THE COST OF LOVING YOU

The Velvet Room Spa was a members-only wellness club, money flows like water here and morality was often left at the gold-leafed doors. Ava Williams had been hired three weeks ago. She was a specialist—deep tissue, sports, prenatal. She was the best they had, and she kept her head down. She knew the whispers; she knew some therapists offered "extras" for a price that could cover a month’s rent. But Ava didn’t. Her pride was the only thing she had left that wasn't for sale. Her phone buzzed as she walked the dim, incense-scented hallway toward the manager's office. She slipped it out and answered. “Girl, are you still at that fancy torture chamber?” Tessy’s voice came through, a mix of humor and genuine worry. “It’s almost eleven. You said you’d be off by ten.” Ava leaned against the cool marble wall. “One last client. VIP suite. Eighty minutes of deep tissue. It’s a lot of money, Tess.” Tessy snorted. “VIP suite? That’s code for ‘rich guy who wants a happy ending.’ You sure you're okay?” “I don’t do extras. Ever,” Ava said, tugging at the hem of her black silk tunic. The uniform was a nightmare…clinging to her curves, the leggings riding up her thighs with every step. “This outfit is basically lingerie with a name tag. I feel like I’m one wrong door away from a bad decision.” “You look hot, though,” Tessy teased. “Bet the finance bros tip better when they’re distracted.” Ava rolled her eyes, but her face fell when Tessy asked, “How’s the account looking?” Ava closed her eyes for a second. “Two thousand three hundred. Grandma’s next round is eighteen grand. Insurance called it ‘investigational.’ That’s corporate-speak for ‘die quietly.’” Silence on the line. “You don’t have to do this alone. I can help with…” Tessy started. “No,” Ava cut in. “You’re already helping with groceries. I’ve got this. One shift at a time.” “Stubborn as hell,” Tessy muttered. “Just… be careful. If he gets weird, walk out. Job's not worth your peace.” Ava pushed off the wall, straightening. “I know. I'll text you when I'm done. Love you. She pocketed the phone and turned the corner, nearly colliding with Mr. Hale, the manager. He was a man who wore his polo shirts two sizes too small and a scowl that never faded. "Move your ass, Ava. I didn't hire you to take personal calls." He thrust a slip at her. “Room 12. Now." "My assignment was room 11…" "Changed. New guest. Ethan referred him and paid triple for the slot. Just do the standard. No drama.” Ava stared at the slip. The pre-printed tip line read: *$5,000 minimum.* Her stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. That was insane money for a massage. “It's just a massage,” she whispered to herself, grabbing a warmed oil bottle and fresh towels. She entered the Orchid Suite, the air heavy with the scent of expensive sandalwood. A man was already face-down on the table. Broad shoulders, a sculpted back, and dark hair still damp from a shower. There was an aristocratic laziness to him that grated on her nerves. *Damn rich people.* She set the warmer down and unfolded the towels with practiced efficiency. “Good evening, Mr Jordan,” she said, voice calm and neutral. “I'm Ava. We'll start with you face down. Any specific areas of tension? Ava paused, fingers on the towel edge. She cleared her throat. “Sir? Just confirming—this is Room 12, ninety-minute deep tissue?” “Manager sent you?” his voice was a low, muffled rumble. “Yes, he did.” “You're late. But yes. Let's get started.” Ava warmed the oil between her palms and began. Her hands were strong, precise. She worked the knots in his shoulders, feeling the tension melt under her touch. His back was impressively wide. The kind of physique that came from disciplined training, not just some gym rat flexing for i********:. Nico Jordan closed his eyes. He’d had a hell of a week—rivals circling his company like sharks. His friend Ethan had texted: *Took care of you. Private. ‘Special service.’ Relax.* But these hands didn't feel like a "special service." They felt professional. Skilled. And yet, the way her knuckles dragged along his hamstrings, the way her body moved close to the table... His shoulders loosened despite himself. He opened his eyes, twisted his head just enough to catch a glimpse of her in the candlelight. Dark hair pulled back, full lips, hazel eyes focused on his back like she was solving a riddle. Her tunic hugged all the right places, breasts high and rounded, narrow waist. His body betrayed him. The sheet tented. Nico felt a flush of heat…not just desire, but a rare moment of embarrassment. He wasn't some teenager, yet this woman’s clinical touch was undoing him. Ava stilled. She saw the tented sheet, the dark spot of pre-c*m soaking through the expensive linen. A familiar irritation flared in her chest. She stepped back, wiping her hands with sharp, jerky motions. “I’ll be back when you’ve composed yourself.” Nico rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. The sheet slipped, revealing the hard lines of his torso. He didn't fix it. "Problem?" "Yes," she spat. "I'm a therapist, Mr. Jordan. I don't do 'extras.' Find someone else." Nico’s eyes darkened. He misread her completely—thinking this was part of the act Ethan had paid for. He stood up, naked and unapologetic, his arousal clear. He grabbed her arm. "What are you doing? I paid for the full package. Don't play the virgin for me." "Let go of me!" Ava struggled, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Give me a blowjob, and I won't tell your manager you're being difficult," he sneered, pulling her closer. "Name your price. I can afford it." Ava’s hand flew before she could think. *CRA-CK.* The slap echoed. A perfect red handprint bloomed on Nico’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, his eyes turning mean and narrow. “You just hit a man who could buy your life and still have change,” he said, his voice a deadly quiet. “That’s going to cost you.” "You’re an entitled asshole," Ava hissed, her eyes blazing. "I bet your mother is real proud... raising a son who thinks every woman is for sale." The mention of his mother hit like a second slap. Nico's face went pale. "Watch your mouth." Ava laughed, short and bitter. "Or what? Go f**k yourself, rich boy." She grabbed the oil warmer and the stack of towels, and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Nico sat there naked, and motionless for ten full seconds, cheek stinging, hard-on refusing to get the memo. Anger boiling into something darker. He grabbed his phone from the side table. Text to assistant: *Whoever worked Room 12 tonight. I want her full info. Name. Address. Socials. Employment file. Everything.