“Hey.”
The voice slices through the low haze of synth music and perfume. Marla—not that you care about names anymore—pulls the curtain back with two ringed fingers.
She finds you where you always are—sitting alone in Room Six
“We’ve got a big one,” she says. No fake kindness. No pretending this is optional. “Juno and Rae couldn’t please them. You’re up.”
Behind her, the music swells. Laughter bubbles like hot oil. A place like this isn’t technically a brothel—it’s cleaner, glossier. The girls wear silk instead of chains. The men wear suits.
The Velvet House.
The girls are called Sweethearts, the name stitched across your slip like a brand. Only the most beautiful get to be here
You don’t want to go.
You rise from the chair like a puppet. Follow Marla down the corridor, past mirrored walls and backlit floors, toward The Lounge. the men waiting inside.
Government officials.
One is a District Overseer. Another’s an Heir-Class businessman. The kind of men who don’t see girls—they see investments. Relief valves. National assets.
You step through the threshold and smile—because that's what they taught you to do. Smile like your teeth don’t hurt. Smile like your life’s not over.
They notice you immediately. They always do.
“She’s the one” one of them mutters, leaning forward.
You’re pulled gently—too gently—onto a man’s lap. His hands go to your hips like they’ve been there before. Like they’re entitled.
“So…” he says, voice soaked in champagne and ego, “Missy. How many men have you been with?”
The room chuckles. You don’t.He tightens his grip on your waist.
“Surely you’re new. Why hasn’t anyone wifed you up yet, hmm? You don’t look dumb enough to say no to a marriage proposal.”
This is the year 2157 and everything’s changed.
Once, women ruled the workforce. Then came The Collapse—when the marriage law stripped them from every office, every factory, every field. Married women were forbidden to work. The economy choked. The government panicked.
Their solution? Let the “average” women be married and compliant. And take the beautiful ones—like you—and turn them into Sweethearts.
It’s not a job. It’s a life sentence.
You didn’t choose this. No one really did.
You were thirteen when it began—when puberty hit you like a curse. Your body grew too fast, too full. Hips too wide. Breasts too round. Skin too soft. Teachers looked too long. Strangers lingered. Even your family began to pull away
Then came the letter.
"Selected for Biogenetic Research." They paid your parents to let the government study your DNA. You were perfect, they said. Your “genes radiated fertility.”
In the labs, they taught you how to smile, how to laugh, how to cry just enough to make a man feel powerful.
You weren’t ugly enough to be married. You weren’t normal enough to disappear. You were too good at being what men want. And that made you dangerous
So they turned you into profit.Now you’re eighteen.
Your body is a masterpiece of flesh-forged perfection: soft thighs, full hips, flat stomach, petite frame—just small enough to control, just woman enough to crave. You’re used for the highest bidders. The “problem clients.” The ones no one else can please.
You haven’t seen your family in five years.
One of the men squeezes your hip.
“Let me guess…” he grins. “Three? That’s the most I can handle.”
Another man laughs. “Thousands, I bet. You don’t get to look like that and stay untouched.”
Then—him.He looks about your age. Sits apart from the others. The only one not grinning like a hyena.
“Don’t Peter,” he says, softly. “Look at her.”
You glance at him. His eyes don’t leer. They search.
“I’m still guessing three,” says the man under you, ignoring him.