Mumbai March 2023.

The stifling heat of the Indian afternoon contrasted with the cool breeze of the air conditioning in the small apartment where Priya Sharma and her younger sister Angelie Sharma lived.

The two young women, aged 28 and 24, respectively, shared a modest two- room space in the Andere neighborhood, working long hours in a textile factory to support the family they had left behind in their hometown of Jaipur.

Priya had always been the more responsible of the two since their parents died in a traffic accident 5 years earlier.

She had taken on the role of provider and protector.

Angelie, on the other hand, was the dreamer.

The one who spent her nights browsing social media, admiring the luxurious lives of influencers and celebrities, imagining a different destiny from the one reality offered her.

It was through Instagram that it all began.

Angelie had created a profile where she posted amateur photos of her attempts at makeup and customized traditional Indian clothing.

She didn’t have many followers, only about 3,000.

But that was about to change in a way she could never have imagined.

One Monday morning, while Priya had already left for her shift at the factory, Angelie received a direct message that made her heart race.

The profile was from an international modeling agency called Elite Arabian Models.

The profile photo showed a luxurious office with views of gleaming skyscrapers.

The message was in English but with a few words in Hindi that showed familiarity with Indian culture.

Dear Angelie, we discovered your profile and were impressed by your natural beauty and talent for photography.

Our agency works with high-end clients in the Middle East, including members of royal families and billionaire businessmen.

We would like to offer you a unique opportunity.

One of our most important clients, Shik Abdullah al-Rashid, is organizing a cultural event at his mansion in Dubai and is looking for talented young women from India to participate as models and cultural representatives.

The pay would be $50,000 for a week’s work with all expenses paid.

Would you be interested? Angelie read and reread the message at least 10 times.

$50,000.

It was more money than she would earn in 5 years working at the factory.

It was a chance to completely change her and Priya’s lives to help her aunts and cousins who still lived in poor conditions in Jaipur to finally fulfill the dreams she secretly held in her heart.

But something bothered her.

Why would they choose her, an ordinary girl with few followers? She decided not to respond immediately and waited for Priya to return from work to tell her about the proposal.

When Priya came home that night exhausted as usual, Angelie could barely contain her excitement.

She showed the message to her sister, who immediately frowned suspiciously.

“That sounds too good to be true,” Anju, Priya said, using the affectionate nickname she had for her younger sister.

$50,000 for one week.

Don’t you think that’s strange? But look at their profile, Angelie insisted, showing the hundreds of glamorous photos of models at luxurious events, always with the hashtag elite Arabian models.

They have almost 100,000 followers, and look at the comments.

They’re all girls thanking them for the opportunities they’ve been given.

Priya carefully analyzed the profile.

Indeed, it looked professional.

There were photos of real events, well-known models, luxurious locations, but her protective older sister instincts kept warning her that something wasn’t right.

Let’s research this agency, Priya suggested, picking up her cell phone.

They spent the next hour searching for information about elite Arabian models.

They found a professional website, a few articles on Arab fashion blogs, and even mentions on social media from other girls who had allegedly worked with the agency.

What they didn’t know was that it had all been meticulously constructed.

The website was new, created only 6 months earlier.

The articles on blogs were paid publications on obscure websites, and the other girls in the comments were fake profiles, part of an elaborate network of deception.

In the following weeks, communication with the agency intensified.

A woman who identified herself as Leila Hassan, talent manager, began making video calls with Angelie.

Ila was an elegant Arab woman, always well-dressed, speaking impeccable English with a British accent.

She showed Angelie the office where she worked, actually a co-working space rented for a few hours, and even introduced other models who were supposedly working at the same event.

Shik Abdullah is very special, Leila explained in one of the calls.

He is an art collector and a great admirer of Indian culture.

This event is a celebration of cultural diversity, and he specifically wants authentic young Indian women, not westernized professional models.

That’s why you’re perfect, Angelie.

The flattery worked.

Angelie began to let her guard down, and even Priya, skeptical by nature, began to consider that perhaps the opportunity was real.

After all, the world was full of stories of ordinary people whose lives had been transformed by a stroke of luck, wasn’t it? That’s when Leila asked the crucial question.

Angelie, do you have any friends or sisters who would like to participate as well? The shake was so impressed with your photos that he asked if you knew any other girls with a similar profile.

The payment would be the same for each of them.

Angel’s eyes lit up.

She looked at Priya, who was sitting next to her during the video call.

$100,000 in total.

It would be enough to buy a house, lift her family out of poverty, start a small business.

How could they refuse? My sister, said Angelie, pulling Priya into the camera frame.

She’s even more beautiful than me and very talented, too.

Ila smiled, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Perfect.

I’ll send the contracts and plane tickets to both of you.

The event is in 3 weeks.

You’ll love Dubai.

That night, the Sharma sisters could hardly sleep.

They talked late into the night about what they would do with the money, what it would be like to live for a week in a shake’s mansion, how their lives were finally about to change.

What they didn’t realize was that their lives would indeed change, but in a way far different and infinitely more terrifying than any of their dreams or nightmares could have predicted.

The contracts they would sign in the coming days were not modeling contracts.

The plane tickets would not take them to a cultural event.

And the man who called himself Shik Abdullah al-Rashid was not an art collector, but something far more sinister.

The trap was set and the Sharma sisters were about to walk right into it.

Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai.

April 15th, 2023, 3:00 a.

m.

Bria and Angeli Sharma arrived 3 hours early following the detailed instructions Ila had emailed them.

Each carried only one small suitcase.

Ila had explained that all the wardrobe necessary for the event would be provided by the shake, including designer dresses and borrowed jewelry.

Remember girls, Leila had said on their last video call, you are representatives of Indian beauty and culture.

The shake expects elegance and sophistication.

Don’t worry about clothes.

Everything will be provided when you arrive.

The sisters had said an emotional goodbye to their aunts in Jaipur over the phone the night before.

Priya felt a tightness in her chest when her ever superstitious aunt Meera said she had had a bad dream and asked them not to go.

But the money had already been partially advanced.

$5,000 deposited into their account as a reservation fee, and they had already paid off some of the family’s debts with that money.

We can’t back out now, Angelie whispered to Priya when they saw the concern on each other’s faces after the call.

Think of all the things we’ll be able to do with that money.

At the departure gate, Priya noticed something strange.

There were two other young Indian women there, both looking equally nervous and excited.

One of them, a girl in her early 20s with a shy smile, made eye contact with Angelie and waved hesitantly.

“Are you also going to Shake Abdullah’s event?” the girl asked, approaching them.

“My name is Nisha Patel, and this is my cousin, Cavia.

” Priya felt a mixture of relief and apprehension.

On the one hand, they weren’t alone.

There were other girls going to the same event.

on the other.

Why hadn’t I mentioned that there would be other Indian girls on the same flight? The agency told us not to talk to other models before we arrived, said Cavia, a taller, more elegant girl, her voice full of suspicion.

Something about maintaining each one’s exclusivity.

The four chatted briefly until it was time to board.

Nisha was from Kerala, worked in an electronic store and had been contacted in a similar way through Instagram.

Cavia was a college student from Bangalore who dreamed of being an actress and saw this opportunity as a gateway to the world of international entertainment.

The flight to Dubai lasted approximately 3 hours.

Throughout the journey, Priya was unable to relax.

Something about the whole scenario bothered her deeply, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Perhaps it was just the nervousness of being on a plane for the first time, of going to a foreign country, of being about to enter a world completely different from her own.

Angelie, on the other hand, spent her time taking selfies and already imagining the photo she would post on Instagram when she was at the Shakes’s mansion.

We’re going to be famous, Deei, she said, using the Hindi term for older sister.

Imagine when our friends see where we are.

When the plane landed at Dubai International Airport at 7:30 a.

m.

, the sun was already shining brightly on the city of skyscrapers.

The four young women disembarked together, following the signs toward the international arrivals area.

It was at immigration that the first sign of real trouble appeared.

purpose of your trip?” asked the immigration officer.

A stern-looking middle-aged Arab man examining Priya’s passport modeling work.

Priya replied, showing him the printed invitation Ila had sent, an apparently official document with the letterhead of elite Arabian models and a letter from a supposed sponsor.

The officer frowned and typed something into his computer.

Then he looked at Priya with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher.

Was it pity, concern, or just the professional boredom of someone who saw thousands of passports a day? Do you have a return ticket? He asked.

Yes, in 7 days, Priya replied, showing him the confirmation on her cell phone.

The officer stamped her passport and waved her through.

The same procedure was repeated with Angelie, Nisha, and Cavia.

They were all cleared, but Priya noticed that the officer exchanged meaningful glances with another colleague nearby, as if silently communicating something.

In the arrivals area, a man was holding a sign with the four girls’ names on it.

He was tall, probably of Pakistani or Afghan origin, dressed formally in an impeccable black suit.

He did not smile when they approached him.

Passports, he said simply, holding out his hand.

Excuse me, Priya hesitated.

Why do you need our passports? Standard procedure for sponsored visitors.

They will be kept safe in the office and returned when you leave, said the man with a heavy accent that made his English almost incomprehensible.

The four women looked at each other.

It didn’t seem right, but the man was already impatient and they didn’t want to cause trouble right after arriving.

Reluctantly, they handed over their passports.

The man led them to a black van with completely tinted windows.

There was no vehicle identification, no modeling agency logo, nothing to indicate that this was professional transportation.

The driver, another Arab-looking man, didn’t say a single word.

During the ride, Priya tried to pay attention to the route, but the tinted windows made it difficult to see clearly outside.

She noticed that they weren’t heading towards downtown Dubai, where the famous skyscrapers she had seen in photos were located.

Instead, the car was heading for a more remote area, passing unfinished buildings and empty lots.

“Where are we going?” asked Cavia, her voice betraying nervousness for the first time.

I thought the mansion was in Dubai Marina.

Change of plans, said the man in the black suit without turning around.

The shake is at his private estate in the desert.

More exclusive, more private.

After almost an hour and a half of driving, the van finally stopped in front of a tall iron gate.

There were security cameras everywhere, and armed guards checked something on tablets before opening the gate.

The property was huge, surrounded by walls at least 4 m high with barbed wire on top.

The mansion that appeared before them was nothing like the glamorous images Leila had shown them.

It was a modern but austere building, lacking the luxurious architectural details typical of Arab palaces.

It looked more like a fortress than a residence.

When the van stopped in front of the main entrance, the man in black finally turned to face them.

His cold gaze swept over each of the four young women as if he were evaluating merchandise.

“Welcome,” he said, and there was something in his tone that made Priya’s blood run cold.

“Shake Abdullah is eager to meet you.

” The van doors opened.

There was no turning back.

The four young women got out of the van under the scorching desert sun.

The heat was suffocating, completely different from the humid heat of Mumbai that Priya and Angelie were used to.

This was a dry heat that burned their throats with every breath.

Two women dressed in full black abayas, showing only their eyes, appeared at the door of the mansion, and gestured for the girls to follow them.

They did not speak a single word.

“Where is Ila?” Angelie asked, her voice sounding smaller and more frightened than she intended.

She said she would be here to welcome us.

The man in black completely ignored the question.

You will be taken to your rooms.

Take a shower.

Rest.

Someone will come for you later.

The interior of the mansion was cold and impersonal.

The hallways were long and white, lit by fluorescent lights that hummed softly.

There were none of the luxurious decorations, Persian rugs, or crystal chandeliers Angelie had imagined.

It looked more like a hospital or an institution than the residence of a billionaire shake.

The women in black led each girl to a different room.

When Priya realized that she and Angelie would be separated, she grabbed her younger sister’s arm.

“No,” she said firmly, looking at the women.

“We share a room.

We’re sisters.

” One of the women finally spoke in heavy guttural English.

Each of you has your own room.

Don’t argue.

Priya tried to protest, but the woman was already pushing Angelie gently but firmly toward another hallway.

The last thing Priya saw was her younger sister’s frightened face looking back before disappearing around the corner.

The room Priya was left in was Spartan, a single bed with white sheets, a small dresser, and attached bathroom.

There was a window, but when Priya tried to open it, she realized it was locked.

The bars on the outside were not decorative.

They were solid steel, fastened with industrial bolts.

She tried to open the bedroom door.

It was also locked from the outside.

Panic began to rise in her throat like bile.

This wasn’t a modeling job.

This wasn’t a cultural event.

This was a prison.

Priya ran to the door and began pounding on it.

Let me out.

Anjali.

Anjali.

Her voice echoed down the empty hallway, but no one answered.

After 15 minutes of screaming and banging on the door until her hands hurt, Priya finally stopped, gasping and crying.

She sat on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest, and tried to think rationally.

There had to be an explanation.

Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.

Maybe the doors were locked automatically for security.

Maybe the sound of a lock being opened made her jump out of bed.

The door opened and one of the women in black entered carrying a tray with food and water.

Priya tried to push past her, but another woman, much larger and stronger, blocked the exit.

Please, Priya begged.

Where is my sister? I need to see my sister.

The woman placed the tray on the dresser and turned to leave.

Before the door closed again, she said quietly, “Eat, pray.

If you’re lucky, maybe he’ll be quick.

” The door slammed shut, and Priya heard the lock click back into place.

The next few hours were the longest of Priya’s life.

She didn’t touch the food.

Her stomach was too upset.

Instead, she explored every inch of the room, looking for some way to escape.

The window was impossible.

The door was too solid.

The bathroom had no windows, just a small ventilation duct too narrow for a person to squeeze through.

She tried to use her cell phone, but there was no signal.

When she tried to connect to Wi-Fi, all the networks were password protected.

She was completely isolated.

At dusk, Priya heard screams.

They were distant, muffled by the thick walls, but unmistakable.

A female voice screaming in Hindi, “No, please.

No.

” Priya recognized the voice immediately.

It was Cavia.

She banged on the door again with all her might, screaming until she was horsearo.

“Leave her alone! What are you doing to her?” No one came.

The screams eventually stopped, replaced by an even more terrifying silence.

Hours later, it was night.

Priya was sitting in the corner of the room hugging her knees when she heard the lock again.

This time a different man entered.

He was Arab, about 50 years old, wearing a traditional white th and a red and white gutra on his head.

His eyes were cold and calculating.

Priya Sharma, he said her name as if savoring each syllable.

You are the oldest, the protector.

I like that.

Who are you? Priya asked, her voice trembling.

Where is Sheik Abdullah? The man smiled.

There is no Shik Abdullah.

There is no cultural event.

There is no modeling agency.

He approached slowly like a predator circling its prey.

But you already knew that, didn’t you? Somewhere in the back of your mind.

You always knew this was too good to be true.

Priya stood up, pressing her back against the wall.

“What do you want from us?” “That doesn’t matter,” he said.

“What matters is that the four of you now belong to me.

Your passports are locked in a safe.

Your cell phones will soon be confiscated.

You are 40 km from the nearest town, surrounded by desert.

Even if you manage to leave, where would you go?” “People will look for us,” Priya said, trying to sound brave.

Our family knows where we are.

The man laughed, a cold, cruel sound.

Your family knows you went to Dubai to work at an event.

When you don’t return, they’ll receive a message from your phone saying you’ve decided to stay longer.

Then another message saying, “You’re traveling around the Middle East.

” And then silence.

You won’t be the first to disappear like this, and you won’t be the last.

Priya felt her legs buckle.

Please, she whispered.

Please don’t hurt my sister.

She’s just a child.

Do whatever you want with me, but leave Angelie alone.

The man tilted his head, studying her.

How noble.

But you don’t decide anything here.

He turned to leave, but paused at the door.

Tomorrow night there will be a dinner party.

Four very important guests will be coming.

Very wealthy men who have paid a lot of money for special entertainment.

You will behave.

You will smile.

You will do exactly as you are told.

Because if you don’t, he didn’t need to finish the sentence.

The threat hung in the air like toxic smoke.

After he left and the door locked again, Priya finally allowed the tears to fall freely.

She had failed.

She had failed to protect Angelie.

She had failed to see the warning signs.

She had failed as an older sister.

But as she cried in the darkness of that prison room, something began to burn inside her.

It wasn’t despair.

It was anger.

A cold, calculated anger.

They had made a mistake in underestimating her.

She wasn’t just a frightened victim.

She was a survivor.

And she would find a way to get her sister out of there, even if it was the last thing she ever did.

The next morning, Priya was awakened by the sound of the door opening.

Two women entered carrying long, elegant dresses, high heels, and makeup boxes.

They said nothing, just placed everything on the bed and gestured for Priya to get ready.

“Where is my sister?” Priya asked for the 10th time.

“I need to know if she’s okay.

” One of the women finally replied, her voice low and urgent.

Be quiet.

Obey everything they tell you.

It’s the only way to survive.

There was something in her eyes, a warning, perhaps even compassion.

I was once like you.

That was 5 years ago.

Do what they say, and maybe you’ll live long enough to escape.

Before Priya could respond, the woman had already left, leaving her alone with the clothes and the weight of that terrible revelation.

At 7:00 in the evening, all four girls were gathered together for the first time since their arrival.

The meeting took place in a large opulent hall, the first truly luxurious room Priya had seen on the property.

There was a long table set for eight with silver cutlery, expensive crystal, and scented candles.

Angelie rushed to Priya as soon as she saw her, hugging her older sister with desperate force.

She was shaking.

Deedi, I’m so scared.

What’s going to happen to us? Priya cupped her sister’s face in her hands, forcing herself to appear stronger than she felt.

Listen, Anju, no matter what happens tonight, you stay close to me.

Understand? And if I tell you to run, you run.

Don’t look back.

Cavia stood in a corner, her eyes empty and distant.

There was a purple bruise on her left arm.

Nisha cried silently, her hands shaking as she tried to fix her hair.

The man in the white th entered, accompanied by four other men.

They were all Arabs, all middle-aged or older, all dressed in expensive traditional clothing.

They spoke in Arabic, laughing loudly, their eyes scanning the young women as if they were pieces on display.

“Sit down,” the man ordered, pointing to the chairs next to each guest.

Priya was seated next to a fat man with a gray beard who smelled of strong perfume and cigarettes.

Angelie was seated across the table from her next to a younger man, perhaps in his 40s, whose eyes gleamed with a cruelty that made Priya’s stomach churn.

Dinner began.

Elaborate dishes of Arabic food were served by silent servants.

The men ate and drank, talking among themselves in Arabic, occasionally asking the girls questions in broken English.

“How old are you?” the man next to Priya asked, placing his hand on her thigh under the table.

Priya stiffened but forced herself not to react violently.

The woman in black had told her to obey.

“28,” she replied, her voice barely coming out.

Good age, he said, squeezing her leg.

Not too young, not too old.

Have you been with a man? Priya didn’t answer.

Her hands gripped her fork so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Across the table, she could see Angelie trying to discreetly move away from the man next to her, who was now running his fingers through her hair, inhaling her perfume exaggeratedly.

Angel’s eyes met Priya’s filled with silent terror.

That’s when Cavia stood up abruptly, knocking over her wine glass.

I can’t take this anymore, she shouted in Hindi.

You can’t keep us here.

This is kidnapping.

This is She didn’t finish her sentence.

The man in the white th apparently the leader calmly stood up, walked over to her, and slapped her hard across the face.

The sound echoed through the room.

Cavia fell back into her chair, clutching her face, blood dripping from her split lip.

“Anyone else want to argue?” he asked calmly, looking at the other three.

No one moved.

“Good.

Continue eating.

Dinner proceeded in tense silence, broken only by the men’s conversations in Arabic and the sounds of cutlery against porcelain.

” Priya barely touched her food.

Her mind raced, trying to find a way out, a plan, anything.

She discreetly surveyed the room.

There were two doors, the main one they had entered through, and another smaller one at the back, probably leading to the kitchen.

There were windows, but they had bars.

There were servants, but they kept their eyes down, clearly trained not to interfere with anything that happened there.

After dinner, the men stood up.

The leader clapped his hands twice.

Now the real entertainment of the evening.

The four girls were taken back to their rooms, but this time accompanied by the men who had dined beside them.

The hallway split in four different directions.

Priya saw Angelie being pushed to one side, Nisha to another.

No, Priya screamed, trying to run toward her sister.

Leave her alone.

I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t touch her.

Two guards held her, their hands like iron claws on her arms.

She saw Angelie looking back, screaming her name before disappearing around the corner.

The fat man who had sat next to Priya during dinner smiled.

Don’t worry, soon you’ll be too busy to think about your sister.

He pushed her into a different room from the previous one.

This one had a larger, more luxurious bed and softer lighting.

There was champagne in an ice bucket beside the bed.

The setting would have been romantic in any other context.

Here it was obscene.

The door closed behind them with a final click.

The man began to remove his thobe, revealing a white shirt underneath.

“You can do this the easy way,” he said, “or the hard way.

Either way, it’s going to happen.

” Priya backed up until she was against the wall.

Her eyes searched desperately for something, anything she could use as a weapon.

She saw a heavy bottle of champagne, a lamp on the nightstand, a metal coat hanger in the halfopen closet.

“Please,” she said, her voice coming out firmer than she expected.

“You don’t have to do this.

Let me go, and I promise I won’t tell anyone.

Please,” the man laughed.

“They always say that.

” He took a step toward her.

But then they learned to like it.

You’ll see.

It was at that moment that Priya made her decision.

She would not be a passive victim.

If she was going to die anyway, and every fiber of her being told her that they would not leave that property alive, then she would fight.

She would make him regret it.

She would make them all regret it.

When the man was close enough, Priya grabbed the champagne bottle and smashed it against the side of his head with all the strength she could muster.

The sound of shattering glass was followed by the man’s cry of pain.

He staggered backward, blood spurtting from a deep cut on his temple.

Priya didn’t wait to see the result.

She ran to the door, but it was locked.

Of course, it was.

Her hands frantically searched for an internal latch, a button, anything.

Behind her, the man was getting up, his face contorted with rage.

“You bitch,” he growled.

“You’ll pay for this.

” The door opened abruptly.

One of the guards had heard the noise.

Priya tried to push past him, but was thrown back into the room with brutal force.

She fell to the floor, hitting her head on the edge of the bed.

Her vision darkened at the edges.

The last thing she heard before losing consciousness was the sound of distant screams.

Screams that could have been Angelie’s.

And then everything went black.

Priya woke up to the sensation of cold water being thrown in her face.

Her head throbbed with unbearable pain.

When she tried to reach her forehead, she realized her wrists were tied behind her back with rough ropes that cut into her skin.

She was in a basement.

The smell of mold and dampness invaded her nostrils.

A single lamp hanging from the ceiling swayed slightly, creating dancing shadows on the concrete walls.

You’re finally awake,” said a voice.

“It was the leader, the man in the white th.

But now there was blood on his clothes, not his own.

You caused a lot of trouble last night, Priya.

The memory came back like a punch in the stomach, the champagne bottle, the blood, the attempt to escape.

” “Where’s my sister?” she asked, her voice.

“What? What did you do to Angelie?” Next to the leader stood the fat man she had attacked.

He had a thick bandage on the side of his head and his eyes burned with hatred.

“Your sister has learned to be obedient,” he said with a cruel smile.

“Unlike you.

” Priya felt tears burning her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

The leader gestured and two guards entered, dragging three figures, Angelie, Nisha, and Cavia.

All were bound, all in torn and stained clothes, all with empty stairs of deep trauma.

When Angelie saw Priya, something returned to her eyes.

“Did?” she cried.

“Did I’m sorry.

I should have listened to you.

You were right.

” It’s not your fault, Anju,” Priya said, her voice breaking.

“None of this is your fault.

The four of them were forced to kneel side by side on the cold basement floor.

The leader walked slowly in front of them like a general inspecting troops.

“You cost my clients a lot of money,” he said calmly.

“The evening was ruined.

Very powerful men left dissatisfied.

This is unacceptable.

” Then let us go,” Cavia said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Please, we won’t tell anyone.

We’ll disappear.

You’ll never hear from us again.

” The leader laughed.

A cold, humorous sound.

“That’s right.

We’ll never hear from you again.

” He gave a signal and the guards pulled the four girls to their feet, pushing them toward a metal door at the back of the basement.

The door opened onto an outdoor area at the back of the property.

It was still early morning, the sky just beginning to lighten on the horizon.

The desert air was freezing.

There was a high concrete wall, and in front of it, four holes already dug in the sand.

Priya felt her knees buckle when she understood what she was seeing.

They weren’t just holes.

They were graves.

“No!” Nisha began to cry hysterically.

“Please, no! I have a sick mother.

She needs me.

Please, someone will look for us, Cavia shouted.

The authorities will find out.

You can’t just kill four women and think you’ll get away with it.

The leader approached her and grabbed her face tightly.

Silly girl.

Do you think you’re the first? There are dozens of girls buried in this desert.

Indians, Filipinos, Ethiopians, they all came with dreams of a better life.

They’re all down here now.

He pushed her away.

And yes, we get away with it.

We always get away with it.

Priya looked at Angelie, who was shaking violently beside her.

At that moment, all the words she wanted to say, all the apologies, all the declarations of love, all the regrets piled up in her throat.

“Anju, look at me,” Priya said softly.

Angelie turned her tear streaked face toward her sister.

“I love you.

I’ve always loved you and no matter what happens now, we’ll be together, okay? Mom and dad are waiting for us.

Don’t be afraid.

Angelie sobbed, pressing her forehead against Prius.

I love you too, Deei.

The guards brutally separated them, forcing each girl to kneel beside a grave.

Priya was placed at the head, followed by Cavia, Nisha, and finally Angelie.

Four men emerged from the darkness, each holding a gun.

Please, Priya begged one last time.

Not for herself, but for her sister.

She’s only 24.

Please let her live.

I’ll do anything.

The leader didn’t respond.

He just nodded.

The first rays of sunlight began to appear on the horizon, tinging the sky pink and gold.

It would be a beautiful dawn, the last one they would ever see.

Priya closed her eyes and thought of her mother.

She thought of the hot afternoons in Jaipur, the smell of spices in the market, the sound of Angelie’s laughter when they were children and played carefree in the backyard.

She heard Nisha praying softly.

She heard Cavia sobbing.

She heard Angelie calling for her.

Diddy, diddy, I’m scared.

I’m here, Anju.

I’m right here.

The sound of gunshots echoed across the empty desert.

Four bodies fell into the prepared graves.

And before the sun was fully up, sand was already being thrown over them, erasing any evidence that the Sharma sisters, Nisha Patel and Cavia Reddi, had ever existed.

The desert would keep another secret.

Four more lives cut short.

Four more families who would never know the truth.

In India, weeks later, the messages would start to arrive.

We are fine traveling.

We found new opportunities.

The families would believe them for a while.

Then they would start to worry.

Eventually they would file reports.

But without bodies, without evidence, without international jurisdiction, the cases would stall, be shelved, forgotten.

Just four more names in a growing statistic of missing women in the Middle East.

Just four more dreams turned into nightmares.

The mansion remained silent.

The men washed away the blood.

The servants returned to work.

And somewhere in Dubai, Leila Hassan, or whatever her real name was, was already searching for new victims on social media, preparing new messages, building new dreams that would become deadly traps.

The cycle would continue because evil, when not stopped, always continues.

Aunt Miraa Sharma sat every day on the porch of the small house in Jaipur, holding her cell phone in her trembling hands, waiting for a call that would never come.

Priya’s last messages had arrived 5 months ago.

Short, cold messages, unlike the warm way her niece used to write.

We’re fine.

We’ve decided to stay longer.

New opportunities.

Don’t worry about us.

Everything is perfect.

My phone number is going to change.

I’ll send you the new number soon.

After that, silence.

The number was out of service.

The social media profiles stopped being updated.

And despite promises to send money, nothing else arrived in the family’s account.

Meera had gone to the police three times.

The first time they told her she had to wait.

The second time they said the girls had probably decided to start a new life abroad.

The third time a tired police officer was more direct.

Mom, how many young women do you think disappear every year looking for work abroad? No bodies, no evidence, no case.

She had tried to contact elite Arabian models.

The website was down.

The Instagram profile had been deleted.

Leila Hassan who appeared in the videos Angelie had shown had simply disappeared from the internet as if she had never existed.

Mumbai, India, same period Nisha’s cousin who had been left in charge of caring for the girl’s sick mother looked at the framed photo on the wall.

Nisha was smiling, her eyes full of hope.

Her mother had died two months ago, calling her daughter’s name until her last breath.

Nisha never knew.

Nisha never came back to say goodbye.

The family had sold everything they owned to hire a private investigator.

He discovered that Nisha had boarded a flight to Dubai.

After that, nothing.

Airport cameras showed her leaving with three other girls and a man in a black suit.

After that, they simply disappeared.

The investigator was honest.

This happens a lot.

Girls are lured with promises of work.

When they arrive, their passports are confiscated.

Some end up in forced prostitution.

Others disappear completely.

Bangalore, India.

Cavier’s family apartment, Cavier’s father, a retired university professor had turned the search for his daughter into an obsession.

His office was covered with maps of Dubai, printouts of conversations Cavia had had with the agency, lists of phone numbers for the Indian embassy.

He had flown to Dubai himself, spending his life savings.

There he faced bureaucracy, indifference, and closed doors.

The Dubai police said there were no records of Cavia after she passed through immigration.

She must have left the country without registering.

They suggested maybe she went to another emirate or another country.

But Cavia’s father knew the truth in his heart.

His daughter was not traveling.

His daughter was not starting a new life.

His daughter was dead.

He just had no way to prove it.

Mumbai NGO office present.

Rashmi Desai was a lawyer who worked for an organization that combats human trafficking.

On her desk was a thick folder labeled missing person’s cases Dubai Emirates 2023 2024.

Inside the folder were photos of dozens of young women.

Priya and Angelie Sharma, Nisha Patel, Cavia Reddi, and so many others, all with similar stories, all contacted by modeling agencies, all promised well-paid work, all disappeared without a trace.

The pattern is always the same, Rashmi explained to an investigative journalist who had finally agreed to cover the story.

They use fake profiles on social media.

They build credibility with professional websites and fabricated testimonials.

When the girls arrive, they are isolated, their documents confiscated.

And then she didn’t need to finish the sentence.

The journalist Arjun Malhotra looked at the photos.

Young faces full of life, full of hope.

How many do you think there are? He asked.

Just in the last three years, conservatively about 200 Indian women.

But if we count Filipinos, Ethiopians, Nepoese, easily over a thousand.

And those are just the ones that have been reported.

How many families have never reported it out of shame or because they don’t know how.

Arjun started writing the article that night.

It would be published in a major national newspaper and cause a stir for a few days.

There would be protests, outrage on social media, promises of government action.

But in the end, the Sharma sisters would still be dead.

Nisha and Cavia would still be missing.

And somewhere in Dubai or Morocco or Tunisia, other predators would already be setting new traps for new victims.

Dubai, desert property.

Same night.

The woman in the black abaya swept the marble floor of the mansion.

She had been brought from Manila 5 years ago with promises of work as a maid.

Now she was a prisoner living only because she was useful, obedient, invisible.

She thought of the four Indian girls from 6 months ago.

She thought of how she had tried to warn them.

She thought about how their screams had echoed through the hallways that terrible night.

She thought about the holes in the desert.

she had seen while cleaning the back windows.

And she thought about her own daughter, who was the same age as the youngest of the Indian girls waiting for her in Manila, believing the lies that were sent through the confiscated phone.

Mommy is fine.

Mommy will be back soon.

Lies to cover up lies.

Lives destroyed to satisfy greed and cruelty.

She finished sweeping, turned off the lights, and returned to the small room where she slept, locked up every night.

Tomorrow would be another identical day, and in a few months, perhaps new girls would arrive, new victims with new dreams that would turn into nightmares.

The cycle never ended because as long as there is poverty, there will be despair.

As long as there is despair, there will be dreams.

And as long as there are dreams, there will be those who turn them into deadly traps.