Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
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After that, Ethan started showing up every few days.
He'd shut the door behind him, pressing his tailored suit jacket against the small window to block the view.
Every time, I got this eerie feeling—like we were back in that cramped little room with nothing but a metal bed between us.
He acted like he'd never left that place. But he had.
And so had I.
He'd spill his guts to me, ranting about her—that old woman. How she smothered him, controlled his every move, kept him on a tight leash.
He swore he wasn't happy. That he missed me. Missed us. Missed that dingy little room.
I always gave him the same answer: "We can't go back, Ethan. Neither of us can."
Then one day, the door flew open.
In her mind, I was still that plain, dirt-poor girl from the mountains—not the polished woman standing in front of her now.
She shrieked at Ethan, her sagging breasts jiggling under her designer blouse like two half-empty flour sacks.
No amount of money could hide those wrinkles.
God, she was hideous.
"She—she's just a masseuse," Ethan stammered. "I was just fooling around."
I'd expected those words. But hearing them out loud? That was a different kind of knife to the chest.
My heart clenched so hard I grabbed at my shirt, like I could physically stop the pain.
He shot me a pleading look. But the Rolex on his wrist, the Armani suit crumpled in the corner, the Porsche keys glinting on the nightstand—those were the things he couldn't live without.
Right on cue, the spa manager barged in with security.
Ethan dropped to his knees beside the old woman like a scolded puppy.
Pathetic. The manager made me feel safer in that moment than Ethan ever had.
Coward.
"Yes, I'm a masseuse," I said, tilting my chin up, icy calm. "But you? You're old. You're ugly. And he's still young. Tell me—why wouldn't he come to me?"
Ethan's jaw hit the floor.
The old woman? She completely lost it…
He'd shut the door behind him, pressing his tailored suit jacket against the small window to block the view.
Every time, I got this eerie feeling—like we were back in that cramped little room with nothing but a metal bed between us.
He acted like he'd never left that place. But he had.
And so had I.
He'd spill his guts to me, ranting about her—that old woman. How she smothered him, controlled his every move, kept him on a tight leash.
He swore he wasn't happy. That he missed me. Missed us. Missed that dingy little room.
I always gave him the same answer: "We can't go back, Ethan. Neither of us can."
Then one day, the door flew open.
In her mind, I was still that plain, dirt-poor girl from the mountains—not the polished woman standing in front of her now.
She shrieked at Ethan, her sagging breasts jiggling under her designer blouse like two half-empty flour sacks.
No amount of money could hide those wrinkles.
God, she was hideous.
"She—she's just a masseuse," Ethan stammered. "I was just fooling around."
I'd expected those words. But hearing them out loud? That was a different kind of knife to the chest.
My heart clenched so hard I grabbed at my shirt, like I could physically stop the pain.
He shot me a pleading look. But the Rolex on his wrist, the Armani suit crumpled in the corner, the Porsche keys glinting on the nightstand—those were the things he couldn't live without.
Right on cue, the spa manager barged in with security.
Ethan dropped to his knees beside the old woman like a scolded puppy.
Pathetic. The manager made me feel safer in that moment than Ethan ever had.
Coward.
"Yes, I'm a masseuse," I said, tilting my chin up, icy calm. "But you? You're old. You're ugly. And he's still young. Tell me—why wouldn't he come to me?"
Ethan's jaw hit the floor.
The old woman? She completely lost it…
End of Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy book page.