Chains of the Brothel – Part 3 The Cruelty of the Police, the Trap of Rehab

The wealthy man’s words hung in the air like venom:

“What about the child—does he have a price too?”

Anita froze. Her veins turned to ice. Aryan, barely four years old, clung to her dress, his small chest rattling with a cough. For a moment, the world stopped spinning. She tightened her arms around him, as if her fragile embrace could shield him from the darkness creeping closer.

Then instinct took over. She ran.

Clutching Aryan, Anita bolted for the door, her bare feet slapping against the floor, her heart pounding with only one command—escape. Run before they could touch him. Run before he too was stolen.

But the man was faster. His hand grabbed her hair, yanking her backward with brute force. She screamed, thrashed, begged for mercy. His blows came heavy, turning her cries into silence.

The Illusion of Rescue

When Anita opened her eyes again, she was no longer in the brothel. She lay on a stiff hospital bed, the sterile sting of disinfectant filling her nose. Her trembling hands reached out desperately for Aryan—

but he was gone. A nurse entered, her face cold and mechanical.

“You’re being transferred to a rehabilitation center,” she said flatly. “It’s for your own good.”

For a brief moment, hope flickered. Maybe this was salvation. Maybe someone had finally heard her cries.

But soon Anita would learn the cruel truth.

The “rehab center” was not freedom. It was another prison—just painted in white.

From the outside, the building appeared to be a place of healing. But inside, its walls reeked of dampness and decay. Dozens of women were crammed into overcrowded rooms, forced to lie on broken cots without blankets. Food was stale, crawling with insects. The staff barked orders as if they were guards, not caregivers.

And when night fell, the darkness brought more than silence. Some of the very men who wore the badge of “rehabilitator” turned into predators. Anita realized with horror that this was not mercy. It was exploitation in disguise.

A Flicker of Defiance

Days blurred into weeks, her spirit thinning, her body weakening. But one flame refused to die—Aryan. Somewhere, he was out there. Fragile. Alone. Needing her.

That thought was her lifeline.

One night, when the guards grew careless, Anita slipped out with a small group of women. Barefoot, they fled into the night, running through alleys with lungs burning and hearts pounding. For a moment, freedom felt possible.

But freedom did not last. With no safe place to turn, Anita was eventually dragged back to the brothel. The madam’s grip was waiting.

Anita was no longer the naïve bride who once dreamed of a quiet life. She was a mother now, hardened by loss and humiliation. And every breath she took was for Aryan.

The Betrayal of the Police

One morning, trembling but resolute, Anita walked into a police station. Her voice shook as she poured out her story—the abuse, the brothel, the threats to her child. She begged for help. For justice. For mercy.

The officer listened quietly, nodding as if he cared.

“Yes, yes, we’ll file a case,” he murmured, gesturing for her to sit.

Relief washed over Anita. For the first time in years, she dared to believe.

But her hope shattered almost instantly. Instead of filing her complaint, they shoved her into a cell. Hours later, the cruelty began.

The very men sworn to protect her laughed at her tears, mocked her pleas, and treated her with the same contempt she thought she had escaped. One officer leaned close, his smirk twisting like a knife.

“Your place isn’t here, woman. Your place is back at the brothel. Don’t waste our time.”

The words cut deeper than any wound.

By the next morning, they had called the brothel. When Anita was sent back, the madam was waiting.

The Madwoman’s Warning

Dragged into a locked room, Anita was beaten until her body trembled with every breath. Through clenched teeth, the madam hissed:

“You dare go to the police again? Next time, it won’t just be you who suffers—I’ll take from you what you hold dearest.”

The threat struck deeper than the blows. Aryan. Her son. Her only light. The thought of losing him forever made her blood run cold.

That night, as Anita lay bruised and broken on the floor, her skin painted with pain, only one question haunted her:

Was there truly no escape for her and Aryan?

Or was fate still saving the cruelest twist for last?

To be continued…

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