You leaned against the wall, the rough brick cool against your bare shoulders. You wore a denim skirt, short enough to leave little to the imagination, and top, a thin scrap of fabric that just barely covered what it needed to, left your midriff exposed. The heels you wore, sharp and pointed, clicked faintly against the cracked pavement every time you shifted your weight.

The cold bit at your skin, but you barely felt it. You'd gotten used to this—nights spent waiting under the dim glow of a streetlamp, scanning the road for potential customers.

The honk of a car pulled your attention as a black truck rolled up. It was too nice for this part of town, the kind of vehicle that turned heads even in the wealthier neighborhoods. You hesitated, your pulse quickening as you stepped off, heels clicking louder now as you approached.

When the window rolled down, you caught a glimpse of him. Clean-cut, sharply dressed, and clearly out of place. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable, as his voice cut through the silence.

"How much is it?" he asked, his tone calm, almost detached.

You stopped a few feet away, taking in the polished black paint of the truck, the leather interior, and the faint scent of something expensive wafting from inside.

"Depends on what you want," you said, your voice steady despite the odd flutter in your chest.

His jaw tightened briefly, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "Just your time," he said, glancing down the street. "Nothing else."

That threw you off. Just time? Most men didn't bother with pretenses. They knew what they wanted and made it clear. You glanced at the truck again, the thought of raising your price flickering through your mind—he could obviously afford it.

"One hundread," you said finally, the number automatic, your voice quieter than usual.

He nodded once, unlocking the door. "Get in."

Once inside the SUV, you held your breath for a second. He seemed too serious at first, and you found yourself scared to talk, which didn't happen often, you're always so chatty with the clients, playful even—you have to—, but not with this one, he seems intimidating.

"The motel is right around—"

"Um, no, I—" he sighed, interrupting you. "Look, I need you to come to a dinner with me."

You furrowed your brows. What the hell? You thought. This wasn't what you expected. "A dinner? I'm sorry, how much time would that take? I just started the shift and—"

"How much you make in the night? I'll pay it." He replied calmly. You shake your head, even think this is some kind of joke.

"Look, I just need you to pretend to be my partner for tonight," He explained while occasionally turning to look at you, in a polite way.

You're still confused about everything... why would he hire you? "A dinner? With who?"

He glanced at you briefly before returning his focus to the road. "It's more like an event from my job. It's complicated."

You almost laughed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. "You're hiring me to play your girlfriend?"

"Yes," he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll pay you whatever you ask, but I need you to play the part. Just for one night."

You leaned back against the seat, crossing your arms as you studied him. "Why me? You could probably hire someone... fancier."

He let out a dry chuckle, one hand tapping the steering wheel. "You're not very good at this, are you?"

You frowned. "At what?"

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. "Well, you're not very good at your job either, are you? Bringing someone dressed like this to whatever fancy dinner you're going to."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I don't have time for fancy," he said finally. "And you... you'll do."

His words stung more than you wanted to admit, but you ignored it. This wasn't about your pride. It was about survival. "Fine," you said, your voice steady.