The whore's introduction: If you are joining me for the first time read on otherwise pick up at the date.

I am London Brown, alter ego of Desniah Williams, a twenty-six-year-old, affluent, educated, black woman employed by The Agency.

The Agency provides pricy escorts for London's elite. It's a sophisticated operation in the oldest profession. Clients peruse a catalogue to choose a service provider.

I'm contacted via a white envelope slipped under my door. Since I became a service provider, not once have I seen an envelope delivery. I have a theory about why, but honestly, it sounds absolutely ridiculous, so I refuse to elaborate.

These are the confessions of a whore. My confessions.

January 10

I leaned against the door. The cool surface soothed me, willing me to push aside fears that Rhys would be upset. On the table, our breakfast sat half eaten. Rhys was already angry...or hurt. Otherwise, he wouldn't have left with such haste. I didn't have it in me to beg anyone to stay, when there was me, myself, and London.

Envelope in hand, I flipped the letter repeatedly.

If we were actually dating, I would worry about Rhys handling that it wouldn't always be me. But he didn't have to. The relationship part of Rhys and mine's involvement was pretend. The only real emotional connection we had was our friendship. If he cares about you, he'll get over it, honey. Those were London words, not mine.

London didn't often go a week without working. Time for me to play and for you to rest.

I, London, opened the pristine envelope with a thumping heart.

Dear Ms. Brown:

Your presence is requested, The Royal Suite at (name of the hotel) 3:30 p.m. to 9:00 am. Wear only a trench coat and heels.

Sincerely,

Christian Friedrich Samuel Hahnemann

Mr. Carrington definitely had guts requesting me after what happened with Rhys. Demanding I wear a trench coat and heels gave him away. I should clue him in that his pattern could get him in trouble.

I primped and pressed, then went to the hotel.

No one could simply step onto an elevator and head to The Royal Suite. A young bellhop escorted me and knocked on the door. With a slanted glance, he appraised me for the sixth time in as many minutes as if attempting to confirm if I wore anything beneath. The poor thing. I cost more than six months of his wages.

The door opened, and Caden, dressed in a black suit, stood before me with purple bruising on his face. He unbuttoned his jacket. The roles had reversed. Just recently, he'd come to our flat to find our face in much the same condition.

"Thank you." He handed the bellhop some cash. "That will be all."

Odd, he felt it necessary to provide the young man a cue to disappear. His quick dismissal of the help didn't bode well for me.

"Yes, sir." The lanky young man ran along.

Caden stepped out of the doorway and gestured for me to enter. "Please, come in."

Over the top with the fake pleasantries, but I wouldn't judge. I strode into the lavish suite. A room with a bed would have sufficed for what he had in mind. He wanted to fuck me. Even a wall would have done the trick.

The door shut behind me. "You are not very good at this. The same hotel twice, and creating situations where, together, we interact with staff. I'm getting the impression you want a scandal."

Some, like Des for example, couldn't live with secrets. I hardly remembered a time when I wasn't hiding something from everyone.

"Your coat..." He held out his hand.

I smirked. Men amused me. I undid the buttons and belt, slid the sleeves off and placed the material in his hand. The location of our last such encounter had been much colder than this suite. And yet, my nipples hardened anyway.