Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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The mysterious client started leaving Ethan Roscente ridiculously generous tips.
Every time he walked through our door, he'd flash a crisp hundred-dollar bill like it was nothing.
He'd pull me into a hug, his voice buzzing with excitement as he gushed about her.
"Her place is insane—a penthouse with views for days. We're talking five, six million easy."
"She's got this massive Standard Poodle. Thing's a beast—stands up and its paws hit my chest."
"Get this—she drops four, five grand a month just on dog food."
"Must be nice, huh?"
He sighed, starry-eyed, but my gut twisted. "This client… she's a woman, right?"
"Relax," he laughed, ruffling my hair. "She's old enough to be my mom. Just feels bad for a kid like me hustling deliveries, so she throws me extra cash."
I forced a hum, but the knot in my stomach only tightened.
By month two, we upgraded to a bigger place—a real bedroom with an ensuite and a balcony.
Still a shared kitchen, but now I could line the railing with potted plants.
Life was looking up.
But Ethan? He was slipping away.
"She hooked me up with a job lead. Just meeting the boss for drinks."
"It's her birthday. Can't let her celebrate alone."
"Some client got too handsy, so she called me to run interference…"
He always told me where he was going, but the hours stretched later and later.
Dinner went cold once. Then twice. Then three times.
Then he just… stopped coming home.
The woman showed up at my door, shoving a phone in my face—a video of them tangled in silk sheets.
"Run back to the hills, sweetheart. He's done with you." She slapped a stack of cash on the table—ten grand—her smirk deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. "This city eats girls like you alive."
Three months in, and Ethan vanished.
No note. No bag. Just… gone.
Maybe because I'd seen it coming, I didn't break. Just felt… empty.
After a sleepless night, I made my choice: I was staying.
The city was electric—skyscrapers glittering at midnight, subway trains rattling underfoot, parks bursting with life.
I could make it without him.
I scraped together my last dollars and hunted for work.
Finally landed a gig as a receptionist at some influencer agency.
Showed up early to unlock doors and wipe down desks. Stayed late to straighten up.
The pay was peanuts, but it was something.
On my eighteenth birthday, I bought myself a tiny cake with my first paycheck.
Alone in my room, surrounded by my plants, I lit the candle.
"I want this city. No going back. I want the clothes, the bags, the car, the home."
A wild, greedy wish.
Then, softer:
"And never, ever let another Ethan Roscente near my heart again."
Every time he walked through our door, he'd flash a crisp hundred-dollar bill like it was nothing.
He'd pull me into a hug, his voice buzzing with excitement as he gushed about her.
"Her place is insane—a penthouse with views for days. We're talking five, six million easy."
"She's got this massive Standard Poodle. Thing's a beast—stands up and its paws hit my chest."
"Get this—she drops four, five grand a month just on dog food."
"Must be nice, huh?"
He sighed, starry-eyed, but my gut twisted. "This client… she's a woman, right?"
"Relax," he laughed, ruffling my hair. "She's old enough to be my mom. Just feels bad for a kid like me hustling deliveries, so she throws me extra cash."
I forced a hum, but the knot in my stomach only tightened.
By month two, we upgraded to a bigger place—a real bedroom with an ensuite and a balcony.
Still a shared kitchen, but now I could line the railing with potted plants.
Life was looking up.
But Ethan? He was slipping away.
"She hooked me up with a job lead. Just meeting the boss for drinks."
"It's her birthday. Can't let her celebrate alone."
"Some client got too handsy, so she called me to run interference…"
He always told me where he was going, but the hours stretched later and later.
Dinner went cold once. Then twice. Then three times.
Then he just… stopped coming home.
The woman showed up at my door, shoving a phone in my face—a video of them tangled in silk sheets.
"Run back to the hills, sweetheart. He's done with you." She slapped a stack of cash on the table—ten grand—her smirk deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. "This city eats girls like you alive."
Three months in, and Ethan vanished.
No note. No bag. Just… gone.
Maybe because I'd seen it coming, I didn't break. Just felt… empty.
After a sleepless night, I made my choice: I was staying.
The city was electric—skyscrapers glittering at midnight, subway trains rattling underfoot, parks bursting with life.
I could make it without him.
I scraped together my last dollars and hunted for work.
Finally landed a gig as a receptionist at some influencer agency.
Showed up early to unlock doors and wipe down desks. Stayed late to straighten up.
The pay was peanuts, but it was something.
On my eighteenth birthday, I bought myself a tiny cake with my first paycheck.
Alone in my room, surrounded by my plants, I lit the candle.
"I want this city. No going back. I want the clothes, the bags, the car, the home."
A wild, greedy wish.
Then, softer:
"And never, ever let another Ethan Roscente near my heart again."
End of Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy book page.