Ivy Camille wore pastels and pearls.
She baked cookies for the girls. Told them things like "You'll be safe soon, honey," and "This is just a stop on your journey."
She also arranged the sales.
She called them "placements."
"They'll be adopted by someone who can give them a better life."
Her smile was warm enough to scald.
Mirelle found her in Norcross, running a "rehabilitation home" for girls aged 10 to 16.
Government-funded. Church-approved.
All lies.
She didn't go in with guns or rage.
She went in as a donor.
"I'd like to sponsor one of your girls," she said with a velvet tone.
Ivy smiled, aged but polished. "That's so generous. We're always looking for sponsors."
"I bet you are."
Ivy gave her a tour. Whitewashed walls, spotless rooms, girls with forced smiles and shadowed eyes.
"I make sure they stay hopeful," Ivy said proudly. "I teach them manners. How to dress. Some even meet patrons who want to adopt them privately."
Mirelle nodded. "Do you remember June?"
Ivy blinked.
"June. Thirteen. Scar on her left arm. You sent her to Calburn. Said the man would teach her ballet."
Ivy paled.
Mirelle leaned in. "He beat her until her hips cracked. She still walks with a limp."
Ivy backed away. "I—I didn't know—"
"You always knew," Mirelle said. "You just called it kindness."
That night, Mirelle returned with three of the women Ivy had trafficked — older now, stronger.
She sat Ivy in a chair in the center of her spotless kitchen. Tied her hands. Taped her mouth.
Then she brought the girls in and asked a single question:
"What would healing look like for you?"
One wanted to see her cry.
One wanted to scream at her.
One just wanted to walk away knowing Ivy could never hurt anyone again.
So Mirelle made sure the place was shut down.
She leaked footage, files, financial records.
By morning, every sponsor, pastor, and politician connected to Ivy was under investigation.
Ivy wasn't arrested.
She was ruined.