Chapter Six

Harper's POV

I glance down at myself, bare feet, old leggings stretched at the knees, a hoodie with a frayed cuff. My hair’s pulled back in a lazy knot, and I haven’t touched mascara in two days. I look like someone clinging to the edge of survival, not someone meant to be worshipped by three strangers with tailored suits and perfect teeth.

I’m not pretty enough for this.

Not soft enough. Not confident enough. Not enough, full stop.

But that voice, the cruel one in my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mark, gets pushed back. I shove it down, past the doubt, past the ache in my chest.

Because I need the money.

That part isn’t up for debate.

“Damn,” a voice says behind me, sharp and amused. “Didn’t think anyone would actually open that one.”

I jump, twisting around. Lesley’s standing behind the couch, one hand on her hip, the other holding a half-empty mug of tea. She leans over to peer at the screen, lets out a low whistle.

“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling the blanket higher, embarrassed even though she’s probably seen worse.

She doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she grins at me sideways. “You’re brave. That profile? It’s been up for months. Maybe even years. You know how the app works, right? Once a girl agrees, sells her service, the listing goes offline for forty-eight hours minimum. Theirs? Hasn’t gone dark once. No one’s been brave enough.”

I blink at her. That detail hadn’t even crossed my mind. “Really?”

Lesley nods, still grinning. “Mmhmm. That’s some serious kink right there. Intense, coordinated... expensive.”

I shrug, trying to keep my voice even. “I need the money.”

She barks out a laugh and raises her cup. “Yeah, don’t we all. But for five figures?” She whistles again, low and slow. “I might consider it. Might.”

Then she laughs again and shakes her head. “Never mind. No, I wouldn’t. Not my style. But hey, if it happens? Enjoy the cash, sweetheart.”

My heart stutters in my chest. I stare back at the screen. “Wait... five figures?”

Lesley just winks. “Why else would no one touch it? That level of control? That much attention? That kind of money?” She takes a slow sip of her tea. “That’s not casual fun. That’s buy-your-silence kind of compensation.”

I stare at the screen. The bio. The photos. The money symbols.

Five figures.

Could that really be what they’re offering?

Could I really be worth that for one night?

The morning light slips through the slats of the blinds like thin silver knives, cutting across the worn floorboards and the cheap throw rug I once thought would make the apartment feel warmer. I don’t move. Not at first. The blanket still clings to my legs, and the phone is exactly where I left it last night, tucked under the edge of a cushion like a secret I can’t decide whether to bury or confess.

I hear Mark in the kitchen. His movements are deliberate today, not the impatient clatter of yesterday’s fury. The kettle hums instead of screams, and when he speaks, it’s with a softness that instantly sets every nerve in my body on edge.

“Coffee’s ready, babe,” he calls, his voice touched with forced brightness. “I made the one you like. The hazelnut.”

I blink slowly at the ceiling and tell myself to breathe before I answer.

“Thanks,” I murmur, quiet enough that he might not even hear it, though I know he will. He always hears everything.

When I step into the kitchen, he’s leaning against the counter in a worn T-shirt and the sweatpants he only wears on days when he’s playing the part of the doting boyfriend. The coffee mug he hands me has a little chip on the handle. He holds it like it’s a gift, like he’s done something extraordinary, and for a heartbeat, I hate how my hands take it automatically.

He smiles at me then, that particular kind of smile that looks warm but feels like a performance. “You were quiet last night,” he says, conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather. “I figured I’d give you space. Let you process everything.”

I take a sip and nod. I’m not sure what to say. My stomach is still tight from the messages I sent, the profiles I scrolled through, the image of those three men laughing beneath city lights still echoing somewhere behind my eyes. I haven’t heard back from anyone yet. Or if I have, I haven’t dared check.

Mark steps closer, brushing a piece of hair off my shoulder. His fingers linger a moment too long.

“I know it’s a lot,” he murmurs, “but you’re doing good. Really good. I’m proud of you.”

There it is. The sweetness. The praise that feels like honey poured over broken glass. I try to smile, but I can already feel it slipping.

“You think they’ll message back?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even, as though it doesn’t matter either way.

He shrugs, reaching past me to grab a spoon from the drawer. His hand grazes my waist deliberately, as if to remind me he can. “If they know what they’re looking at, they will.”

That should sound flattering. It should. But the way he says it makes me feel like a product on a shelf, like something polished and positioned under perfect lighting just to catch a buyer’s eye.