Eric Reid-Leveson was a prostitute.
Not an escort, not a companion, not a gigolo, though those words sounded classier on business cards. Strip away the euphemisms and the truth was simple: he fucked women for money. At twenty-two years old, with a PhD in Business Administration gathering dust on his apartment wall, Eric had become the walking embodiment of wasted potential.
Or brilliant improvisation, depending on your perspective.
He cut an impressive figure, there was no denying that. Messy copper-orange hair framed his face in waves that caught light like autumn fire, giving him a slightly wild yet elegant look. His eyes were vivid, crystalline blue, large and expressive, standing out sharply against his warm hair color and pale complexion. At 183 centimeters and an athletic 75 kilograms, Eric looked like he'd been designed in a laboratory for maximum appeal.
And he had the credentials to match his looks. A PhD earned at twenty, three years ahead of schedule. Published research. Academic accolades. Everything his foster parents had invested in, polished to perfection.
Everything except the ambition to use it conventionally.
But Eric's story, like most stories worth telling, began long before his current profession.
Bright Hope Orphanage hadn't known what to do with him. While other children struggled with basic arithmetic, six-year-old Eric was reading university textbooks he'd smuggled from the donation pile. While his peers played tag in the courtyard, he sat in corners solving logic puzzles in his head, those crystalline blue eyes distant and calculating.
The other children called him a freak. The caretakers called him gifted. The couple who eventually adopted him called him perfect.
Professor Judith Winters and Attorney Robert Winters were everything an ambitious orphan could pray for: educated, wealthy, and desperate for a child who could carry their intellectual legacy. They saw Eric's test scores, his recommendations, those sharp eyes that seemed to catalogue and analyze everything, and they knew they'd found their successor.
Eric became the ideal child because he had no choice. When you grow up unwanted, you learn to become whatever keeps the roof over your head. He devoured every book Judith assigned. He absorbed every legal principle Robert explained over dinner. He molded himself into their vision of academic perfection, burying his own desires so deep he almost forgot they existed.
Almost.
The thing about suppression is that it only works until it doesn't. And for Eric, the dam broke the moment he left for university on a full scholarship to Westmarch Institute of Business. Away from watchful parental eyes, surrounded by freedom and opportunity and women, oh God, the women, Eric discovered he had appetites. Voracious ones.
His messy copper-orange hair turned heads everywhere. Those crystalline blue eyes made women lean in closer when he spoke. At 183 centimeters with an athletic build, Eric looked like walking temptation. And his charm, honed by years of carefully managing adult expectations, worked even better on his peers.
He graduated at twenty with a PhD in Business Administration, three years ahead of schedule. His dissertation on disruptive market economics earned academic praise. His foster parents beamed with pride at the ceremony, already planning his future in consulting or academia.
Eric had other plans. Or rather, Eric had no plans at all, which was precisely the problem.
The Winters had set him up reasonably well. A modest sum of money, enough for a year's expenses. A small apartment in Stardale, a city cheap enough for a recent graduate to get his bearings. All he had to do was find a respectable position and begin his climb up the ladder of success.
Instead, Eric discovered that freedom tasted like expensive whiskey and cheap perfume. The money his foster parents gave him evaporated in six months, spent on a blur of bars, clubs, hotel rooms, and women. So many women. Eric loved them all: tall ones, short ones, confident ones, shy ones, the way they laughed, the way they moved, the way they looked at him like he was something special. And the sex. Sweet Jesus, the sex. It turned out years of academic discipline had left him with considerable stamina and focus when properly motivated.
By month seven, Eric was broke. By month eight, his foster parents had stopped returning his calls. The lawyer and the professor had invested in a prodigy and gotten back a hedonist. The disappointment in their final email, cold and clinical, stung worse than Eric had expected.
Welcome to adulthood, kid. You're on your own.
Stardale wasn't kind to overqualified PhD holders with no work experience and mounting debts. Every corporate position wanted five years in the field. Every startup wanted someone who'd already succeeded elsewhere. His degree, earned so young, made him seem like a risky investment. Too educated to be entry-level, too inexperienced to be anything else.
Eric spent three months applying to jobs, watching his savings account hit zero, eating ramen, and contemplating the cosmic joke of his existence. He had a fucking doctorate in business and couldn't afford to keep his electricity on.
It was during one of these contemplative moments, hungover and sprawled on his couch, that Eric had his revelation. He'd been approaching this all wrong. He did have a marketable skill. He'd been honing it for years without realizing it was worth anything.
He was exceptional in bed.
Not just good. Exceptional. Every woman he'd been with had told him so, usually multiple times and at increasing volumes. He had stamina, technique, and that rarest of qualities: he actually paid attention to what his partners enjoyed. Plus, he had the looks, the charm, and the equipment. Several ex-lovers had commented, with varying degrees of awe and intimidation, that he was remarkably well-endowed. One had even measured, just to confirm what she'd suspected. The numbers had been impressive enough that Eric had briefly considered it a professional qualification worth advertising.
Why not monetize it?
The logic was sound. People paid for expertise in every other field. Why should this be different? He was providing a service, fulfilling a need, operating in a market with clear demand. It was just basic economics, really.
His first client came through a discreet app that connected providers with seekers. A divorced businesswoman in her forties, lonely and willing to pay for company. Eric showed up in a decent shirt, poured on the charm, and three hours later walked away with more money than a week of job applications had earned him. She'd tipped generously and asked when he was available again.
That was two years ago.
Now, at twenty-two, Eric had refined his operation into something approaching an art form. He had regulars, premium rates, and a reputation that spread through certain circles. He'd learned the business side: when to be available, how to screen clients, how to make each woman feel special rather than transactional. His PhD in Business Administration, so useless for corporate jobs, turned out to be remarkably applicable to running a one-man service enterprise.
The money was good. Not rich, but comfortable. More importantly, the work itself aligned perfectly with his interests. He got paid to do what he loved. How many people could say that?
Still, there was a hollowness to it sometimes. Late at night, alone in his apartment, Eric wondered if this was it. If this was all he'd ever be. A very successful prostitute in a small city, servicing bored wives and lonely professionals. His foster parents' disappointment echoed in those moments.
'All that potential, wasted,' he could hear Robert's voice saying.
But then his phone would ring, and he'd push the thoughts aside. Time to work.
Saturday morning, Eric's phone buzzed at 9 AM. He groaned, rolling over in bed, squinting at the screen. Unknown number, but the message was direct enough.
"Are you available tonight? Will pay double your usual rate. Discretion required."
Eric sat up, suddenly very awake. 'Double rate,' he thought, mind already calculating. 'That's serious money.'
His usual rate wasn't cheap. He'd positioned himself as premium service, not budget entertainment. Double that meant this client was either very wealthy or very desperate. Probably both.
He typed back quickly.
"Available. Send address and time."
The response came within seconds. An address in Maple Heights, the wealthy part of Stardale where the city's elite lived behind gates and carefully maintained facades. Time: 8 PM.
'Well, well,' Eric mused, a smile tugging at his lips. 'Let's see what Maple Heights has to offer.'
He spent the day preparing with the same attention he'd once given to academic presentations. Long shower, careful shave, his most expensive cologne, the one that had cost half a week's rent but always earned compliments. Dark jeans that fit perfectly, emphasizing his athletic build without being obvious. A fitted black shirt that showed off the results of his gym routine.
Presentation mattered. First impressions set the tone for everything that followed, and Eric had learned to make his first impressions count.
He arrived at 7:55 PM because punctuality was professional, and professionalism was what separated him from amateurs. The building was impressive, all glass and steel reaching into the Stardale sky like a middle finger to the ordinary. The doorman, a stern man in his fifties with the expressionless face of someone paid very well to not ask questions, waved Eric through without a word.
Twenty-third floor. Corner unit.
Eric checked his reflection in the elevator's mirrored walls as it climbed. Copper-orange hair artfully messy, crystalline blue eyes sharp and alert, shirt sitting just right across his shoulders. He looked good. He always looked good.
The elevator dinged softly. Showtime.
Through the hallway windows, Stardale spread out below like scattered jewels, the city lights glittering against the darkness. Eric found the door marked 23-C and knocked twice, firm but not aggressive.
The woman who answered made even Eric's practiced composure falter for half a second.
Stunning didn't quite cover it. She was late thirties, maybe touching forty, with dark hair cascading over bare shoulders in waves that suggested both elegance and wildness. Her silk robe, deep burgundy and clinging to curves that money and discipline had maintained beautifully, left very little to imagination. But it was her eyes that caught him, dark and intelligent, sweeping over Eric with the frank, assessing gaze of someone used to buying exactly what she wanted.
"You're even better looking than your profile suggested," she said, her voice smooth and confident. She stepped aside, gesturing him in with a smile that held promising edges. "I'm Mrs. DeVane."
'DeVane,' Eric's mind catalogued instantly. 'DeVane Financial. Her husband practically owns half of Stardale's commercial real estate.' He kept his expression warm, professional, charming. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. DeVane."
"Call me Isabelle." She closed the door with a soft click that sounded very final. "My husband is in Capitol City for the weekend. Business." The word tasted bitter in her mouth. "Always business. Meetings, deals, networking. Which means I have the entire weekend to myself, and I intend to make the most of it."
The condo was exactly what Eric expected from Stardale's elite. Minimalist furniture that probably cost more than cars, abstract art that looked expensive because it was, floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city. Everything screamed money and taste in equal measure.
Isabelle poured wine from a bottle Eric recognized from a magazine article about the world's most expensive vintages. Each glass probably cost more than his monthly rent. She handed him one, her fingers brushing his deliberately, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"So," she settled onto a leather couch that looked like it cost more than Eric's entire living room, "tell me about yourself. And please, skip the usual escort small talk. I'm paying you double specifically so we don't have to pretend this is a date."
Eric appreciated the directness. He sat close, intimate but not invasive. "What would you like to know?"
"Are you from Stardale?"
"Born and raised." The lie came smooth as the wine. Clients never wanted real stories. "Freelance consultant. Very discreet."
"Consultant." Isabelle's smile turned amused. "How wonderfully corporate. You're young, though. Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
"Twenty-two."
"And already so good at this work." She studied him over her wine glass. "That's either impressive or sad, I haven't decided which. Do you enjoy it?"
Most clients didn't ask. They wanted fantasy, not reality. But Isabelle seemed genuinely curious. "I enjoy making women happy," Eric said, which was true enough. "I'm good at reading what people want and giving it to them."
"Diplomatic." Isabelle set down her glass, the movement making her robe shift in ways that were absolutely intentional. "Then let me be direct about what I want. I want to forget, for one night, that I'm forty years old. That I've been married fifteen years to a man who sleeps in a different bedroom. That I run a charity foundation that bores me to tears while my husband builds his empire. That I have obligations stacked like cordwood, making up my perfectly respectable, perfectly empty life."
She stood, moving closer, and Eric caught the scent of her perfume, something floral and devastatingly expensive. "I want someone who looks at me like I'm the most desirable woman in the world. Who makes me feel twenty-five again. Who makes me forget about everything except right now."
Her hand traced along his jawline, fingers warm against his skin. "Can you do that for me, Eric?"