apple of their mother’s eye. After several years of rediscovering the art of forgiveness, her twins’ involuntary silence intersected with a stream of fate.  

Loud screeching sounds penetrated through the tinted glass windows.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Hope stared at the wide, asphalt highway with puddles of tears in her eyes. She was determined to leave the past behind and reestablish a life absent from mental bondage, emotional turmoil, and manmade secret dungeons. 

A sharp pain knifed through her heart as she thought about the diabolic, heartless secrets of her so-called husband, Sloan. Swallowing hard, Hope flinched recalling how his treacherous, masterminded deeds had defied the crux of humanity. 

Pastures of red, yellow, violet, and white perennial flowers aligned Highway I-85 South creating a peaceful scenery. Struggling to smile as she passed by the flowers, Hope appreciated how the court had granted her a voided marriage which allowed her to return to using her birth name—Hope Michele Rankin. She no longer had to suffer the wrath of Sloan’s obsessive demands. She no longer had to unknowingly help him paint a picture-perfect family image to mask his worldwide servitude scheme. 

It all began a year ago. A year that had redefined the depths of survival for her. A year that had forged a new level of hatred and deceit. A year that unveiled a cyclone of secrets, fears, and regrets. A year that preyed upon countless innocent lives. A year that bordered on the cuffs of life and death. Through a twist of fate, it was a year that had promised wishful hopes for Hope, her twins, and her mother. Unfortunately, it was also a year that challenged the validity of Hope’s sanity and freedom outside of prison walls. 

Chapter 1

One year earlier, the bright Friday morning sun beamed beyond the endless horizon.  Yellowish-brown oak trees, upscale venues, affluent communities, and cutting-edge universities sprouted throughout Raleigh, North Carolina. Sleep was on the verge of interruption but not before the last seconds of a nightmare stormed through Hope Glover.  

Hope drifted into a deep sleep as her past trauma sprung forward while she dreamed, reminding her of the pain she had endured as a little girl.  “No . . . no . . . please don’t hurt me again,” cried Hope as tears trickled down her five-year-old innocent face. “I want to go back into the building with my mama,” she cried as a wide alabaster white hand firmly thrust her slender body down forcing her back to nestle against the black leather police patrol car’s backseat. 

“You can cry all you want . . . nobody’s going to rescue you . . . nobody can see us in this cut in the woods,” said the officer in a harsh tone. “Not even your own cracked out mama,” he chuckled. 

A loud sound pierced the room from an alarm clock causing Hope’s body to jerk to an upright position on her bed then launched her feet to level to the floor before she left her bedroom heading to her husband’s office in the basement. 

Her alarm clock rang just in time to break the cycle of her recurring nightmares. She dreaded falling asleep. She had lost pleasure in daydreaming because her childhood painful memories had a way of catching up with her. She wished she could sleep without having traumatic flashbacks . . .  without having nightmares . . . without remembering that she was ever a child growing up in abandoned buildings near Cloverdale.  Her childhood memories seemed to never cease, causing her to relive every day the traumatic memories of being a poor, black child living in Cloverdale under the vicious and corrupted reign of the now deceased Sergeant Paul Smith. His murder was a day of celebration instead of mourning for people living in Cloverdale. They had suffered heavily at the wrath and mercy of his treacherous hands. 

Hope tiptoed beside her husband, Sloan Glover, as her chiffon-pink dress shifted across her melon shaped breasts like a windshield wiper. She wrapped her golden brown slender arms around Sloan as she planted a kiss on his cheek. Sloan had shown her real love and had helped her to mentally escape the wrath of danger and fear—at least that’s what she thought.  

“Nice dress,” grinned Sloan as his gaze surveyed Hope’s physique.   

“Yes, it is,” giggled Hope as she seductively slid her hands along the ridges of her hips. “You have good taste,” she said while glancing at her dress. 

“Well, you know my wife must have the finest clothing.” 

“I know,” sighed Hope as uncertainty trailed in her voice. She often wondered why Sloan insisted that she dressed up every day—even in the house. She was not allowed to wear jogging pants, T-shirts, or anything unappealing—not even to the mailbox or to empty the trash can. Her closet was organized by the colors of garments with a specific section for her lingerie, upscale dresses, designer business suits, and fashionable hats. Before her feet hit her bedroom’s plush carpet in the mornings, Sloan made sure she had a specific attire selected for the day as if she was preparing to become a model . . .  or something else, she often thought. 

A crisp scent of Cucumber-Melon candle drifted inside Sloan’s office creating a pleasant smell for the first day of summer in June. Hope winced for a split second. She noticed that the Cucumber-Melon scent slightly mingled with the strong aroma of a flowery perfume as if a woman had suddenly vanished from Sloan’s office.  

“Why do I smell a woman’s perfume in here,” squinted Hope while glancing around the office and noticing that only she and Sloan were in the office. She was certain another woman had been in here. But where was she now? she thought. She had no doubt that the strange perfume scent did not belong to her. Sloan was meticulous with ordering only one type of perfume for her which was imported. She was only allowed to wear E’Zanti perfume which had a unique, noticeable scent. 

Sloan glared at her for a few seconds before allowing his luscious lips to drift apart. “Hope,  what are you talking about?” he sneered. “I’ve been in this house with you and our twins for the past two days . . . working. Maybe you are smelling my new cologne.” 

Hope glanced around the spacious office. Five-tiered mahogany bookshelves lined the sandalwood painted walls creating a mini-library. Sovereigns positioned on the bookshelves from Portugal, Greece, Turkey, Italy, Spain, and other exciting places that Sloan had taken Hope. A lifestyle Hope had dreamed of, but she did not realize that Sloan had planned for the trips to be more than just a romantic vacation. Somehow, he managed to secretly mix business with pleasure right under her nose. She often questioned why he had to leave her in luxury hotels for hours during their trips. But he always had the perfect excuse which came with upscale massages, facials, and pampering to keep her occupied while he was gone.  

The office appeared to have one door, granting an entrance and exit. At least Hope thought. As the flowery perfume scent slowly faded, Hope was certain no one had exited the office door when she entered.   

“You are right,” she smiled realizing that Sloan was possibly correct. He had been in the house with her and their five-year-old fraternal twins for the past two days.

“Do I detect some jealousy?” smiled Sloan while gently grabbing Hope’s hands. 

“Whatever, Sloan,” chuckled Hope as she glanced at his black laptop before he slightly tilted the screen preventing a view. “Whatcha working on, baby?” she asked while massaging his large butterscotch brown hand. 

She perched her buttocks on the edge of the black desk. Her eyes darted around the almond painted office—a cozy spot in their oversized basement. 

“Why don’t you get an office, Sloan?” she asked knowing their household income was more than enough for him to get an executive-style office downtown.  

“It is best if I work from home. This basement is large enough,” he smiled. “Plus, I need a lot of privacy and quietness for the technology work that I do.” 

“Whatcha working on, baby?” she asked again.   

A warm charming smile stretched across Sloan’s smooth face.  He pressed his back firmly into the black padded chair and inched it closer to Hope. His neatly trimmed mustache, light brown eyes, and tamed eyebrows accentuated his chiseled attractive appearance. He stroked his hands up and down Hope’s hips like a sculptor molding a masterpiece. 

“Do you mean, ‘What are you working on,’ darling?” gritted Sloan in a harsh tone while moving strands of hair that dangled near her lavish eyelashes. 

For some reason, Sloan always felt the need to correct Hope’s grammar and to tease her about her southern accent—further weakening her self-esteem. He was aware that she had grown up in Cloverdale Assisted Housing Community—a project in Charlotte, North Carolina. In particular, he knew people in the Cloverdale project shared a unique English dialect that was recognized among community members but criticized by outsiders who spoke the King’s English. 

Sloan was forty years old which made Hope’s twenty-five-year-old mind appear to be less tactful than his. Even though she was from North Carolina, her level of street knowledge matched his New York level. Cloverdale had provided her with a crash course in street knowledge. Yet, she played the naïve game with Sloan.  

 “What are you working on?” she asked as frustration flowed through her. 

In a deep baritone voice, Sloan replied, “Doing some last minute touches to Mr. Gavino’s website.” He paused as if he was searching for his next words. “I’ve developed an easier way for him to track sales at the pizza pubs. Plus, he is opening another spot.”  

“Where?” she asked, recalling that Mr. Gavino had several Worldwide Express Pizza, Inc., delivery pizza pubs along Highway I-85 and Highway I-95 from Richmond, Virginia to Miami, Florida. The pizza pubs were unique. Routine customers often requested different types of cheeses and specific sizes of pizzas—something that was normal. But Hope thought it was odd based on her gut feeling because the pizza descriptions matched the physical features (size and skin tone) of the women on the brochures. Yet, the pizza was delicious. There was also an amusement section in the pizza pubs where children could play games. The only drawback was that cash was not accepted. All transactions were processed through credit cards—as if Mr. Gavino wanted to keep track of his customers’ names. 

“He is opening a pub in Charlotte,” said Sloan as he closed the browser on his computer, preventing Hope from seeing what he was doing. His computer was off limits.

“Charlotte, North Carolina?” she asked as unpleasant memories of living with her mother in Charlotte flashed before her. 

“Yes. I have to meet him at ten this morning in Charlotte,” said Sloan while glancing at his high-tech watch that was also off limits to Hope. The face on the watch was larger than a fifty-cent coin as if Sloan wanted to track time for the universe.

An uneasy feeling nestled inside Hope’s stomach. Her gut feeling forced her to realize that Sloan’s watch did more than just track time. 

“You’ve been down here for hours working on this project for him already,” said Hope in a puzzled tone as if Sloan was not forthcoming about something with her. 

Hope’s honey-blonde bob hairstyle shifted in the air as she moved, creating an elegant classy look around her diamond shaped face. She was fortunate to have a full head of hair. Her hair had undergone much damage before sprouting healthy roots. As a child, she had a history of pulling her hair to cope with the nerve-wracking abuse she endured from her mother. She had more patches on her scalp than a quilt. Her mother camouflaged Hope’s patches by keeping her hair in a ponytail. Needless to say, Hope developed trichotillomania and posttraumatic stress disorder as a child but never received behavioral health therapy or treatment. She tried to cope with her conditions the best way she could and struggled to do so even now. She had considered therapy but did not pursue it because she learned from people in Cloverdale that therapy was taboo. Little did she know that her perception of therapy would change.  

 Hope gazed at Sloan for a few seconds. Sloan had been diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder.  He would labor from dusk to dawn on a task until it was impeccable. Hope recalled on their first date how Sloan tied his shoestrings several times within an hour until they were perfect. Something she found quite strange. But Sloan’s charming ways had won her over. He could tie a warehouse of tennis shoes and she’ll still love him—especially after Sloan introduced Hope to his iron rod. 

Truth be told, Hope didn’t know much about men. She was eighteen when she met Sloan. She had never understood true love—not even the bonding process with her own mother. She had spent a large part of her life searching for love to fill the void in her heart that her mother had caused. Sloan was God’s gift to Hope—at least it felt that way. 

Sloan was the closest thing to what she thought love should be. But Hope did not like how Sloan was obsessed with her grammar, sheltered her from other men—especially drug dealers—and kept her on a routine schedule to issue him sexual treatment at least twice a week as if he wanted to make sure Hope depleted his royal oaks to prevent him from creeping out on her. Yet, Hope pondered why Sloan’s sex drive was peaked every time he returned from flying to different states with Mr. Gavino. Deep down, Hope knew something wasn’t right but her love for Sloan often overshadowed her doubts. 

Hope rubbed Sloan’s arms, giving them long smooth strokes.

“It seems like my hubby has skills,” said Hope, hoping her grammar was correct. 

Hope’s small hands grazed Sloan’s chest as if she was spreading a deck of cards. His powdered blue polo shirt snuggled nicely against his muscular chest. 

Sloan stood, pressing his chest against Hope’s melon shaped breasts. “I was born with skills,” smiled Sloan before launching a kiss on Hope’s neck. Hope closed her eyes, sighing softly. Sloan’s voice echoed inside her eardrums, vibrating in her heart. His large hands palmed Hope’s buttocks.

A growing object bulged through his khaki pants, pressing against Hope’s thigh. 

“I’m glad you came in here. I needed to find a stopping point,” grinned Sloan as he hugged Hope. The smell of peppermint candy flowed out of his mouth, leaving no evidence of their tasteful breakfast. 

A slight giggle escaped Hope’s mouth. She skimmed the office, looking at the computer on the black desk, the file cabinets, and the bookshelves. Sloan’s bachelor’s and master’s degrees in electrical and computer engineering with a specialization in information technology adorned the wall. Accolades from the study abroad program he attended in Spain, during college, showcased his superb intelligence and fluency in Spanish. His credentials certainly overshadowed Hope’s associate degrees in culinary arts and concentration in business administration. But Hope was satisfied with her own accomplishments. Her heart was set on becoming a master chef and opening a restaurant and culinary school. 

Hope glanced at the clock. It was ten o’clock in the morning. The thought of stroking Sloan’s iron rod crossed Hope’s mind. But she knew Sloan always ordered two scoops of sex—every time. One scoop was never enough.

“Do you want to take a quick shower together?” she invited, hoping to caress Sloan’s royal oats before he left the house. 

Sloan glanced at his watch. “A quick shower sounds good, but I don’t want to be late for my meeting.” 

Sloan’s six-foot-seven muscular body towered over Hope’s five-foot-six full-figured frame. The crisp smell of his freshly-scented cologne swept across Hope’s nose. What a pleasant aroma to inhale—especially a scent wafting off the body of a man who looked like he had jumped out of a fashion magazine. His sexy, muscular physique sent waves of passion through Hope’s body. Their mattress could testify to that claim.  

 “Hey, darling, don’t forget we are going to the museum on Sunday afternoon.”

 “I haven’t forgotten,” grinned Hope at the thought of going on a family date. It made a warm feeling flow through her. But she was certain that the date came with rules.

Sloan seldom took Hope on dates and when they did go, he preferred to travel to another city or state.  Since his high-tech digital business surged, Sloan had little to no time for family activities—except at home. 

“I’m pretty sure the twins haven’t forgotten either,” Hope said while glancing at their family picture in the small gold picture frame on Sloan’s desk. 

Jayla’s picture-perfect smile brightened the image and Jayden’s light brown eyes sparkled with joy. Hope often wondered why Sloan was adamant that he didn’t want to name their son, Sloan Junior. But he agreed that his son should at least have his middle name—Lamar. Their twins were definitely a blessing from God—a gift. Hope never thought she could conceive after being molested as a child. 

Hope stretched her long arms. “I don’t know why I stay tired,” she said while sipping on some lemon tea that Sloan had prepared for her. 

Sloan cleared his throat before speaking. “Your mother called this morning,” he said as if he was trying to change the subject. 

Chill bumps rippled up and down Hope’s slender arms like a cluster of hives. She had tried desperately to block the images of that woman’s face out of her mind. 

“When?” Hope asked in a low tone as her gaze landed on the oatmeal tan carpet. 

Sloan caressed Hope’s hands before saying, “While you were feeding the twins,” muffled Sloan. 

Hope was not interested in speaking with her mother. She slowly parted her lips to ask, “How did she get my number?”

Hope had moved from Charlotte, North Carolina to Raleigh, North Carolina the day after she graduated from high school, seven years ago, just to get away from her mother. Hope had saved every penny she earned while working at summer camps in high school to pay for a one-way Greyhound bus ticket to Raleigh—a place she had seen only once on television that was known for having several culinary arts schools.    

Hope didn’t have a pot to piss in when she arrived in Raleigh. She didn’t care if she had to live in a shelter until she got on her feet as long as she was miles away from her mother. Luckily, Hope received a job at Green Leaf Tavern—an elegant vegan tavern. Between learning fine dining etiquette tips at the tavern and watching Mrs. Lena Brown bake and sell cakes in Cloverdale projects, she mustered the nerve to open her own catering business. Although Hope did not have a location yet, she conducted all transactions through her company’s website—Serenity Catering Services. Plus, she established a contract with the local temporary agency to employ individuals to assist with catering jobs. 

Sloan caressed Hope’s shoulders, pulling her closer. Hope sensed more was yet to come. Butterflies swarmed in Hope’s stomach as she waited for Sloan’s mouth to open. She planted her head on his chest. The slow steady beat of his heart fluttered in her ears. 

While Hope had thought she had already experienced her worst nightmares as a child growing up in Cloverdale, she wasn’t prepared for what was yet to come as an adult living under the seductive wrath of Sloan.