Page 2 of The Whole Package

"I'm not messing around, Carmen," Ava's voice cuts through, laced with an irritation that's more than skin-deep. There's a sharpness, a hard edge of concern that she can't quite mask. The more she talks, the clearer it becomes – something's off. "Two girls have vanished in the last month. I need all of you on alert, eyes wide open."

I let out a low chuckle, not quite ready to dive into the pool of worry she was swimming in. “What? They probably scored big and decided to take a spontaneous trip to Miami. Chill, A.” My words come out sharper than I intended—a flimsy shield againstthe creeping unease Ava’s voice stirs in me. But even as I brush it off, a nagging voice whispers that it might not be so simple. Ava's rarely wrong, and she's even less often scared.

"Carmen," Ava's voice hardens, a stern warning slicing through. "A big break's no good to you if you're dead."

Her words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken fears. But I'm not one to dwell in the shadows of what-ifs. "Maybe not," I retort, a sharp edge to my voice, "but dying young has a way of making you immortal." The words hang between us, a defiant echo of my refusal to be caged by fear.

I hit the red button on my phone, severing the connection. As the line goes dead, a bitter thought gnaws at me. Ava's concern is just for her investment. Deep down, I know it's more complicated. And If I’m dead, I can’t make her any money. She's not the villain in my story, but she's not my savior either. If she genuinely cared, would she have let me spiral down this path, no matter how desperately I begged for it?

"Are you decent?" Victor’s voice slices through the quiet, low and familiar. He nudges the bathroom door open without waiting, he never does. There’s no asking with him, just taking, as if my space is his to invade. Part of me expects it, the other part is just too tired to care. He's probably hoping to catch me in a state of undress, perhaps lounging in a bath of bubbles instead of scowling at my phone perched on the toilet.

"Only on days that end with 'Y,'" I quip, beckoning him closer with a crooked finger. He's become a fixture in my Friday nights, a man shackled by matrimony and fatherhood. He finds his escape in the confines of my embrace. He spins tales of late nights at the office, all to keep a roof over his family's head, but it's my bed he warms, not theirs.

Victor's routine is as predictable as it is tragic – a charade of overworked dedication while he's actually tangled in the sheets with me. We've been at this dance for over a year now. Ever sincethe birth of his first child, I know all too well that it ignited a desperation in him. Each Friday, this luxury suite becomes our world, every inch of it an altar to our forbidden escapades. I know every shadow, every soft spot on the mattress, just like I know the lines of escape in his eyes.

His mouth is on mine before I can even think to pull away. Kissing is too real, too personal—a line I hate crossing. But I don’t stop him. It’s easier to let him believe he’s got a piece of me. I close my eyes and pretend it’s just another job, just another night. My fingers, however, tell a different story. They deftly work at the fabric of his suit, undoing each button with practiced ease. The dissonance between my passive acceptance of his kiss and the active undressing is a dance I've mastered—a dance of detachment, where my body participates in a ritual that my mind remains aloof from.

"God, I've missed you," Victor pants as his hands find their way under the silky material of my camisole. His fingers are cold, an unexpected jolt that makes me flinch. "Sorry," he whispers as he breaks the kiss, but his eyes show no regret. The heat from his breath trails along the curve of my neck, a familiar prelude to the passion he's chasing.

I know this part of the song and dance. His movements will become more insistent, his breaths shallower as he's consumed by the heat between us. I know how this song ends, and I'll play the role I always do.

We strip down, skin against cold porcelain. The water roars on, but it’s the chill of the tiles that makes me shiver as he presses me against them. His lips trace a path down my back, a trail of warmth in a sea of cold, and I close my eyes, trying to feel something—anything—beyond the numbness. I can feel his erection pressed against my entrance from behind. I wish he would just get on with it, but I know he likes to take his time worshipping my body as If I was his only religion.

"Victor," I gasp. "You're such a tease."

He grunts in response, his mouth finding the soft spot at the base of my neck and sucking down hard, making my whole-body arch.

I can feel him slide inside me slowly, inch by inch, taking his time. He knows I am most vulnerable when my body responds without the restraint I put on my thoughts.

"Oh, fuck, you feel so good," Victor moans into my neck. "You're perfect." I push back onto him, wanting more. He grabs my hips and starts thrusting harder, deeper, the water sloshing over the edge of the tub. We both cry out in ecstasy, our bodies moving together, losing ourselves in the moment. My thoughts begin to wander. Is this what it would be like if I met a man I could love? Could anyone ever make me feel something real? Would I even let them? Victor’s fingers dig into my skin, grounding me in the moment, but my mind drifts, wondering, wishing. It’s not him I want. It’s the life I almost had before it all went sideways, the one where love wasn’t just another transaction.

CHAPTER

THREE

L i l y

Inever imagined my life would derail this spectacularly. University was supposed to be my launchpad—a communications degree, then law school, all neatly planned out like stepping stones to a future I could almost touch. But life’s got a sick sense of humor, and mine decided to knock me off track with brutal precision. In the chaos of my parents' divorce during my final year of high school, everything I knew crumbled. The move to that cramped, suffocating house with my mom felt like the final nail in the coffin of my old life. Endless fights and fractured silences turned our home into a warzone. My grades, once my ticket to a brighter future, started slipping, and with them went my scholarship dreams, sinking like stones in a sea of disappointments.

It was like watching a house of cards collapse in slow motion, each card a shattered piece of what could have been. Now, I’m so far off course that I can’t even see the map anymore. I’m adrift, stuck in a world I never pictured for myself, stumbling through the wreckage of what could have been. It's a daily reminder of how quickly dreams can unravel, leaving you to pick up the pieces in the most unexpected places.

Then came the cancer—a beast that sank its teeth into my dad and wouldn’t let go. It drained him, bled him dry, and every dayfelt like another battle we were losing. Treatments dangled out of reach, taunting us with promises we couldn’t afford. And my mother? She might as well have been a ghost for all the help she offered. So, there I was, watching my friends head off to university, their futures bright and unburdened, while I stayed behind, buried under the weight of bills and responsibilities.

I scrubbed toilets, cleaned the houses of the wealthy, and did whatever it took to keep us afloat. But it was like bailing out a sinking ship with a teacup. The money was never enough. Doctor's appointments and treatments for my dad—piled up, relentless, and unforgiving. Debt clung to me like a persistent shadow, and my dreams slipped further away with each passing day.

Fate introduced me to Ava on a slow afternoon in a nondescript coffee shop, where I was busy wiping tables and serving broken dreams in ceramic cups. She spotted me, and I swear, her gaze cut through the steam and chatter like she’d already decided something about me. Ava was sharp, polished, and the scent of something far more dangerous than espresso clung to her. Her question was simple, almost cliché in a city like Los Angeles. "Ever thought about acting?" she asked. In L.A., who hasn't? But Ava's offer was draped in shadows, too tempting and yet tinged with the scent of something forbidden. It's only been a month since that encounter, a month of wrestling with the reality of my situation, of facing the relentless tide of bills and responsibilities.

“You’ll be fine,” Ava says, her tone laced with the kind of certainty I wish I felt. She leans in, adjusting my lipstick, her touch firm and practiced. I glance at my reflection, a stranger staring back, with smoky eyes and crimson lips. Ava’s made me look fierce, but inside I feel paper-thin, like one wrong move could tear me apart.

I study my reflection, the unfamiliar woman staring back at me with loose waves of blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. The dress Ava selected hugs my body a little too snugly for comfort; it's baby blue fabric, both elegant and confining. I'm not fond of how it accentuates my cleavage, leaving me feeling exposed. Still, Ava's touch is confident, almost motherly, as she clasps a string of pearls around my neck. "It's the epitome of class," she says, and I can't help but wonder if the pearls are meant to elevate the dress or serve as a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.

My confusion must be written all over my face. "But why the dinner first? I thought we just—" Ava's perfectly manicured finger rises, cutting me off mid-sentence as she expertly tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

Her voice is firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "We're not just fuck dolls," she states bluntly, and the raw honesty in her words sends a flush creeping up my cheeks. "They pay forthe whole package— for us to look good, to make them look good, and to make them feel even better. If your client wants dinner and a show, then that's what you'll give him. You're the main event and the dessert. Got it?" Her gaze is piercing, demanding an understanding that I'm only just beginning to grasp. I nod, swallowing hard. Ava's not the type to repeat herself, and I'm quickly learning that every word, every nuance in this new world of mine, counts.

My words trip over themselves, a tangle of uncertainty. "What if...um, how much..." I stutter, struggling to give voice to the knot of questions in my head.

I can practically feel Ava’s impatience as she exhales sharply. "Spit it out, Lily."

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