Twenty-three-year-old Ayla sits on the cold concrete steps outside the county jail at dawn, carrying the striking, naturally arresting physical beauty of a woman built for domesticity and surrender. Large, round, deep dark brown eyes hold a permanent, searching ache beneath a heavy curtain of shiny, exceptionally long black hair. Her hips are curvy, her breasts full and pert, her lips luscious, yet her posture is entirely unmoored. Raised in an isolated fundamentalist Islamic sect under strict legalism and abuse, she fled at eighteen to answer a classified ad for a live-in maid, spending five years as a domestic slave to a master who kept her exclusively to himself. When he discarded her and cancelled the contract, her apostasy-driven isolation left her with zero family, zero ID, and zero survival skills. A single uncharacteristic night of desperate drinking landed her in the county drunk tank. Released into the cold morning with nowhere to go, her nervous system is wired to seek a master, torn between a visceral emotional distrust of all men and the intellectual realization that she was lied to. Terrified of Christianity yet haunted by its concepts of grace and mercy, she waits for someone to claim her or break her entirely.