The neon glow of the cityscape bled through the sheer curtains, painting streaks of crimson and gold across the plush carpet. Anya traced the condensation on her champagne flute, the ice clinking a melancholic rhythm against the glass. Another night, another wealthy client, another meticulously crafted persona. She was the epitome of effortless allure, the whispered fantasy, the one women envied and men craved. And tonight, as she listened to Mr. Sterling wax poetic about his struggles with his estranged son, a familiar hollowness echoed within her.
It wasn’t the money, though that was a necessary comfort. It wasn’t the opulent hotel suites or the designer gowns that were almost as much a costume as the persona she wore. It was the weight of the unspoken, the constant dance around genuine connection. She was a master of intimacy without intimacy, a purveyor of comfort without permanence.
Tonight, Mr. Sterling had mentioned his wife, not with resentment, but with a sigh that spoke of regret and a longing for what had been. He’d spoken of shared dreams, of building a life, of the quiet, steady hum of partnership. Anya had listened, nodding at the right moments, offering a gentle touch on his hand, a sympathetic gaze that was as practiced as her smile. But inside, a different kind of ache had begun to bloom.
Commitment. The word itself felt alien, a foreign language she only understood in theory. Her life was a series of planned encounters, of contracts signed in hushed tones and transactions completed with polite discretion. Her relationships were ephemeral, built on a foundation of mutual, unspoken understanding: this is what we are, this is what we are not.
Yet, lately, the whispers of “what if” had begun to haunt her quiet moments. She’d find herself scrolling through social media, a curious observer of people her age, people who were navigating mortgages and marriage anniversaries, grocery shopping on a Saturday morning, and the messy, beautiful chaos of shared lives. Their faces, etched with a different kind of weariness, also carried a contentment she couldn’t quite decipher.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. She was paid to simulate connection, to offer a taste of what others had, and perhaps, in doing so, she was inadvertently building walls higher around her own capacity for it. The skill of detachment, once her greatest asset, was becoming her cage.
