Natalie didn't flinch. Didn't soften.
That was the thing about her. Even when she broke, she broke beautifully—quietly, cleanly, like glass slipping from a windowsill. Not a sound beyond the echo in your chest.
The words—I love you—brushed against her ear like perfume. Fleeting. Designed to linger.
She could feel Chloe's breath, warm and pleading, against her neck. The wet strands of Chloe's hair clung to her shoulder, cool and intimate. But Natalie's eyes remained fixed on that empty point in space, as if looking too closely at Chloe might unravel something she wasn't ready to face.
I could take care of you.
That wasn't just an offer. It was a confession. A declaration of power disguised as tenderness.
Chloe exhaled slowly. Her hands trembled once—barely—and then stilled again, still curled into Natalie's shirt. She had always been the braver one between them, hadn't she? Braver in love, anyway. Willing to fall first. Willing to bleed.
"I love you," she repeated, this time softer, as though by gentling the words they might land safely.
Natalie finally turned her face, but not toward Chloe's. Her gaze moved past her—out the window, to the pale spill of moonlight on the floor.
Then her voice came, low and distant:
"I don't think you do."
It was cruel—not because it was loud, but because it wasn't. Because it sounded so reasonable. So final.
Chloe blinked. For the first time, she couldn't find her footing. Not in words. Not in touch.
"You think this is pretend?" she asked, barely more than breath.
Natalie didn't answer.
Silence settled like dust.
Then, finally, Natalie stood—slowly, as if rising from her own stillness had a cost. She adjusted her shirt, smoothed her hair behind one ear, and stepped past Chloe like they hadn't just shared something that should have meant everything.
At the doorway, she paused.
"Next time you're not home," she said, tone carefully neutral, "replace your lock sooner."
And then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, muffled but firm—a boundary drawn with finality.
Chloe stood alone in the apartment that no longer felt like hers, the silk robe clinging to her damp skin, and the echo of I love you still hanging in the air like steam that refused to vanish.
The air inside Chloe's apartment was thick with humidity, clinging to the silence like a second skin. Natalie sat stiff-backed on the arm of the sofa, her mind circling the same question over and over: What exactly does Chloe do during her so-called work hours?
The club wore its decadence like perfume—loud, expensive, and masking rot.
To a stranger, it passed for a high-end karaoke lounge. But anyone who knew Shanghai's undercurrents would recognize the place instantly and smirk.
Even in a business of pleasure, there's hierarchy.
The bottom rung hawk themselves on sidewalks like marked-down meat. Freelancers flirt their way through dating apps, running escort gigs on the side. But the top tier? They choose their clients. Their prices don't just buy bodies—they buy illusions.
And Chloe—Chloe was in a class of her own.
Pouring drinks was just for show. Whether she went home with anyone depended entirely on her mood.
The rich loved the pretense of elegance, and nothing elevated a yacht party or a business deal like a woman who could match their wine, wit, and wickedness. The biggest deals in history? More than a few were sealed in the company of a woman just like Chloe.
A private room door hung half open. Neon strobes bled into smoke-thick air. Inside, someone butchered a pop ballad while Chloe played the coquette—warm eyes, sharper wit.
When a drunk client slung his arm around her shoulder, she brushed him off with a light touch, her voice honeyed with just a hint of steel.
"Careful now. Keep that up and I might get mad."
She didn't sound angry. She didn't need to.
The man lurched forward again.
She stepped back without missing a beat.
The manager appeared like clockwork, laughing too loudly, scooping the man up like fallen trash.
"Not tonight, sir. But we've got newer girls—fresh faces, ready for anything."
Chloe smoothed her skirt, ignoring the muttered slurs in her wake. Frigid bitch. Tease. Nothing she hadn't heard before.
Her smile stayed locked in place. She walked the hallway in heels like knives, the slit in her gown flashing just enough to suggest, never promise.
The staff lounge was dead quiet at this hour.
Chloe was halfway out of her dress when a voice piped up from the corner. "Chlo!"
A girl with a chubby face and heavy eyeliner leaned back in a vanity chair. The kind of faux-lolita the older men doted on. She'd shown up last year—green as spring onions—and nearly passed out her first week from chugging too many cocktails. Chloe had saved her that night.
They weren't friends. Not really. In this line of work, friendship was just leverage waiting to be used. Still, they shared smokes. That counted for something.
"No clients tonight?" Chloe asked.
The girl smirked. "Didn't think the great Chloe still noticed the rest of us."
Chloe didn't blink. "Need something?"
The girl jumped up onto a couch arm, legs swinging. "Got someone waiting at home?"
Chloe paused halfway through buttoning her blouse. "Hmm?"
The girl flicked a cigarette box open. "Smoke?"
Out back, the alley was damp with spring wind.
The girl lit up and leaned close. "Thought you were quitting."
"Never said that."
"Sure. You've got that retirement glow."
Chloe exhaled, slow and quiet.
The girl elbowed her. "Still playing house with that trust-fund princess?"
Chloe laughed through her nose. "Obviously."
"Right. Like you'd ever let a golden goose just walk."
Chloe didn't answer. Just smoked.
The girl tilted her head, teasing. "What, can't handle her?"
Chloe turned, calm as ever. "There's no one I can't handle."
The girl grinned and looped an arm through hers. "That's more like it. You hook the big fish, cash out, and toss the rest of us a bone, yeah? I don't wanna still be stuck here at your age."
No wonder nobody likes you, Chloe thought, flicking ash to the ground.
She lit another cigarette. Unusual for her.
They stood in silence until Chloe gave the girl's head a rough pat and pulled away.
"Good luck, little sister."
She stepped into the night. "Getting out isn't as easy as it looks."
Natalie was a good sponsor.
And by Chloe's standards, a good sponsor boiled down to four simple traits: rich, naive, generous, and…well, stupid.
It had been less than twelve hours since Natalie broke into her apartment—lock cleanly cracked—and already Chloe was sitting in the gilded quiet of her Upper East Side condo, signing over the deed.
A sleek wire transfer landed in her account shortly after Natalie left that morning. A driver showed up with a new set of car keys, a hot-off-the-printer lease transfer, and—because of course—a prepaid black card. Every piece was handled swiftly, efficiently, and with an almost absurd level of trust. If word got out among the veteran sugar daddies of New York's underworld, they'd die laughing.
Rookie move.
That was the kindest way Chloe could put it. She didn't have the heart to call Natalie stupid—she was too earnest for that. But then again, being earnest with a whore? That's exactly what made her stupid.
Even in bed, Natalie was inexperienced in a way Chloe found oddly touching. No kinks, no games, no demands for degradation. Just a quiet, intense need to be pleased—and an unguarded gratitude when Chloe delivered.
Easiest money she'd ever made.
And the girl wasn't hard to look at, either. Natalie had the kind of body most men paid to ruin—smooth skin, lithe waist, legs like they belonged in an ad campaign. Far better than the flabby, entitled hands Chloe usually had to tolerate. The way Natalie gasped, trembling under her touch, sometimes even stirred something in Chloe she thought long dead.
Natalie called her "Big Sister."
Chloe had been called far worse—sweet things, filthy things, degrading things. She didn't care what they said in the moment. Whether Natalie used the term to mask her own desire, or because she got off on the taboo of it, Chloe didn't ask. Her job wasn't to question—it was to serve. Her body, her dignity, her silence—all packaged neatly for the client's fantasy. If the client was God, Chloe was whatever God needed her to be.
When Natalie came, her eyes lit with a kind of rapture. Chloe responded in kind—soft moans, tender looks, the illusion of intimacy. But once the sheets cooled, Chloe tossed it aside like every other act. Desire was smoke. Fleeting, meaningless. She'd been abandoned too many times, used too many ways. There was nothing left to hurt.a
She wasn't young anymore. The glow of youth, the bloom that made men hungry, would soon leave her like all things do. Every girl in her line of work knew it—when youth fades, so does your worth. Some fought it. Some welcomed it. To Chloe, it felt like a long, filthy tunnel finally giving way to light. Maybe then, she'd be allowed to stop.
She didn't take offense when the younger girls made snide remarks behind her back. It was true. Her time was almost up.
And then Natalie happened.
Chloe never meant to reel her in. Natalie had seemed fresh out of college—clean, reserved, almost out of place amid the champagne haze and pulsing bass of downtown lounges. She didn't talk much. Ordered two bottles of wine with stiff politeness. Could barely handle a harmless flirt, yet watched Chloe a beat too long as she bent down to pick up a dropped bill.
Just one look. That's all it took.
Natalie probably didn't even realize it herself. But Chloe? She knew that look. Desire, dressed in confusion.
A mark, plain and simple.
And Chloe wasn't about to let that walk away.
After all—a sale's a sale.
Chloe set down the pen.
Outside the window, the early summer sun soaked the treetops in gold.
Summer came fast this year.
It was an hour past official closing when Natalie's assistant finished her final report.
The new campaign decks had been sorted, revisions marked, action points summarized. Natalie remained seated, legs crossed, elbow resting on her chair's arm. Her crisp white blouse lay half-unbuttoned, revealing the edge of her collarbone. Auburn waves draped over her shoulder. The dying sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her in fire and glass—elegant, distant, slightly worn.
"Stay."
Natalie's voice was soft, but final.
The assistant hesitated, then sat back down. She knew this wasn't a business debrief. She'd been with Natalie long enough to recognize that expression—brows slightly furrowed, lips not quite smiling, as if unsure whether the truth was funny or tragic.
She waited.
Natalie stared at the edge of her desk for a long time. Her fingers tapped once. Then stopped.
By the time she spoke, the sun had almost disappeared.
Her eyes lifted slowly, face unreadable, mouth curling into a strange, bitter grin.
"I'm keeping a woman," Natalie said.
Her assistant nodded, hesitated, then spoke with effort.
"I know."
She had been the one who arranged the deed transfer, after all.
Natalie let out a long sigh and slumped into her chair, pressing a hand to her forehead. The words came out again—half-laugh, half-lament.
"I'm keeping a woman."
The assistant nearly laughed, but caught herself just in time. She bit back a smile and replied gently, "It's not exactly scandalous. Happens all the time."
Natalie narrowed her eyes. "I genuinely can't believe I did it."
This time, the assistant couldn't hold it in. A soft laugh slipped out. "Honestly? Neither can I."
A silence settled between them.
"I actually like Miss Zhou," the assistant said after a moment, her voice measured. "Just… be cautious. She doesn't seem like trouble."
Natalie gave another sigh—and nodded again.
It took Chloe less than a day to orchestrate the move. She wrapped up everything at the lounge within three. Every remnant of her old life was cleared out with ruthless efficiency—contacts deleted, messages scrubbed, past lovers erased with a keystroke. If anything, she thought, she was the picture of a perfect mistress.
Natalie hadn't shown her face in weeks, but everything still ran like clockwork. One of Natalie's assistants—likely the same one who processed the property documents—added Chloe on MSN, politely calling her "Miss Zhou" and offering to relay any requests. Chloe messaged Natalie three times. No replies. She gave up, easily.
Why stress over a benefactor who clearly didn't want to be seen?
She focused instead on her new home.
A townhouse like this—sun-drenched, nestled in the Upper East Side, with a southern-facing garden and enough square footage to make a Park Avenue wife cry—was something most people couldn't afford in three lifetimes. Natalie had tossed it her way like it was nothing. What a life.
Apparently, it used to be Natalie's college place. The décor was sparse—cold, even. But after two weeks of soft touches and a woman's eye, Chloe had transformed it. The space now felt warm, calm, quietly elegant. Exactly the sort of aesthetic she thought Natalie would like.
But Natalie never came.
What's the matter, sweetheart?
Scared?
What are you afraid of, little girl?
You kissed me first.
You handed me the key card.
You gave me the house key.
You said the words.
So why flinch now?
We're all human. We crave, we sin, we rot.
June was the season of blooms.
With the townhouse's perfect light and space, Chloe filled the terrace with flowers. The gardenias came into full bloom—heady and fragrant, their scent stretching through the empty halls like an unanswered question.
Natalie had just wrapped a long day, slipping out of a meeting as the summer twilight dipped behind Manhattan's skyline. Her phone buzzed once.
A message from Chloe.
"The gardenias are blooming. Thought you might want to see them."
In the parking garage, Natalie fastened her seatbelt—but didn't start the engine.
The phone buzzed again.
"If you don't come soon, they'll start to wilt."
Something in her chest softened, caved.
That woman.