Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
You are reading Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy, Chapter 10: Chapter 10. Read more chapters of Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy.
The business card had been gathering dust in my drawer for two weeks.
I went back to see the apartment again.
The price had gone up three percent—just a tiny bump on paper, but it added up to nearly a thousand bucks per square foot.
A hundred and twenty grand more. Just like that.
Xiangslaved his whole life and never even owned his own rickshaw.
I was starting to get it now.
At life's turning points, luck and timing matter more than sweat.
No matter how many massages I gave, no matter how many extra shifts I pulled, a month's pay couldn't keep up with a single price hike.
At this rate, saving up would take me four years.
And who knew how much worse it'd be by then?
If things kept going like this, I'd never own that apartment. Never live like those locals who struck gold just because their grandparents' land got bought out.
So I finally called Vincent Roland.
"Two days from now, I'll pick you up," he said. "Buy yourself something professional—dress sharp. And wear black stockings."
Two days later, he pulled up in a BMW 7 Series.
"Listen, today you're my intern. We're going to a business dinner."
"Those guys are around your age. Keep them happy, and I'll give you fifty grand."
At the restaurant, Vincent walked in first.
A group of sharply dressed young men looked up at me in unison.
Their stares weren't just hungry—they were ravenous. More intense than any client at the spa.
"This is Jessica, our new intern," Vincent said, his usual arrogance replaced by sycophantic charm.
Then it hit me—what he'd told me before.
These were the city's spoiled princelings, the kind of problem only his world had.
Later, we ended up at a high-end karaoke lounge.
One of them owned it—just a side project his family threw money at to keep him busy.
Between drinks, he casually mentioned the place was worth two of my dream apartments.
For the first time, I really felt the gap—not just in money, but in the way the world worked for them versus me.
I got drunk that night.
When I woke up, I was naked on the VIP couch, my body sore, my thighs sticky with blood.
The floor was littered with used condoms, knotted and discarded.
Only Vincent was still there.
"Don't look at me like that. I didn't touch you," he said, lighting a cigarette with a bitter smirk.
"No point lying. After they were done, the deal went through. I'll give you an extra fifty as compensation."
He pulled a stack of cash from his trunk and dropped it into my arms.
"Not a word about tonight."
I nodded, numb.
Back home, I cried again.
Only the second time since I'd come to this city.
I went back to see the apartment again.
The price had gone up three percent—just a tiny bump on paper, but it added up to nearly a thousand bucks per square foot.
A hundred and twenty grand more. Just like that.
Xiangslaved his whole life and never even owned his own rickshaw.
I was starting to get it now.
At life's turning points, luck and timing matter more than sweat.
No matter how many massages I gave, no matter how many extra shifts I pulled, a month's pay couldn't keep up with a single price hike.
At this rate, saving up would take me four years.
And who knew how much worse it'd be by then?
If things kept going like this, I'd never own that apartment. Never live like those locals who struck gold just because their grandparents' land got bought out.
So I finally called Vincent Roland.
"Two days from now, I'll pick you up," he said. "Buy yourself something professional—dress sharp. And wear black stockings."
Two days later, he pulled up in a BMW 7 Series.
"Listen, today you're my intern. We're going to a business dinner."
"Those guys are around your age. Keep them happy, and I'll give you fifty grand."
At the restaurant, Vincent walked in first.
A group of sharply dressed young men looked up at me in unison.
Their stares weren't just hungry—they were ravenous. More intense than any client at the spa.
"This is Jessica, our new intern," Vincent said, his usual arrogance replaced by sycophantic charm.
Then it hit me—what he'd told me before.
These were the city's spoiled princelings, the kind of problem only his world had.
Later, we ended up at a high-end karaoke lounge.
One of them owned it—just a side project his family threw money at to keep him busy.
Between drinks, he casually mentioned the place was worth two of my dream apartments.
For the first time, I really felt the gap—not just in money, but in the way the world worked for them versus me.
I got drunk that night.
When I woke up, I was naked on the VIP couch, my body sore, my thighs sticky with blood.
The floor was littered with used condoms, knotted and discarded.
Only Vincent was still there.
"Don't look at me like that. I didn't touch you," he said, lighting a cigarette with a bitter smirk.
"No point lying. After they were done, the deal went through. I'll give you an extra fifty as compensation."
He pulled a stack of cash from his trunk and dropped it into my arms.
"Not a word about tonight."
I nodded, numb.
Back home, I cried again.
Only the second time since I'd come to this city.
End of Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy Chapter 10. Continue reading Chapter 11 or return to Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy book page.