My Milk Trap in Golden Triangle - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading My Milk Trap in Golden Triangle, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of My Milk Trap in Golden Triangle.
My life had become a constant juggling act—a stay-at-home mom with a husband on the brink of losing his job and a newborn who depended on me for everything. Money was tight, and the stress was crushing.
Then, out of nowhere, an old classmate I hadn’t spoken to in years reached out. She’d heard about our struggles and offered me a lifeline—a high-paying job that could pull us out of this mess. Desperate, I jumped at the chance.
But the moment I stepped into the building at the address she gave me, I knew something was horribly wrong. The air was thick with tension, and the men who greeted me weren’t there to hire me—they were there to trap me. Before I could react, they forced me onto a table, and everything went black.
I came to with a jolt, my body screaming in pain. Every muscle, every joint, even my fingers felt like they’d been crushed. A woman’s piercing shriek echoed through the room, sending a chill down my spine.
Blinking against the harsh light, I took in my surroundings—a filthy prison cell. The other women were battered, their faces swollen with bruises, some bleeding from deep cuts. They huddled together, whimpering in agony.
But I was alone. Locked in a separate cell.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I patted my pockets, searching for my phone—anything to call for help. Gone. Even the gold earrings my husband had given me for our anniversary had been ripped away.
A cold knot of terror twisted in my stomach. Where the hell am I?
I bit down hard on my tongue, the sharp pain grounding me. I had to think. Had to remember. Slowly, the pieces started falling into place—and none of them led to a way out.
I'm your typical suburban mom—chasing after my elementary schooler with a baby permanently attached to my hip.
My programmer husband's been sweating bullets lately. The tech industry's crashing hard, and his job's hanging by a thread.
Between diaper changes and PTA meetings, I started scouring the internet for side gigs. We needed that extra cash—desperately. Baby formula prices alone could give anyone a panic attack.
Then out of the blue, Monica Lowell—my childhood friend from way back in Mrs. Henderson's third grade class—slid into my DMs. Said she'd landed some fancy overseas gig and could hook me up with remote work. Just one quick interview, and I'd be set.
Monica's Instagram was straight out of a magazine—champagne toasts in designer dresses, luxury SUVs with ocean views. Part of me wondered when my old jump-rope partner became this glamorous international success story.
I'll admit, I hesitated. But between the mounting bills and Monica's persuasive "trust me, girl" texts, I caved.
The interview location looked normal enough—just some bland office building. But the moment I sipped that water they offered? Lights out.
I came to with a pounding headache, my fingers tracing cold metal bars. That's when it hit me—Monica hadn't sent me to a job interview. She'd delivered me straight to hell.
Then, out of nowhere, an old classmate I hadn’t spoken to in years reached out. She’d heard about our struggles and offered me a lifeline—a high-paying job that could pull us out of this mess. Desperate, I jumped at the chance.
But the moment I stepped into the building at the address she gave me, I knew something was horribly wrong. The air was thick with tension, and the men who greeted me weren’t there to hire me—they were there to trap me. Before I could react, they forced me onto a table, and everything went black.
I came to with a jolt, my body screaming in pain. Every muscle, every joint, even my fingers felt like they’d been crushed. A woman’s piercing shriek echoed through the room, sending a chill down my spine.
Blinking against the harsh light, I took in my surroundings—a filthy prison cell. The other women were battered, their faces swollen with bruises, some bleeding from deep cuts. They huddled together, whimpering in agony.
But I was alone. Locked in a separate cell.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I patted my pockets, searching for my phone—anything to call for help. Gone. Even the gold earrings my husband had given me for our anniversary had been ripped away.
A cold knot of terror twisted in my stomach. Where the hell am I?
I bit down hard on my tongue, the sharp pain grounding me. I had to think. Had to remember. Slowly, the pieces started falling into place—and none of them led to a way out.
I'm your typical suburban mom—chasing after my elementary schooler with a baby permanently attached to my hip.
My programmer husband's been sweating bullets lately. The tech industry's crashing hard, and his job's hanging by a thread.
Between diaper changes and PTA meetings, I started scouring the internet for side gigs. We needed that extra cash—desperately. Baby formula prices alone could give anyone a panic attack.
Then out of the blue, Monica Lowell—my childhood friend from way back in Mrs. Henderson's third grade class—slid into my DMs. Said she'd landed some fancy overseas gig and could hook me up with remote work. Just one quick interview, and I'd be set.
Monica's Instagram was straight out of a magazine—champagne toasts in designer dresses, luxury SUVs with ocean views. Part of me wondered when my old jump-rope partner became this glamorous international success story.
I'll admit, I hesitated. But between the mounting bills and Monica's persuasive "trust me, girl" texts, I caved.
The interview location looked normal enough—just some bland office building. But the moment I sipped that water they offered? Lights out.
I came to with a pounding headache, my fingers tracing cold metal bars. That's when it hit me—Monica hadn't sent me to a job interview. She'd delivered me straight to hell.
End of My Milk Trap in Golden Triangle Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to My Milk Trap in Golden Triangle book page.