Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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I treated those office plants like they were my own babies—watering them just right, pruning every dead leaf, sweeping the floor until it shone.
But after hours, I had a secret ritual. I'd slip into the company's influencer training studio, my heart pounding as I ran my fingers over the racks of designer dresses. I'd pick one, slip it on, and stare at my reflection like I was seeing myself for the first time.
I'd snap a quick photo, tucking it away in my phone like buried treasure.
Then came the makeup. I studied tutorials in the dark, swiping on expensive lipsticks and blending eyeshadows until my reflection matched the polished faces I envued. And one day—it clicked. I wasn't just mimicking beauty. I was beautiful.
Huddled in that dressing room, phone clutched tight, I let myself dream. Maybe the boss would walk in, do a double take, and say, "Why aren't you on camera?" Maybe one day, I'd have my own little apartment with a balcony drowning in flowers.
But dreams are fragile.
The influencer stormed in like a hurricane—her forgotten bag an excuse, my stolen moment a crime.
"You thief!" Her voice sliced through me. "Who said you could touch my things? Filthy country rat!"
Security came. The police came. A crowd gathered, their stares like knives.
The boss brokered a deal—her silence for resources. My punishment? Termination. My last paycheck? Gone, handed over as "compensation." And her makeup, those dresses? Sold to me—secondhand, at full price.
Now here I stood on my shoebox balcony, arms full of hollow luxuries, my savings wiped out.
"Three days," the landlord snarled. "Pay up or I toss your trash to the curb. Country trash belongs in the slums."
I didn't argue. Didn't speak. Just watched the world below—kids laughing in the sandbox, a woman tending her geraniums, couples strolling without a care.
Three days.
The city glittered, indifferent. Maybe it would never want me.
But I was here. And I wasn't leaving without a fight.
But after hours, I had a secret ritual. I'd slip into the company's influencer training studio, my heart pounding as I ran my fingers over the racks of designer dresses. I'd pick one, slip it on, and stare at my reflection like I was seeing myself for the first time.
I'd snap a quick photo, tucking it away in my phone like buried treasure.
Then came the makeup. I studied tutorials in the dark, swiping on expensive lipsticks and blending eyeshadows until my reflection matched the polished faces I envued. And one day—it clicked. I wasn't just mimicking beauty. I was beautiful.
Huddled in that dressing room, phone clutched tight, I let myself dream. Maybe the boss would walk in, do a double take, and say, "Why aren't you on camera?" Maybe one day, I'd have my own little apartment with a balcony drowning in flowers.
But dreams are fragile.
The influencer stormed in like a hurricane—her forgotten bag an excuse, my stolen moment a crime.
"You thief!" Her voice sliced through me. "Who said you could touch my things? Filthy country rat!"
Security came. The police came. A crowd gathered, their stares like knives.
The boss brokered a deal—her silence for resources. My punishment? Termination. My last paycheck? Gone, handed over as "compensation." And her makeup, those dresses? Sold to me—secondhand, at full price.
Now here I stood on my shoebox balcony, arms full of hollow luxuries, my savings wiped out.
"Three days," the landlord snarled. "Pay up or I toss your trash to the curb. Country trash belongs in the slums."
I didn't argue. Didn't speak. Just watched the world below—kids laughing in the sandbox, a woman tending her geraniums, couples strolling without a care.
Three days.
The city glittered, indifferent. Maybe it would never want me.
But I was here. And I wasn't leaving without a fight.
End of Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy book page.