Chapter 5: Lust Yes? A Bit. But It Was Mostly Work For Him.
Elijah stepped into Vanessa's living room, the air immediately thicker than the outside humidity, smelling faintly of cheap cleaning supplies and old, stale food. The space was a disaster—boxes piled haphazardly, a dining table lying on its side, and unassembled shelves leaning precariously against the wall.
"So," Elijah said, his voice flat, his eyes scanning the mess. "Not moving the sofa after all, are we?"
Vanessa flinched, the slight residual color draining from her cheeks. She was used to men playing along with her facades. Elijah never did. She quickly straightened her posture, recovering her customary, defensive haughtiness.
"Don't be deliberately obtuse, Elijah," she snapped, tossing a stray magazine onto a pile of clothes. "I needed a reason to get you out of that house without your stepmother shrieking. You know exactly what I need."
Elijah walked past the mess and over to the kitchen counter, leaning against the cold surface. "I had my suspicions confirmed the moment you blushed. But since you want to state terms: the camera work. You're ready to start filming the content now?"
Vanessa swallowed hard, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to project the confidence of the rich girl she used to be. "Yes. I am ready. It's difficult, accepting this, but I have to maintain my standard of living somehow. I just need assurance."
"Assurance?" Elijah raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I gave you the site link. It pays out. What assurance do you require, specifically?"
"That it's not a scam," she admitted, her voice dropping slightly, the haughtiness momentarily cracking to reveal fear. "This is... my first time doing something like this. I can't afford to waste my time. If that site doesn't pay out the initial upload fee, I want my time compensated."
Elijah only nodded. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the thick roll of stolen Noxs, and counted out five tens. He tossed the 50 Noxs onto the counter.
"An advance on labor," he stated. "The site pays 100 Noxs for the initial upload. When you get that payment, I get my 50 Noxs back. We split the earnings from the views equally. Agreed?"
Vanessa looked down at the money, then back at Elijah. The money was more than she'd held in weeks—her fingers twitching toward them like magnets. The cash represented groceries, laundry detergent, maybe even a decent bottle of wine.
"Agreed," she whispered, snatching the bills off the counter and shoving them deep into the tight pocket of her leggings. Her posture shifted instantly—the stiff-necked pride melting. "Now, the production. I need proper lighting, maybe a better camera angle, something professional. Like the videos I used to see online—"
"Stop," Elijah cut in, pulling out the stolen smartphone. The screen was bright in the dim room. "You start new, you don't compete with professionals. You try to look cheap, low-effort. You want it to look like a leaked home-made video. That's what sells on sites like that—authenticity, the chance of seeing something you shouldn't. It makes it catchy."
Vanessa hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of her top. "But I'm not ugly. I deserve—"
"Deserve?" Elijah couldn't help but snicker, cold and sharp. "This ain't your daddy's gallery opening. Realism sells." He tapped the phone's screen dismissively. "Want pretty? Go back to begging daddy's banker buddies. Otherwise, stop wasting my time." His tone wasn't angry—it was annoyed, like she'd interrupted him scrolling through memes. He flipped the phone over, scrutinizing the lens under the dim ceiling light. "Besides, the site's secret. No one's running investigations to find your age, your location, or any of that legal bullshit. Trust me, cheap is efficient." He paused, letting the silence thicken. "Your dignity's already pawned, Vanessa. Stop pretending it's still hanging in a gilded frame."
Vanessa's cheeks flushed crimson, not from shame but fury. She snatched an old towel off a box—stained and cheap—and flung it over the lone lamp in the corner, casting the room in thick, uneven shadows. "Fine," she hissed, ripping off her leggings with trembling hands. "But if this looks amateurish, I'm keeping the advance. Follow me."
She led him down the cramped hallway to the back of the apartment. Her bedroom was small, lit by a single desk lamp. Vanessa turned, adjusting her mask over her eyes. She felt a bit flustered, the nerves kicking in.
"Why are you so calm?" she asked, the question laced with residual arrogance. "You're acting like you're filing paperwork. Are you expecting me to be the only one who's nervous about this?"
Elijah snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound that bounced off the walls. "Am I supposed to be panting like a dog for your benefit, Vanessa? Should I be staggering and fumbling with my belt and pants? Maybe stammering like a virgin nerd?"
She frowned. The comment stung, but before she could formulate a haughty reply, Elijah's face shifted, a flicker of something close to understanding passing over his eyes.
"No, wait," he said, a smirk stretching across his lips. "You're disappointed. You want the lust. You want to feel desirable, even if it's fake. I'm calm because I'm not like your former suitors who pretended to love or intensely lusted after your body. Lust, yes? A bit. It's a biological variable. But mostly, this is work for me."
Vanessa's shoulders slumped infinitesimally. The truth felt like a physical slap, harder than the reality of her current financial desperation. Her eyes went cold, turning into a bitter glare. "So my body isn't even good enough for a teenager? Or is it because you know I've been used already?"
Elijah frowned, his voice suddenly sharp with impatience. "What's the fuss about? Are we working or not? The light is bad enough already. I need to get back before Elara throws a fit."
She could only grudgingly continue. She moved to the bed, locking the door firmly behind her. Her outfit was baggy, a large college hoodie and oversized shorts, which Elijah knew was the perfect setup—it added anticipation to the eventual reveal. He didn't need a mask; his face was irrelevant. He held the stolen phone up, framing the shot, his expression utterly neutral.
Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Iris was rushing back home, her heart hammering against her ribs. She clutched her purse containing the fragile box of emergency contraception, the urgency of the moment overriding her usual cautious pace. The suburban sidewalks were dark, the high-intensity streetlamps casting deep shadows that swallowed the details of the surrounding houses.
She passed a small, secluded stretch of pavement tucked between a defunct laundry mat and an overgrown hedge.
A shadow detached itself from the wall. A young man, bulky in a hoodie that covered most of his face, stepped directly into her path. It was Marcus, a neighborhood thug who had been making her life difficult for months.
"Iris. We need to talk," he demanded, his voice low and thick with forced entitlement.
Iris tried to maintain her polite facade. "Marcus, I was sent on an urgent errand. Later, please." She attempted to walk around him, the small box of medicine pressing painfully against her palm.
He didn't move. He grabbed her arm, his fingers tightening instantly. He yanked her back, spinning her around until she stumbled against the rough brick wall. "My patience is running out, sweetheart. It's been months. No reply, no smile, nothing."
His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated. Iris could smell the cheap liquor and stale smoke on his breath. His grip dug painfully into her bicep. She struggled instinctively, trying to wrench her arm free. "Marcus, please, I need to get home! This is important!"
"Important?" Marcus spat, leaning in until his face was mere inches from hers. "What? More important than me?" His free hand clamped onto her other shoulder, pinning her against the rough brick.
He lowered his head, trying to forcefully kiss her. Iris squeezed her eyes shut, twisting her head away, a small, terrified whimper escaping her lips.
Marcus only laughed—a grating, mocking sound—and tightened his grip further. The box slipped from Iris's fingers, clattering onto the pavement. She gasped, her eyes darting toward it instinctively. Marcus seized the momentary distraction, grinding her harder against the damp brick wall.
A sharp, metallic THWACK cut through the night air.
Marcus groaned, a horrible, wet sound, and his grip slackened immediately. He pitched forward, sprawling onto the damp concrete.
Iris opened her eyes, breathless with terror, and saw two figures standing over the downed thug.
They were young—maybe Elijah's age or slightly older—dressed in practical, dark clothing. One held a large, heavy spanner, its head gleaming faintly under the weak light.
The boy with the spanner nudged the groaning thug with his foot. He chuckled, a dark, unpleasant sound.
"Look at this dude. Filthy hands on the mistress," the boy said, his voice laced with mocking contempt. "A mere toad lusting after the mistresses swan's juicy meat." He kicked Marcus's ribs sharply.
The other boy looked at Iris, his gaze assessing and surprisingly calm. They made no move to approach her, simply standing guard over the whimpering Marcus.
Iris scrambled to grab the fallen box of emergency contraception, clutching it tightly against her chest as she stared at the unexpected duo. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the adrenaline making her hands tremble violently.