Good girl for sale
Description
Lena Hart's life has always been quiet-good grades, invisible hallways, invisible dreams-until two brothers pull her into a story she can't control. When her acceptance to an elite university collides with impossible tuition, desperation drives her to a secret site that sells what can't be reclaimed. But the buyers who show up aren't strangers-they're Noah and Evan Mercer, the boys who noticed her when no one else did. What begins as a transaction becomes a revelation about love, choice, and survival. Virgin Exchange isn't just a scandal-it's the price of a girl deciding her worth in a world that sells everything.
Chapter 1
Nov 20, 2025
Lena's POV
The break bell splits the air like a starter pistol, and the hallway floods with bodies. Lockers slam, voices ricochet off cinderblock walls, sneakers squeak against linoleum in a rhythm that has no pattern.
I hug my textbooks against my chest and let the current carry me forward, eyes trained on the scuffed floor tiles because that's easier than meeting anyone's gaze.
The corridor smells like cafeteria grease and too much body spray, and I'm counting down the seconds until I can slip into the library where it's quiet and people leave me alone.
"Lena Hart, hall monitor of the year!" The voice cuts through the noise, sharp and performative. I don't have to look up to know it's Trent Lawson from my AP Lit class.
He's the kind of guy who needs an audience the way plants need sunlight, restless and hungry for attention in a way that makes him dangerous when he's bored.
He slides in front of me, walking backward with an ease that says he's done this before, probably to other girls who also tried to be invisible. "Perfect attendance, hand up in every class. Are you gunning for valedictorian or just showing off?"
The laughter starts somewhere to my left, popping from the cluster of people near the lockers. I feel my shoulders hunch inward, making myself smaller, but Trent's already pivoting to the punchline I can see coming from a mile away because everyone knows this about me, everyone whispers about it in the cafeteria and the locker room and probably their group chats.
"Eighteen and still saving herself," he announces, like he's a game show host revealing the grand prize. "That's dedication. Respect, honestly."
But there's nothing respectful in his tone, just mockery wrapped in a thin veneer of fake admiration. More laughter now, louder, spreading like ripples across water.
He leans closer, and I can smell the energy drink on his breath, see the gleam in his eyes that says he's enjoying this. "What are you studying for, anyway? Boyfriend final? Because I gotta tell you, you're gonna need a tutor for that one."
His friends are howling now, and I feel the heat crawling up my neck, flooding my ears until they're burning. I try to angle past him, to slip through the gap between his shoulder and the lockers, keeping my face neutral because giving him a reaction is exactly what he wants.
If I can just get past him without crying, without saying something stupid, without making this worse.
A shadow cuts between us, sudden and solid. The laughter falters, then dies entirely. Noah Mercer plants himself in Trent's path, and suddenly the hallway feels different, the social geometry shifting around the football captain's presence.
He's broad-shouldered in a way that comes from the weight room, his hoodie stretched across his chest, and there's something about the way he stands that makes people recalibrate.
His voice when he speaks is low, non-theatrical, just a simple statement of fact. "Knock it off."
The crowd's amusement drains away like water circling a drain. Nobody wants to beef with Noah Mercer, not midseason when the team's actually got a shot at playoffs, not when he could make your life hell in ways that have nothing to do with throwing punches.
Trent's smile goes tight around the edges, and he holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Jesus, man, it's just a joke. Can't anyone take a joke anymore?"
But he's already backing away, dragging the laughter and the spectators with him, and within seconds the hallway resumes its normal chaos as if nothing happened.
I don't wait for Noah to turn around. I slip past him into the current of students, disappearing into the crowd before he can say anything, before anyone can decide this moment is worth gossiping about. My heart hammers against my ribs as I make my way to the library, and I don't let myself look back.
***
The house is empty when I get home, which is normal. Mom's at her second shift at the hospital, and she won't be back until after midnight. The silence wraps around me like a blanket as I drop my backpack by the door and kick off my shoes.
The mail sits in a pile on the kitchen counter where Mom always leaves it. I flip through the stack mechanically—electric bill, grocery store coupons, credit card offer, and then my fingers freeze.
The envelope is thick, creamy white, with the university's seal embossed in the corner. My name and address are printed in formal typeface across the front, and my hands start shaking before I even register what I'm looking at.
This is it. This is everything I've been working toward for four years. Every late night studying, every lunch period spent in the library instead of trying to make friends, every time I bit my tongue when someone like Trent made me feel small and worthless. All of it leading to this moment, this envelope, this chance to finally leave and become someone else somewhere else.
I tear it open with trembling fingers, pulling out the letter. My eyes scan the first line once, twice, three times before the words actually penetrate.
We are pleased to inform you...
The sound that comes out of me is half-laugh, half-sob. I press my hand against my mouth, reading it again to make sure it's real, that I'm not imagining the word "congratulations" or the phrase "full academic scholarship."
I got in. I actually got in.
The tears come hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks as I clutch the letter to my chest. This is my ticket out. Out of this town where everyone knows me as the weird, quiet girl who doesn't drink at parties or date or do anything worth talking about. Out of the hallways where people like Trent can humiliate me for entertainment. Out of this small, suffocating life where I've never quite fit.
I sink down onto the kitchen floor, my back against the cabinet, and let myself cry. Not sad tears—relief. Pure, overwhelming relief that there's an escape route, that I did everything right, that it actually paid off.
When I finally catch my breath, I read the letter one more time, slower now, savoring every word. Then I fold it carefully and tuck it back into the envelope, holding it against my heart.
Mom will be so proud when she sees it. For now, though, this moment is just mine.
I sit there on the cold kitchen tile as the afternoon light slants through the window, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel something like hope.
Until it dawns on me that we can’t afford the fees.
Good girl for sale
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