"One, two, three..."
The private room was dim, filled with laughter and chatter. A group of men and women lounged around a marble table, surrounded by half-empty, colorful bottles. Jessica Howard ignored the knowing glances and mocking stares, just kept going—tilted back her head, downed another shot.
"Eleven… Twelve!"
Finally, that was her count. She stopped at twelve. The heat from the alcohol surged up her neck and face, but she forced herself to stay composed, unmoved. From the corner of her eye, she caught a shadow sitting across, barely visible in the dim light. All she could make out were a pair of suit pants—sharp creases, pristine like they'd never seen the real world.
After a few seconds, a lazy, deep voice broke through the noise. Just two words, calm and cool: "Have a seat."
Jessica took a quiet breath, circled around the table and sat down, leaving a decent gap between them. The man had nearly buzzed hair, a high nose bridge, chiseled features. But she didn’t dare stare. This was Percival Quinn—the guy everyone in the city whispered about but no one dared face.
He didn’t look her way, casually pulling out his phone. "What’s your rate?" he asked, like he was ordering takeout.
That was the first thing he said once she sat. Jessica answered right away, steady: "Trial period is free of charge."
The faint glow from his phone lit part of his face—cool, indifferent. His voice was smooth, a little too alluring. "So. How’s the trial work? You come to my place, or I visit yours?"
His tone landed different, especially with the soft chuckles echoing from the others. It wasn't her imagination—people clearly thought they got the wrong idea.
She gave him two seconds, then replied like it was any regular business talk: "Client's preference. Depends on your schedule."
He changed the subject just as effortlessly. "Cigarette."
Laughter and smoke swirled in the room. Everyone knew the drill—hostesses lit the smokes with flirtatious flair, lipstick prints offering a hint more than just tobacco. Jessica kept her eyes down. Silently, she picked up the box, tapped one out, and held it to his lips. She lit it without hesitation. In that flash of flame, she caught a full view of his mouth—not thin, well-shaped even—but somehow still gave off this sharp, cold vibe.
Long fingers took the cigarette from her hand. Smoke curled through the air, and his voice, still lazy but clearly poking, came again: "How much for after sex?"
Jessica answered calmly, "Set company rates. My level charges eighty per minute, session minimum one hundred minutes, that’s eight thousand." Then added, almost like an afterthought, "Before tax."Percival Quinn tilted his head slightly, sneaking a glance at her. Jessica Howard was wearing a white school uniform. Though the top was modest, even conservative, the fitted skirt hugged her curves and showed off her slim waist. She was tall—five foot eight—so the already short skirt looked even shorter on her. It was all legs with one quick look.
Three seconds, tops. Then Quinn pulled his eyes back and said coolly, “I’ll add another zero.”
He said it like he was talking about the weather, not money. Jessica replied, “I don’t think I’m qualified for a job with that kind of pay.”
Leaning back against the sofa, Quinn said lazily, “Then you say a price.”
Jessica stayed calm. “I’m here to interview as a tutor. Not for anything else.”
The room had been full of pointless chatter, but her words instantly killed the vibe. Everyone turned to look.
Quinn didn't even try to hide his stare. A smirk tugged at his lips as he said, “Is there really a difference?”
Jessica shot back, voice steady, “Didn’t expect you, Mr. Quinn, to only respect the outfit, not the person. Sure, I can play along with the game, but I won’t lose myself in it. Don’t tie your price tag to this outfit. Go ahead and try to date me, but don’t treat me like something to buy.”
Her words hit the room like a blast of cold air. Jessica stood straight, her face calm, but inside she was a mess. She’d been in Deep City a month, facing all kinds of crap from her boss. Quinn was her ninth client; the eight before him had already worn down every bit of pride and principle she'd clung to. So much for that double master’s in math and physics from night school—turns out, getting a foot in the door meant dressing like a club hostess, pouring drinks and lighting cigarettes for a guy like him.
She thought skills would land her the job. But apparently, people wanted “talent” of a different kind. The harder she tried, the more ridiculous it felt.
Just as the tension in the room was about to hit a boiling point, the door swung open. A short, pudgy middle-aged man walked in with a drink in hand. He scanned the room, then beelined for Quinn. “Mr. Quinn! I heard you were here—allow me to toast you.”
The man’s face was plastered with flattery. Then his eyes landed on Jessica and he froze in surprise. “Miss Howard?”
Jessica knew it was going to be an awful night. That man was David Simpson—one of the eight clients who’d backed out earlier this month. She didn’t look at him, just asked Quinn, “Mr. Quinn, may I leave now?”
Quinn said nothing. David caught sight of what she was wearing and jumped to speak. “Why in such a rush, Miss Howard? What a coincidence running into you. Why not sit and chat a bit?”
Jessica ignored him and walked forward, intending to leave. But David could sense Quinn didn’t want her to go, so he blocked her path. “Miss Howard,” he said, tone fake and smiling, “you don’t have to give me face—but maybe consider Mr. Quinn’s. I mean, you’re already dressed the part, and after tutoring so many students, what’s wrong with playing student just this once?”
