The sunlight was an asshole.
It streamed through the crack in my cheap curtains like it had a personal vendetta against me, stabbing me right in the eyes until I groaned and threw my arm over my face. Another day, another reminder that life hated me.
Rent. That cursed word clawed its way into my head before I was even fully awake. I sat up, hair a mess of wild fiery curls, sticking in every direction like I'd fought a tornado in my sleep and lost. My ginger hair had always been the first thing people noticed about me—too bright, too loud, too much. Kind of like me.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand, already dreading what I'd see. My bank app loaded slowly, like it enjoyed mocking me. Finally, the number appeared on the screen.
"Oh, fantastic," I muttered, tossing the phone onto the bed. "Seventy-two dollars and thirty-six cents. I'm basically swimming in riches."
I kicked the blanket off, dragging myself to the bathroom. The cracked mirror greeted me with a reflection that screamed hangover chic. My eyeliner was smudged, my lipstick from last night faded into a crooked stain. I leaned in closer, poking at the green eyes staring back at me.
"Scarlett, babe, you're screwed."
I rinsed my face, reapplied lipstick, and decided I could either cry about my problems or look hot while ignoring them. Guess which option I chose?
By the time I walked out of the bathroom, I was wrapped in a towel, hair dripping down my back, and already rehearsing how I'd grovel to my landlord. He'd warned me last month: pay up or pack up. My lease was up in a week, and unless the heavens dropped a miracle—or, more realistically, a man with too much money and not enough sense—I was screwed.
I didn't come to the city to fail. I didn't leave my boring small town with its gossiping neighbors and dusty gas stations to crawl back like some loser. No, I came here to be rich, adored, dripping in diamonds. And if the only path was through high heels, champagne, and fake laughs at rich men's bad jokes? So be it.
By the time evening rolled around, I was ready.
____________
The Velvet Room wasn't your typical bar. No neon lights or sticky floors. This place screamed money. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, golden light bouncing off the polished mahogany. The air smelled of expensive whiskey and desperate ambition.
I strutted in, wearing my emerald-green gown that hugged all the right places. The slit went high enough to tease but not scandalize—at least not in this crowd. My heels clicked against the marble, announcing me before I even spoke. Heads turned. They always did.
"Scarlett, darling," purred Lila, one of the other girls, leaning against the bar in her scarlet-red dress that matched her name far better than mine ever had. "Late night?"
"Late rent," I shot back, sliding onto a stool.
She laughed, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Aren't we all?"
The bartender poured me a glass of champagne—on the house, perks of keeping the big spenders happy. I sipped, scanning the crowd. Men in tailored suits lounged in velvet booths, cigars smoldering in their fingers, watches glinting under the low lights. Every one of them reeked of money. And loneliness.
Perfect combination.
"Scarlett, table three," whispered Marco, the bar's manager, giving me a nod. "Big tipper. Play nice."
I slid off the stool, plastered on my best smirk, and approached the table. Three men, mid-forties, red-faced from too much whiskey. They were the easy kind. Lonely husbands who liked to be reminded they were still desirable.
"Well, gentlemen," I purred, setting down their next round. "Hope you're thirsty, because I pour better than anyone in this city."
That got a laugh. One of them slipped a fifty into my hand like it was nothing. I leaned close, let my hair brush against his arm, whispered something about him looking younger than his friends. It was a lie, but lies were part of the job.
By nine, I'd collected enough tips to make my landlord sweat a little less. Not enough to cover rent, but enough to buy me time.
And then Trevor walked in.
____________
I spotted him the moment he waddled through the doors. Short. Fat. Expensive suit that screamed trying too hard. His head gleamed under the chandelier, and his thick fingers jingled a watch so gaudy it practically blinded me.
"Real estate mogul," whispered Lila under her breath as she passed me. "He's yours tonight."
Of course he was.
Trevor's piggy eyes swept the room before landing on me. His grin spread wide, teeth too white, too sharp.
"You." He pointed, like he was picking out a slab of meat. "You'll do."
I wanted to gag, but instead I smiled sweetly. "Lucky me."
He led me to a booth, his hand already hovering too close to my back. I slid in across from him, poured his champagne, and gave him the smile that usually made men empty their wallets.
"So, Scarlett," he drawled, eyes dipping straight to my cleavage. "You're one of those escorts, huh?"
"I prefer professional companion," I said, raising my glass. "Sounds prettier."
He chuckled, and for the next half hour I played the game. I laughed at his terrible jokes, let him talk about his money, his cars, his buildings. I touched his arm lightly, brushed my hair over my shoulder, gave him the illusion that he was interesting.
The tips kept stacking.
And then his hand brushed my thigh.
I froze for half a second, then forced a laugh, sliding his hand away casually. Strike one.
He tried again, bolder this time, fingers grazing my hip. I set my glass down, leaned in close, my smile sharp enough to cut.
"Do that again, and I'll break your wrist."
His eyes widened, then narrowed. He chuckled, raising his hands like surrender. "Okay, okay. No need to get feisty."
But Trevor wasn't the type to listen.
By the third time, when his hand slid higher, I snapped.
I slapped his hand away so hard the smack echoed. Then I grabbed the nearest glass of champagne and tossed it straight in his face. The liquid splashed down his suit, soaking his shirt, dripping off his nose.
"Fuck off, Trevor." I stood, glaring down at him. "You don't get to touch me just because you can't buy a personality."
The bar went quiet. Eyes turned. Trevor sputtered, wiping champagne from his face.
"You're an escort!" he shouted. "Why the hell can't you handle a little touching?"
I scoffed, backing away. "Because I'm not desperate enough to let a pig put his hands on me."
He lurched to his feet, and I kept moving, my heart pounding. My heels clicked as I backed up, step after step, until I collided with something solid.
Someone.
I spun around—and froze.
Broad shoulders. Jet-black hair. Stormy gray eyes that locked onto mine with a calm intensity that stole my breath. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and dimples cut deep into his smirk.
And without thinking twice, I grabbed his hand, turned back to Trevor, and said, "Because I'm his woman."