I was twenty-one years old the first time I learned that my body had a price tag.

But I didn’t know it was really the price of my family’s stolen land.

Let me tell you how it happened.

I grew up in Grinnell, Iowa, where my parents worked a small corn and soybean farm that had been in my mother’s family for four generations.

I was the first person in my family to go to a big university.

When I got into the University of Chicago, my parents cried.

My dad said, ‘Maya, we will find a way.’

But we all knew there was no way.

I moved to Chicago with two suitcases and a knot in my stomach.

I got a job at a café in the Loop.

I worked double shifts, lived in a tiny studio with a radiator that clanked all night, and survived on instant noodles and day-old pastries from the café.

Every month, I sent $200 home to my little brother, Lucas.

He was in high school and needed money for books, bus fare, and the occasional school trip.

My parents never asked for it.

But I knew they were drowning.

So I sent it anyway.

My friend Tanya was the opposite of me.

She was loud, confident, and always dragging me into situations I didn’t want to be in.

One Friday night in October, she came into the café with a huge smile.

‘Maya, get changed. We’re going to a birthday party.’

I laughed and wiped down the espresso machine.

‘Tanya, I just finished an eight-hour shift. I smell like coffee and dish soap.’

She grabbed my arm.

‘It’s at a private event in River North. The guy is loaded. They need extra servers, and they’re paying two hundred bucks cash for the night. You can’t say no to that.’

That got my attention.

$200 was two months of Lucas’s bus fare.

I said yes.

The party was at a rooftop restaurant in River North, all marble, glass, and soft golden lights.

I had never seen anything like it.

Tanya and I helped set up trays, pour drinks, and clear plates.

The host was some rich guy celebrating his fortieth birthday.

The guests all looked like they had stepped out of a magazine.

I felt invisible.

Around midnight, one of the other servers handed me a glass and said, ‘Relax, girl. It’s good tequila.’

I didn’t think.

I was exhausted, hungry, and completely out of my element.

I drank one glass.

Then another.

Then someone poured a third.

On an empty stomach, the tequila hit me like a freight train.

The last thing I remember is the lights of the Chicago skyline blurring into a million tiny stars.

When I opened my eyes again, the world was too bright.

I was lying in a huge bed with white sheets.

The ceiling was high.

The windows looked out over Lake Michigan.

I sat up slowly, every muscle in my body aching.

That’s when I saw him.

A man, maybe forty-five or fifty, with silver at his temples and a sharp jaw.

He was asleep beside me, bare-chested, one arm thrown over his eyes.

I didn’t know him.

I had never seen him before in my life.