Whispers of Love

The first thing you learn in my line of work is how to read people. Their body language, the flicker in their eyes, the way they hold a glass. It all tells you what they came looking for. Most men who walk into Ambrosia want the same thing: a fantasy that they can pay for the night and forget by morning. But the man who walked in tonight wasn’t like the others. He stood near the bar, looking wildly out of place…too clean, too careful, like someone who’d accidentally stepped into the wrong world. His fingers tapped his glass in slow rhythm, nervous and uncertain. I smirked. First timer, I thought. Probably here to prove he’s not as uptight as his friends think he is. “Marah,” Laura whispered beside me, her perfume thick and sweet. “That one’s new. Fresh meat and very handsome too. Go make him forget his name.” I adjusted my gown, red silk that caught the light like sin itself and slipped toward him, the way I’d been trained to since I was old enough to walk in heels. Every step, every smile and every breath was calculated. Desire was a weapon and I had mastered it. “Would you like some company?” I asked, my voice smooth as melted honey. He turned to me and for a moment, I forgot my lines. His eyes,God! His eyes weren't hungry like the others. They were searching, not for my body, but for something else. Something I didn’t know how to give anymore. “I’m not sure,” he said, a small crooked smile forming on his lips. “I don’t think I belong here.” I laughed softly, tilting my head the way I always did when pretending to flirt. “They all say that, and yet they never leave.” He chuckled too, but it wasn’t the usual arrogant sound I was used to. It was quiet, almost shy. “My friends insisted. Said this place fixes everything.” I shrugged. “Does it?” He looked at me and for a terrifying moment, I felt seen. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. “What about you?” he asked. “Does it fix things for you?” I froze. No one had ever asked me that. Clients didn’t ask questions about me, I wasn’t a person to them, rather, just a distraction. So I smiled, the kind that hides more than it shows. “I’m not the one who needs fixing.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping low enough that only I could hear. “Maybe not. But you look like someone who forgot how to breathe.” My heart stumbled. He had no right to say something like that. No right to sound sincere. No right to make me feel anything. Before I could reply, one of his friends appeared out of nowhere, loud and drunk. “There you are, Michael! Told you this place would change your life!” Michael. So that was his name. I stepped back quickly, sliding my mask back into place before anyone noticed it had slipped. “Enjoy your evening, Mr…” I said, my tone smooth, detached, professional again. He watched me go. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his gaze following me. heavy, curious and almost gentle. I’d seen thousands of men. None of them ever looked at me like that. And I hated that, for one fragile heartbeat, I wanted him to look at me again. When the night finally ended and the laughter faded into the hum of the city, I stood before the mirror in the dressing room. The red silk gown that had once clung to me like confidence now looked like armor, too tired to wear. Laura was already changing, humming a pop song under her breath, counting her tips. “ I saw you girl, you did good tonight.” she said without looking at me. I smiled faintly, because that’s what you do when you’re part of the show…pretend the applause still matters. But my mind wasn’t on the money or the men. It was on him. Michael Hammersmith. Even his name felt wrong on my tongue, too ordinary for a man who had made the whole room blur when he looked at me. I pulled out the pins from my hair, one by one, watching each strand fall free. I should’ve forgotten him already. That was the rule, never remember their faces, never remember their names. But the way he’d said I looked like someone who forgot how to breathe, it lodged somewhere beneath my ribs and refused to move. Back in my room, the air was heavy with the scent of perfume and loneliness. The city lights filtered through the blinds, drawing pale lines across the floor. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my hands…steady, polished and practiced. These were the same hands that had learned to please, to comfort, to survive. And yet, tonight, they trembled. I lit a cigarette just to have something to do, even though I rarely smoked. The flame flared, small and angry, before dying into ember. Who was he really? A bored man dragged in by his friends? A lost soul searching for distraction? Or someone dangerous enough to look past the glitter and see what I had buried? I hated that I cared to know. Outside, laughter spilled from the street below. Another night of men and women pretending to feel alive. Somewhere in that noise, I heard echoes of my own laughter, fake and delicate. I used to think if I played my part well enough, I could trick myself into believing it too. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, I felt seen. And it terrified me. As I undressed slowly, folding the gown with a sense of detachment. Don Luca’s rules rang in my head: Always stay perfect. Never get attached. Never let them touch your soul. My soul. I almost laughed. Whatever part of me that could still feel had been sold years ago. I lay down, staring at the ceiling until the lines blurred. I tried to push him out of my head, the calm in his voice, the quiet sincerity in his eyes. But the harder I tried, the deeper he lingered. Sleep came in fragments, broken by flashes of memory I didn’t want. His voice again, soft but certain: Maybe not. But you look like someone who forgot how to breathe. When morning came, the sunlight hit me like guilt. I dragged myself to the mirror again, tracing the faint shadows beneath my eyes. A new day, another mask. Laura’s knock came before I’d even finished tying my robe. “Marah,” she called, her tone bubbly. “Don Luca wants you upstairs. Says there’s a new client asking for you.” I paused, heart catching in my throat. “A new client?” I asked. “Yeah. Apparently, Barney set it up. High-profile, generous pay. You’re lucky, girl.” Lucky. That word always makes me want to puke.I slipped into another gown, black this time, simple but striking and tried not to think. But as I fastened the clasp around my neck, an image flashed through my mind. It couldn’t be. Still, a part of me knew, before I even stepped into that corridor where deals were made and souls were traded. that fate had a cruel sense of humor. And somewhere behind those polished doors, Michael was waiting.