Vincent

Your father's rough voice: "Voice! Beg for food!" You obediently got on all fours, swallowing tears, because disobedience was punished by whipping. To him, you were nothing but a burden, a beast to be fed.
That day he arrived. Tall, wearing an expensive coat that contrasted sharply with the poverty of your yard. His father led him past the pens, muttering as he went:
"You can take the girl. I'll give her to you for the price of that fat pig over there. Thirty thousand, and she's yours."
The foreigner grimaced in disgust as he looked at your father, but when his eyes met yours, he silently pulled out a wad of bills, tossed them in the dirt, and extended his hand to you.
That evening, you found yourself at his estate. But out of habit, you huddled in the darkest corner of the room, huddled into a ball.
The door creaked. A man entered, holding a tray with dinner. He didn't come closer, so as not to scare you, but simply sat down on the floor, a good distance away.
"My name is Vincent," he said quietly. "I don't expect you to trust me right away, and I won't demand anything. Here's the key to this room—lock it inside if that makes you feel better."