Intro:
I wasn't supposed to take off my clothes.
No.
I shouldn't even be here.
Not in this club.
Not in this barely-there dress that keeps riding up my thighs.
Not in this shaky heels that feel like a threat to my dignity.
And definitely not in this private suite, blindfolded, standing in front of a stranger who's paying to watch me fake confidence I don't have.
Anonymity wasn't supposed to feel like this.
So quiet.
So still.
This was meant to be simple.
Foreplay only. He could touch my breasts, maybe rub me through my panties, and I'd leave with enough cash to cover rent.
Or maybe that's just how I wanted it to go.
Because when this stranger finally spoke, I thought I'd heard wrong.
But then, clearer:
"Touch yourself."
His voice made me gasp. It made my knees weak. It made the room feel hot, made my lungs forget how to work, made me wish I could rip off this blindfold and see the face behind that voice.
My fingers froze at the hem of my dress.
My heart stopped. And I stood there, wondering if this was survival... or stupidity.
"Okay," I muttered, reaching for the door.
"I can't do this."
–––––––––
My name is Zoey Blossoms Faye. Yeah, Zoey Blossoms. That's my first name.
I'm twenty one, freshly graduated with a degree I'm not even sure I'd survive in. I juggle two jobs: By day, I'm an intern at a local radio station and at night, I pour drinks at a bar just to scrape together a few extra grands.
It's 7:00 a.m, and I'm already on my way to work because apparently, I suck at being a slut and I'm too shy for TikTok videos.
Also, I haven't exactly figured out what I'm good at yet.
And one more thing; I'm way too clueless to even try forex and way too broke to fail at it.
But rent doesn't care about any of that.
I'm not a Nepo baby. Not even officially a Lapo one.
I'm just Zoey Blossoms , a broke girl trying to afford groceries and dreams at the same time.
BUZZBAR RADIO 98.9
Newsroom – 8:00 a.m.
Phones ringing. Coffee brewing. Footsteps fast.
"I can't believe Stacy called in sick at the last damn minute," Mrs. Keene muttered, eyes darting over her clipboard. Then louder:
"Zoey Blossoms Faye, you're taking this call."
"Me?" I blinked, half-spilling the coffee I was about to drop on her desk.
I'd been fetching lattes and plugging wires for three months. Did she just say me?
"Don't just stand there." Her eyes didn't even meet mine. "Make your way to Grand. Right now."
Around me, the office buzzed with motion. Everyone hurrying. Papers, cameras, coats. I stepped forward, then back. Forward again. My heart was already racing.
Teejay, one of the senior interns, who was also my friend, stopped in front of me and shoved notepad into my hand. "Interview questions," he said. "Stacy asked me to give 'em to whoever was going in her place."
"Thanks, Tee." My voice came out small with a relief.
From the corner, Dana's stare landed sharply on me. Dana didn't need to say anything. That glare told me everything and nothing I could fix.
I quickly arranged my table and grabbed my bag, clutching it tighter as I took a deep breath.
Okay. You wanted a shot, Zoey Blossoms.
Here it is.
"Get answers to as many questions as you can." Mrs Keene hollered as I darted out the door.
––––––
I stood in front of the building, swallowing the lump in my throat. It was sleek, modern and impossibly grand; definitely something my dreams can't afford. But I was here, and I had a job to do.
I stepped inside.
And the chaos of Seattle city was immediately muted beneath double-glass insulation. Every detail from the polished marble floor to the discreet security cameras felt like a reminder to visitors that this wasn't just business.
This was power.
"Hi. Stacy Everett from BUZZBAR, right?" the receptionist said as soon as she saw me.
"Oh... I'm actually here on Stacy's behalf" I said softly, fumbling with my ID before holding it up. "I'm Zoey Blossoms Faye."
"Hello, BUZZBAR, right? Welcome," another woman with a secretary tag on her dress walked in, smiling as she gently took my jacket. "I'll take it from here," she said to the receptionist, then turned and led me down a long, glass-paneled hallway.
"Mr. Grand is expecting you," she said, knocking once on a tall door.
I gave her a nervous smile. "Thank you."
She opened the door for me but didn't step inside, just closed it behind me with a quiet click.
I inhaled, taking in the beauty of the large and open office, designed to impress without a hint of clutter. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the vast, impressive city view as if it were artwork. Every detail felt deliberate. Every angle, every object, so precise it was almost unnerving.
He was sitting there, eyes shut, hands clasped together. Young. Sharp suit. Clean. He looked like someone who didn't have time for distractions or people like me.
I took a minute to search for my voice, my eyes darting the room to focus on anything to calm my nerves.
A silent air conditioner kept the room at a perfect chill despite the heat outside. On one side, a framed newspaper headline announced the company's billion-dollar merger like a warning to anyone thinking small.
A black marble desk stretched out, polished to a mirror sheen. Behind the desk, an oversized map of Washington gleamed in gold trim, and on top the desk, a globe bore pins, marking company offices across the world.
"Good day.. Mr. Grand," I finally found my voice.
His eyes snapped open. I flinched. He didn't say a word, just stared.
I cleared my throat. "I'm Zoey Blossoms Faye."
Still, he stared; not rude, not warm either.
I couldn't tell if it was my two-plaited hair, or the white hose under my dress that put him off. Yeah, I know I'm not exactly dressed for this, wasn't expecting to be here.
"Zoey," he finally said.
"No. Zoey Blossoms," I corrected softly.
"Zoey or Blossoms?"
I gave a little shrug, looking down. "Both."
He smirked. "Sounds like a poem." Then, after a long breath, "Have a seat."
I sat carefully, knees tight together and tried not to fidget.
Then I inhaled deeply.
"I'm from Buzzbar News," I managed.
He raised a brow. "What's that?"
My stomach twisted. "It's the name of the station."
He didn't reply. Just leaned back a little, eyes still on me, with a quiet observation.
I could feel sweat pooling at the back of my neck.
I reached into my bag, searching for the note pad Stacy had scribbled the interview questions. But they weren't there.
My heart skipped. My fingers moved faster.
No notepad. No questions. No backup plan.
I had walked straight into the lion's den in ballerina flats and forgot the question.