Chapter 3

Harper's POV

Mark is still watching me, his gaze fixed and impatient, like he's waiting for a dog to obey a simple command. I can feel the heat of it against my cheek, and my fingers start moving before I even realize I've made the decision.

I do the only thing I can think to do. I tap the message icon on the profile. A small heart-shaped symbol sits beside it, glowing faintly. I click that too, because honestly, I have to, when I'm supposed to say hello to three strangers who want to spoil and use me for a night.

The screen flashes once, then confirms the message has gone through.

That's it. No reply yet. Just silence.

I glance back at the profile. There's no pricing listed anywhere. Just a row of six golden dollar signs lined neatly beneath their usernames. What the hell does that even mean? Is it a tier? A warning?

"Next one," Mark says, already leaning in.

I suppress the sigh building in my chest and nod instead. I click out of the profile and scroll until another catches my eye. The man is maybe thirty, give or take.

His profile picture is sharp and polished, him in a clean-cut navy suit, tie perfect, hair styled like he just stepped out of a barbershop. It looks more like a professional networking photo than a kink app profile.

I open it anyway.

He's listed that he's searching for a dinner date and "fun after," whatever that's supposed to mean. He hasn't included any pricing details either, just two faint currency symbols under his name. Less than the last one, much less. What does that mean? Is he broke? Is two the equivalent of low pay? A warning that he expects more for less?

I stare at it, confused and slightly irritated. The name of this makes sense. There's no legend, no explanation. Just symbols and vague offers.

I keep scrolling.

The next profile is different. The photo isn't flashy; it's a mirror selfie taken in what looks like a gym locker room. The man is in short-sleeved, casual-slicked, and well-groomed, but not in an obtrusive way. His expression is relaxed. Not smiling, but not severe either. There's a confidence in it that feels real, not performed.

His age is listed as thirty-two. His bio is short and to the point:

Looking for a casual rendezvous to wine, dine, and fellowship for one night. I prefer someone with a little attitude. Show up as you are. I'll take care of the rest.

There are four money symbols on his profile. Not two, not six. Somewhere in the middle.

For some reason, that feels safer. Or at least manageable.

I hesitate only a moment before I scroll him a quick message.

Hi. Your profile stood out to me. I'm interested in hearing more about what you're looking for.

No wink this time. Just words. Real, uncertain words.

And then I wait.

Mark doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The message has been sent, and that's enough for now.

I glance down at the phone, still warm in my hand, then let it fall lightly into my lap. My chest feels tight. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if any of this will end in safety or disaster or something in between.

But I'm already in it now.

One message sent. Two eyes are still watching me.

And nowhere left to go but forward.

Mark leans in again, peering at the screen as if I've been slacking the whole time.

"When they message back," he said, "talk to them like it's your idea, like you're choosing it."

He stands up and stretches, cracking his neck with that slow, deliberate motion that always makes me flinch internally. Then he walks off, muttering something under his breath. I don't bother to catch. The door to the hallway closes behind him with a dull click, and I'm left alone on the couch with the faint hum of the fridge and the low hum of silence.

I sink deeper into the cushions and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My body shivers. My shoulders pull the blanket over my legs, tucking it around myself like it's summer.

Then I open their profile, the three men.

The Triumvirate.

The photos are exactly as I remember. Lucky, confident, perfectly calculated to appeal. I study each face this time, slower. The one with the lazy smirk and grown eyes, tattoos across his forearms, he looks like he's in control, but knows how to make it feel like a game. The second, braver, that little bottle of beer halfway to his lips, the way his eyes track the camera, not smiling, but watching. And the third, the one with the beard and the leather chair, the shadows catching on the edge of his mouth, as if daring someone to look away first.

I scroll down again, reading their bio word for word. I let each sentence sink into my skin. Spoiled. The center of our universe. One night only. Only what I'm willing to give.

I run my fingers down my arm absently, tracing over a faint scar from a kitchen burn, a reminder that I've been too tired for many nights to remember the oven is still hot.

What would I be willing to give?

Would it be worth the money?

I glance down at myself. I have feet, old leggings stretched at the knees, and a hoodie with a frayed cuff. My hair's pulled back in a bun, 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 these 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 shrug 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 sarcastic. "Didn't think anyone would 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 pour at the screen, lets out a low whistle.

"What are you doing?" I ask, pulling the blanket higher, uncomfortable even though she's probably worn various undergarments.

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, all her services, the listing goes offline for forty-eight hours minimum. They haven'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. "Modern. That's some serious kink right there. Intense, coordinated... expensive."

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

She bursts out laughing and raises her cup. "Yeah, don't we all. But for five figures?" She whispers 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 be what they're offering?

Could I be worth that for one night?