I turn—and walk straight into him. Mr. Silence. My smile betrays me. He plucks the money from my hand and drops it in a trash can.
"Where's your dignity?" His voice is calm steel.
I fish the bills back out. "Is dignity that important?" I ask. "Words like honor, pride, and dignity are things our egos cling to. If we could love first, then those things wouldn't matter. My priority is to love first, and everything else... is just else. Do you know how hard it is to love someone who has a large ego?" I want desperately for him to understand as I search those dark brown eyes.
Without thinking, I reach out to loosen his tie and blurt out, "You look extra handsome today. I'm glad I get to see you again. I miss–"
My hands flat on his chest, our eyes lock when I catch myself confessing. My heart is out of control again as I inhale the scent of his cologne. His lips are dangerously close, and I have to turn away to regain my calmness.
The hostess emerges. I press the cash into her hands. "Here's what you were owed. And this—end of the month's rough." I add four hundreds. Her face lights; she hugs me and skips off.
I should return to my booking, but I turn back to him. "Hungry? Grab a bite?"
His face doesn't change. He walks past without a word. Relief nicks me; rejection stings deeper.
###
Mohamad studies the title of the scientific paper in his hand.
"Jealousy Across Relationship Structures: A Comparative Analysis of Monogamous and Polyamorous Individuals."
Authored by: Ai Chan Yeol, Dr. Evelyn Hartmann, and Dr. Daniel K. Navarro.
His gaze settles on the first name. Ai Chan Yeol. He checks the date again. She was seventeen.
His jaw tightens. He scans the abstract again, slower this time.
Polyamorous individuals demonstrate significantly higher levels of emotional regulation…
Compersion… positive affect in response to a partner's external—
His grip tightens on the page. His eyes move lower. And stop.
----------------------
It is possible that tendencies toward polyamory or monogamy are innate—comparable to extroversion or introversion.
Some individuals describe polyamory as inherent. Fixed. Part of who they are.
Others exhibit clear monogamous patterns as early as childhood.
----------------------
Silence.
He reads the lines again.
Slower.
More carefully.
Innate.
Fixed.
His jaw tightens further.
Not a choice. Not a phase. Not something that can be… corrected.
Mohamad closes his eyes.
Once. Controlled. Measured.
The paper lowers onto the desk. For a moment, nothing moves.
Then—his fist comes down against the mahogany surface.
A sharp, contained impact.
Polyamorous.
The word sits wrong. Unacceptable.
He has read the file three times. Background reports. Redacted records. Fragments of her past. Enough to know what she is.
A prodigy. A strategist. Untouchable.
His gaze shifts to the red folder on his desk. PROJECT EVE: Candidate #3
Ai Chan Yeol.
His expression hardens.
Polyamorous.
Unobtainable.
A pause.
Then, quieter—more dangerous:
"We'll see."
###
"You want to be in Jason's room," Jessica said as she changed into her club dress.
"Jason Mason?"
"I don't know his last name, but he's the VIP in Room Twenty-One."
"What about John Bogle Jr.?"
"John's the other VIP. He always wants that same room too."
"So… between those two, who was Clara close to?"
"What do you mean?"
I can't tell her Clara's missing.
I flash a grin, trying to sound playful. "Come on ,Jessica, Clara wouldn't tell me even though we're childhood best friends. She's hiding someone she likes—who is it? You can tell me."
She shrugs. "You know how it is. It's just a job. Don't read too much into it. I don't think she liked anyone.
"But two Saturdays ago, she rotated into both their rooms. Were you with her? Who else was there?"
"No idea. She usually sits with Nathan, not John."
"Who's Nathan?"
"The guy who always comes with John."
Sometimes I forget how little some of the girls notice. After a while, the noise, the money, and the men blur together—numbness becomes survival. Jessica already has that jaded look, the kind that says she's learned not to see too much.
I leave Jessica in the locker room and catch Jimmy in the hallway.
"Jimmy! Hey," I call out, breathless but smiling. "I could really use some extra cash tonight. Think you can slide me into John's room first? I heard he tips well."
He studies me for a beat, then frowns. "I usually don't like putting new girls into the VIP rooms this early... but you're sharp, and more mature than most. Fine."
"Thank you, Jimmy!" I exhale in relief and hurry back into the locker room to change into something sexier before work.
I step into Room Twenty—the second-largest suite, spacious enough for forty people. Four other hostesses stand beside me as we take in the scene. A U-shaped booth wraps around a low table cluttered with liquor bottles, mixers, shot glasses, and a half-eaten fruit plate.
Four men occupy the space like they own it, each claiming his corner. The one seated in the center of the back booth must be John Bogle Jr.—single, mid-forties, lean, and effortlessly polished. Everything about him radiates old-money New York: the custom suit, the deliberate posture, the quiet confidence of someone who's never had to prove himself.
To his right sits Nathan Most Jr., another banker—John's subordinate and frequent shadow. They always arrive together.
But Jessica said Clara usually sat with Nathan, not John. Why? And more importantly, which one should I get close to first?
As I take a step forward, John's gaze slides to my neckline. I smile; he grins back. That's my cue.
But before I can reach him, a man on his left—Eric Zhao, if I recall from the list of membership roster I obtained by hacking Jimmy's computer—catches my wrist.
"John, can she sit with me?" he asks.
John merely gestures, palm up—a silent decree. My fate is sealed beside Eric.
All I can do now is observe. Between refilling drinks, laughing at jokes, pretending I don't speak Chinese, and dodging serious questions, I watch John and Nathan from the corner of my eye.
Two hours later, after playing my part and learning little, I excuse myself to the restroom. After taking my time in the restroom, I walk back down the hallway while my mind was elsewhere.
John has already switched hostesses three times—dismissing the first after fifteen minutes, the second after forty, and the third looks ready to leave any moment. Nathan, meanwhile, hasn't moved; he's kept the same girl all night.
So... was Clara one of John's revolving hostesses? Nathan seems more likely her regular.
But then again—Is John swapping girls because he wanted me?
I blink, disbelief halting me mid-step. Mr. Silence. Standing in front of John's room.
I double-check the number above the door, but before I can think, he seizes my arm and presses me against the wall. Whiskey. Smoke. Amber. Heat.
My breath catches as his lips claim mine hungrily. Rough. Consuming.