After enduring my sister's scolding, I left for the office. San Francisco's cold morning breeze kissed my face, where fog draped over the hills and distant ocean waves sparkled in the light. California life is always fast-paced—people jogging, lining up at coffee shops, cars racing through traffic. But today my heart felt heavy.
Alisha's concerned eyes, her scolding—"Ev, please tell me." But I remained silent. What could I tell her? That our mother had... no, those words wouldn't even leave my mouth.
I caught a taxi toward Napa Valley. On the way, my eyes became moist—a mixture of anger, shame, and fear. Blackwell mansion now seemed like a nightmare, where every corner was filled with secrets. The taxi driver turned on the radio, some local news—"Human trafficking cases are increasing in California..." I listened carefully, but my mind was elsewhere.
I reached the factory, where the vineyard's green vines were glistening in the morning sunlight. But today wasn't a normal day. When I arrived, I saw employees were on strike.
The factory gate was blocked—around 50-60 workers, holding placards in their hands: "Pay us our wages!" "Fair pay now!" California's labor unions are strong, where workers fight for their rights, but this was the first time at Blackwell's company.
I got out of the car and approached them. "What's going on?" I asked, using my CEO authority.
From the crowd, a young man stepped forward—tall, broad shoulders, in work uniform, but his eyes were determined. He looked about 25 years old, brown hair, with exhaustion and anger marking his face.
"Ma'am, our salaries haven't been paid on time for the past 6 months. We support families, but Mr. Blackwell just makes promises." His voice was strong but respectful.
I looked at him—his name badge read "Damien." Labor issues are common in California, especially in industries where bosses like Blackwell make cuts.
I asked him to follow me into my office. "Come inside, let's talk."
He followed me. Inside the office, I sat in my chair across the table while he stood before me. The room carried a faint smell of wine, files scattered across the desk.
I called Blackwell. After a few rings, he picked up. "Yes, Evelyn?" His voice was cold, busy.
I explained the problem—"Sir, employees are on strike. Salary issue."
From the other end came the response, "Within one week, everyone will get paid. Handle it." The phone went dead.
I told the young man, Damien, "You'll get your salary within the next 7 days. Now end the strike and get back to work."
Damien nodded, but doubt filled his eyes. "Thank you, ma'am. But we've heard promises before."
He went outside and told the crowd. Slowly, the strike ended—workers back to work. I also started looking at files—revenue reports, but my mind wasn't in it.
A little while later, Blackwell arrived. He burst into the office, anger on his face. "Evelyn, listen. Don't try to give those lower-class people too much face. They will take advantage."
His voice was threatening, like he was in a business war. I nodded, but inside I was seething.
Then his phone rang. He looked at the screen, flustered. "I have to go." And he quickly left.
I became suspicious. Blackwell's hurried behavior—was it related to that call where he mentioned "50 girls"? I also quickly followed him.
Outside in the parking lot, he started his black SUV and sped off. I looked around and saw a car parked there—silver sedan, local.
I asked an employee, "Whose car is this?"
Just then that same young man who'd been in my office earlier spoke up. "Ma'am, that's my car."
I said, "Quickly start the car and follow that vehicle."
Damien was shocked but nodded. He got in the driver's seat, I sat in the passenger seat. The car took off, cutting through the air toward a desolate forest.
In California's outskirts, such areas exist—where vineyards end and dense forests begin, where people hike during the day, but it's dark at night. The road was curvy, covered with trees. Blackwell's car ahead, ours behind. Damien maintained speed but kept distance.
"Ma'am, what's going on?" he asked.
I said, "Just follow."
Then Blackwell's car stopped near an old factory in the forest. It was an abandoned building—rusted gates, broken windows, where California's industrial past lay hidden.
I said, "Pull the car to the side." Damien did.
I quickly got out and entered that old factory. Walking slowly—dust on the floor, graffiti on walls. The air smelled damp. Then I stopped near a door. I looked inside through a hole, and my soul trembled.
Inside was a huge hall, dimly lit. In it, 40-50 beautiful girls sat on their knees—ages between 18-25, different ethnicities, but all terrified. Their hands were tied behind their backs, mouths gagged with cloth. Tears in their eyes, bruises on their bodies.
In front, Blackwell sat on a chair, laughing loudly. Beside him stood 20-30 burly guards, armed with weapons—guns, batons. And in front of him stood a man in a suit—slim, sharp features, looked like his name was "MJ."
He was saying, "Sir, I've done my job excellently well."
Blackwell said, "Well done, MJ, well done. You've done good work. Now arrange to get all these girls to Japan."
MJ said, "Sure sir, it'll be done tonight." And Blackwell started laughing loudly.
I was watching all this hidden—my heart pounding fast, sweat dripping. This was human trafficking—Blackwell's dark side, which I'd heard in rumors. California has such networks—shipments from ports, where girls get exported.
I came out of there before anyone could see me. I reached the car, Damien was still standing by the vehicle. We turned the car back toward the factory.
On the way, thousands of questions were rising in my mind. I thought, I knew this old man was a vile person, but I didn't know he could have fallen this low. I need to do something, I need to save those innocent girls, somehow.
I asked the boy driving the car, "What's your name?"
He said, "Damien, ma'am."
I said, "Okay, Damien. Tell me, do you know any police officer?"
He said yes, "I have a friend at the local station."
I said, "Let's go then, need to meet him."
He turned the car the other way. Within a short time, we reached the police station—a local San Francisco station, where officers in California police blue uniforms were busy. In front sat a tall, broad policeman—his name badge read "Officer Rick." He gestured for us to sit too.
"Tell me, what's the matter?" he said, his voice authoritative.
I said, "Sir, I'm the CEO of a wine factory. I've learned about my boss's dark deeds. I want to file a report."
The policeman took out a pen and file, his eyes filled with suspicion. That small San Francisco police station—where California police posters hung on walls, and coffee-stained cups were scattered on desks—now seemed like a ray of hope to me. California police stations are like this: busy, where officers fight crime day and night, but corruption rumors aren't uncommon either.
Officer Rick, that tall, broad man, leaned back in his chair watching us. Damien stood beside me, his face filled with tension.
"Tell me, what's the matter?" the officer said, his voice rough but professional.
I took a deep breath, that horrible scene flashing in my mind—that old factory, tied girls, Blackwell's cruel laughter.
"Sir, my boss traffics girls. And tonight he's going to send 50 girls to Japan."
My voice was trembling, but I gave details—that forest factory, guards, the plan.
The officer took notes, his pen scratching on the file. I thought, now something will happen. But as soon as I mentioned the name "Blackwell"—hearing that name, the policeman suddenly stood up from his chair. Shock on his face, then laughter.
"Oh ma'am, didn't you eat today? Have you drunk some bhang or something?" His laughter echoed in the room.
I was shocked—what? He called a constable, "Constable, show them the way out." They pushed us out.
I turned red with anger but said nothing. Outside on the street, the sun was setting, in California evening's golden light. Damien said, "Ma'am, what happened?"
I decided that no matter what happens, I'll save them. Can't trust the police—Blackwell's influence was everywhere. In California, rich people buy the system like this—politicians, police, everyone.
Damien and I came back to the factory. Silence on the way, but plans were spinning in my mind. At the factory, employees were back at work, but tension hung in the air.
I sat in my office thinking—how to save those innocent girls? Those frightened eyes, tied hands—everything was haunting me. California's human trafficking problem is real—shipments from ports, where girls get exported, and police sometimes turn blind. Because some government officials work under Blackwell, I won't get a hearing. Now I'll have to do something myself. I need to see what exactly these people do with the girls.
It was 8 PM—office lights dim, valley nightlife starting outside. I took Damien's car keys and headed out toward that old factory.
Throughout the way, I kept thinking about how to save those girls. Passing through California's forests—dense trees, twisting roads—a plan was building in my mind. Should I try the police again? No, they're corrupt. Should I tell Henry? But he's Blackwell's son—will he help me?