My heart pounded like a drum in my chest as my step-uncle Johnson shoved me face-down onto the massive king-sized bed in his dimly lit penthouse bedroom. The silk sheets felt cool against my naked skin, but I was anything but calm—trembling from head to toe, my petite 22-year-old body quivering with a toxic mix of fear, desperation, and something darker I didn’t want to name.

My bank account was drier than a desert, and that Rihanna concert next week? It was my one shot at escape, at ...