Face-Slapping10 min read
"They Bought Me — Then Regretted It"
ButterPicks18 views
"I woke up tied to the cold floor."
My voice is small in the dark. My hands are numb. My legs ache. A door opens. Footsteps click close. Someone says my name like they own it.
"You must be Irene Xu," he says.
I force my eyes open. I see a tall shape backlit by a single lamp. He sounds young, his voice low and dangerous. My head spins.
"Who are you?" I snap.
He kneels. "Kingston Wheeler," he says. "Officially, your husband."
I laugh, a dry sound. "You are joking. Who forges a marriage certificate and then kidnaps someone to show it?"
He spreads a small red booklet. A photo. My face and his, side by side. I feel cold in my chest.
"This is fake," I say. "Photoshopped."
"Is it?" He lifts one corner of the paper. "Tell me you don't know how this happened."
"How would I know? My ID was taken two days ago," I say. "My parents—"
He stops me with a glance. His eyes are sharp. "Two days. They sold you."
I bite back a cry. "No."
"You can scream until your throat breaks," he says. "But at least for now, stop thrashing. I won't let you bleed on my floor."
He slices at the ropes with a pocket knife. The blade flashes. It scares me and comforts me at once.
"Why?" I ask when my hands are free. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Because my father found your marriage certificate in the mail," he says. "He expected someone else. He expected a deal. I came to see the joke."
"You think I'm the joke?" I spit.
He smiles like a knife. "I think someone sold you for money. I think people still do that. I think you don't belong to that system."
He stands. "Tomorrow go to the civil office. Divorce. Or I will make sure you do not walk away so easily."
He leaves with my paper between his fingers. When his footsteps fade, the room is terribly quiet. I sit on the cold floor and cry.
*
"You came back," he says the next morning, like he has every right to be there. He drives a flashy blue car to the civil office. People stare.
"Irene, come inside," he says. "Don't waste time."
I hold up a hand. "My ID—"
"I know," he interrupts. He pushes me gently. "We will do this properly. For now, stop fighting and get in."
At the civil office we wait. He paces. He leans on me. He teases. He says cruel things with a smile. The other men in suits look at him and then at me. I feel exposed.
"My ID is missing," I tell him again. "My parents—"
He stops. His eyes are hard. "Your parents?"
"I think they sold me," I whisper.
He laughs, short. "Family is strange. Fine. If your ID is gone, we can postpone. Or—" He taps his chin. "We can make it official today. A paper, a name, a signature. Nothing means anything if you are free to walk away tomorrow."
I stare. "You want me to be your—"
"Yes. Name only. We both get what we need."
"I will get nothing."
"You will get a roof and time," he says. "And I get this problem off my back. Deal?"
I look at him. He looks like someone who gets what he wants. He is handsome. He is dangerous. I hate that part of me that wonders what his chest looks like under all that suit.
"Fine," I say. "For now."
He rips my little promise into pieces in front of me. A dramatic show. I throw my bag at him and run. He laughs and curses like a child, then calls an assistant.
"Find everything on Irene Xu," he orders. "Now."
His life is a command and people obey.
*
They pack my clothes and move me into his house that afternoon. His house is huge. Everything in it looks arranged for a set. He shows me a room and says, "You will live here. Left of the stairs. Second door."
"Do I have to sleep in the same bed as you?" I ask.
He shrugsmiles. "We are not sleeping together. There are many rooms."
That night, I fall asleep on the strange bed and dream of the night my mother and father traded a phone call and a smile for stacks of cash. I wake with my throat tight.
He comes up unexpectedly and finds me shivering. "You have a fever," he says, hands on my forehead. He calls his private doctor, Isaac Sanchez, like it is nothing.
I cling to his arm under the blankets because I am weak and because it is human to want warmth.
"You're stubborn," he mutters, but the way he says it is soft.
*
Weeks pass. We are not lovers. We are not enemies. We are a strange convenience. He teaches me how to be seen as his wife in public. He brings my favorite food without asking. He arranges my papers. He sneers, then helps. He makes rules and breaks them himself.
"You keep playing with me like a toy," I say, chewing too fast.
"You would like to be a toy," he counters. "You like being wanted. Admit it."
"I like being free."
"You and I both chase control," he says. "I control things. You pretend you don't need to be owned."
"Shut up."
He kisses me once when I am asleep. I wake, furious. "You can't—"
"I can," he says plainly. "And I will whenever I choose."
"I don't belong to you."
"Not yet."
*
One night I overhear him on the phone with his brother Andres Alexander. I hear two names they never used in front of me: my parents' name and an amount of money.
"Did they pay enough?" Andres asks coldly.
"It wasn't about money at first," Kingston says. "They wanted status. They wanted a favor. The money made it faster."
I feel sick. All along, the marriage was not a mystery— it was a business. My life—my choices—were sold without my knowledge. Rage burns hot.
I call my mother. "Why did you sell me?"
There is a silence. Then Keyla Armstrong, my mother, says, "You are useless. We did what was best for the family."
"What family?" I hiss. "You don't care for me."
"We paid for your sister Imogen's study," she says. "You will be fine. Think of it as a good marriage."
"You sold me," I say. "You auctioned me to the highest bidder."
"We did what we had to do," Bowen Dorsey, my father, says. "Stop making a scene."
"You're a coward," I say. "You think a paper can erase what you did? You think you can trade your daughter and wash your hands?"
They hang up. No remorse in their voices. Only deal-talk.
*
The day I collapse on the kitchen floor from a fever, Kingston sees my mother's message and his face changes. He takes my phone, opens their call records, and pulls a folder from his safe. He says, "You want them to pay back what they took."
I nod. My hands are shaky. "Make them pay."
He smiles without humor. "Publicly?"
"Publicly," I whisper. "I want people to see them for what they are."
He arranges it. He is Kingston—he knows how to pull an audience. He sets the date for a family gala in his father's company hall. Bartolome Giordano will host the charity dinner. Guests will include business rivals, socialites, and press. He pays the right people to seat them. He invites my parents as guests of honor—on purpose.
The night of the gala, the hall is full. Crystal lights. Cameras. People murmur about Kingston Wheeler's new marriage—rumors spread like a fever. I stand at the back in a plain dress. My hands are steady.
"Are you sure?" I whisper.
He holds my hand for a moment. "No. But we will finish this."
We walk in. Bartolome Giordano stands on the stage, smiling like a king. Lauren Blanchard sits beside him, perfect. Andres stands near the front with his usual unreadable face.
"My son Kingston," Bartolome booms, "has arranged a special presentation."
He does not know what is coming.
Kingston taps the microphone. "Good evening," he says. "Tonight we celebrate charity. But we also keep to truth."
He lights up the huge screen behind him. Photos flash—my ID, my name, a signed receipt. Then messages. Bank transfers. Audio.
My blood runs cold as the first video begins.
"You sold your daughter," Kingston says, voice steady. "You received funds. You lied on the record. This is the truth."
My mother's face drains when my parents' voices play—my father negotiating a price, my mother laughing, saying "the girl will be fine." My sister Imogen's happy face as the parents accept money for another school. Their proud smiles are on the screen.
The guests shift. A woman near the front whispers, "Is that true? Who are they?"
A journalist lifts a phone. The room's hum turns into a chorus of phones.
My father tries to stand. "Stop this!" he shouts.
"Where did you get that?" my mother cries.
Kingston smiles tightly. "From your account history. From emails exchanged with my father's office. From the driver who delivered the cash."
My voice breaks as I stand forward. "You sold my name," I say. "You used my ID. You thought you could decide my life."
"No one decided anything," Bowen lies.
"Enough," Kingston says. "Let's make the proof public." He presses a button. More messages pop up. The driver appears on the screen, recorded, shaking as he testifies he carried envelopes and counted bills. The night we lost my ID is played back in cold clarity.
The room goes still. Voices start. A woman whispers, "How cruel."
The crowd turns toward my parents as if they had become invisible until this second.
"Who sent this?" my mother screams, then stumbles. She tries to smile for the cameras and fails.
"Listen," I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. "They took me. They sold me. They lied to your faces. This was a deal to make money."
Someone records me. Kingston's assistant Jett Hayashi walks through the aisles handing out printed copies of the transfers, the messages, the driver testimony, and the photo of my forged marriage certificate. The murmur turns to low shouts.
My father grows pale. "You have no proof of intent!" he cries.
"Then explain the transfers to a relative's account," Kingston says. "Explain the text where you accepted the money. Explain why you thought you could sell your daughter like a coat."
My mother drops into a chair. The camera is merciless. She tries to stand but she can't. People whisper, phones buzzing.
"Get them out of here," Bartolome orders, but his voice is weak. He did not expect this.
A room of wealthy people murmurs judgment. People take pictures. Commentators live-stream. The moment goes viral in minutes.
Then the worst happens for them—those who paid to look wealthy and hide shame leave their private talk reveals. My parents become the show.
"We didn't..." Bowen starts, voice small.
"Beg," I say.
They look at me like criminals. The host blushes. The security pauses. Guests step back.
Bowen's hands tremble. He drops to his knees between the rows, right in the open hall, right where the cameras catch his face. "Please," he says. "Please Irene. We—"
My mother covers her face and sobs. "We had no choice!"
"Stop!" Imogen cries, too loudly.
"Andres?" Kingston says, his tone sharp. "You saw what happened. What do you have to say?"
Andres, the older brother, stands with a mask of nothing. His eyes are cold. He looks at my parents with a mix of disgust and amusement.
A man in the crowd recorded the whole thing and uploads it. Phones are everywhere. People around us step back and watch like it's a slow-motion accident.
Bowen breaks down. He scrapes his hands across the floor. He looks up, eyes wet. "Irene, I'm sorry—please forgive us—"
"You sold me," I say. "You sold my papers to a man because you wanted a house and a better life for Imogen. You thought you could buy peace with my life."
"Please, we will return the money!" Keyla screams, frantic now. "We will go to Kingston, to Bartolome, to anyone—"
The crowd laughs in a bitter sound. A woman whispers into a phone, "Send it to the news. Send it to social. This is disgusting."
Then my mother does something worse. She crawls forward and falls to her knees by my father's side. "We were desperate!" she cries. "We thought you would be safe. We wanted better for Imogen. Please, we are sorry!"
Someone shouts, "Enough!" A camerawoman leans forward.
"Get up," I say, surprised at the coldness in my own voice. "Get up now."
They freeze. My mother looks up at me, pleading.
"You traded your child for money," I say. "Not for medicine. Not for school fees. For a quick deal. For a house. The driver named you. The transfer contains your signature."
My father wails. "We are ashamed," he pleads.
"Then be ashamed in front of everyone," Kingston says. "This is not private anymore."
The chairman of the gallery, who usually smiles at donations, stands and says quietly, "This will be recorded as a criminal complaint."
My mother and father's faces are gone from color. They begin to tremble. The older guests whisper and point. Some take pictures.
"My father will press charges," a woman hisses. "We will not be party to this family’s crime."
The host's politeness turns to anger at the scandal. Bartolome stands back from the podium, his composure shaken. He had expected rumors. He had not expected confession.
Keyla covers her head and begins to sob. Bowen bows deeply and shouts for mercy.
The people around us make room for the police when they arrive minutes later. Reporters shout questions. My parents cannot find words.
Bowen falls forward again and this time knocks his head against the polished floor. Tears flood his face. He cannot stop. He begins to plead out loud: "Irene, forgive me. Forgive me!"
Kingston watches, expression unmoved. He reaches for my hand. "This will go through," he says. "We will make sure nothing like this happens again."
Someone in the crowd says, "They deserved to be shown. Public shaming prevents more hiding."
The security escorts Bowen and Keyla out. They do not resist. They are led through the hall with their faces uncovered and their knees raw. A circle of strangers follows them like vultures. Many record.
"I want you to remember this," I tell them when the cameras are on me. "Remember what you did. Remember that people are not items."
Kingston nods toward the bank transfers and the driver testimony. "They will pay restitution," he says. "They will answer in court."
Bowen collapses into the security van. As the doors close, he looks back through the window at me, open-mouthed. He is not the man who called deals and laughed about sale of a daughter's life. He is small and broken.
My mother pleads, then vomits on the pavement. Someone calls for water. Someone takes her hand. No one helps.
The videos from the gala go online and trend. We become the talk of the city. My parents are called traitors to their child. Their neighbors point. Their friends delete them.
We leave in the car. Kingston does not say much. He drives. I stare at the city lights. I feel a hollow at the center of me where my family used to be.
*
After the scandal, my parents disappear from my address book. Legal walls rise between us. I press charges for identity theft and forced transfer of documents. They are public cases. People tweet. I get messages, some hateful, some supportive. My sister Imogen refuses to speak to me. The school cuts her off. My parents' friends avoid them.
At night I think about the day. I think about Bowen on his knees. I watch that scene replay in my head like a film I cannot stop. I have not found peace. I have found justice.
Kingston sits across from me one evening and says, "You wanted them punished. Now it's done."
"Do you feel better?" I ask.
"No." He shrugs. "But you do."
"Do you still want me to leave?" I ask.
He looks at me long. "Not yet."
I laugh, small and mirthless. "Good. Me neither."
We are not a fairy tale. We are a messy agreement that leaned toward truth. He is cold and soft at once. I am raw and learning to stand.
Outside, the world keeps watching. Inside, I fix one small thing at a time—my documents, my classes, my quiet. I learn to be non-sellable.
"I will never be your property," I tell him one night.
"You never were," he answers.
We look at each other and for once the noise is just the two of us. We don't say we love one another. We don't need to say it. We only reach for the simple human work of being decent.
The End
— Thank you for reading —