Chapter 2
ZATANNA
His hands slide beneath the silk of her robe, palms hot, mouth hotter.
She gasps, arching into him as his lips find the soft hollow of her throat, then lower, tasting, teasing, making her beg without words.
Her thighs part instinctively, the ache building—one rough hand cups her breast, thumb flicking over a nipple until she whimpers, her whole body shivering at the promise in his touch.
He pushes her back onto the bed, hair spilling wild across the sheets. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, accent curling the words like smoke.
She wants everything—his mouth between her legs, his cock stretching her open, the delicious weight of him pressing her down, claiming her.
She moans as he slides lower, his tongue tracing the inside of her thigh, breath hot, fingers spreading her open.
She’s already dripping for him, desperate, hips lifting in silent plea…
“God, yes, right there…”My own voice echoes in my ears, breathless, urgent, and just a touch theatrical. I force myself to keep going, forcing every ounce of tension into the words.
I drop my voice to a whisper, drawling into the dark, “That’s it, baby. Don’t stop. Fill me up. Make me yours.”
I hold the silence for a beat to let it simmer. Then I click off the mic, stretch my jaw, and sigh. Another session done.
The taste of sex still clings to my tongue, even though it’s just words, just a fantasy piped through cheap headphones to some stranger probably jerking off in a dimly lit room.
My rent is late, my stomach’s empty, but at least for a few minutes I can pretend I’m someone who gets exactly what she wants.
I take a breath, lean back in my rickety chair, and glance at the audio levels. Good enough. The little red “REC” light goes dark. I click “send” and scrub a hand through my hair, already thinking of the next story.
I’m still catching my breath when I look up and see Jake, my producer, grinning through the glass. He flashes me a double thumbs up, practically vibrating in his chair.
“Perfect, Zee,” he says through the intercom, his voice a low rumble I’ve come to associate with approval—and payday. “Seriously. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a whole man hiding in there with you.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Just me, Jake. You want it again for backup?”
He nods, eyes bright. “Always. You know the drill.”
I lean forward, mic close enough to feel my own breath bounce back at me.
I clear my throat, swallow the last ghost of embarrassment, and let myself sink back into character.
I don’t think about the bills piling up at home, or the eviction notice taped to my door.
I don’t think about the dead silence after I stop recording, or how cold my bed is at night.
For the next five minutes, I’m not Zatanna with chipped nail polish and empty cupboards. I’m every desperate fantasy, every breathless confession, and every voice some stranger out there wants to hear in the dark.
By the time I finish, my voice is wrecked and my cheeks are flushed. Jake’s still grinning like an idiot. “You really save my ass, Zee. Those last three clients? You’re the only reason they’re still on the books.”
I manage a tired smile. “Glad someone appreciates me.”
He waves a hand. “Go home. Rest that golden throat.”
I pack up my stuff and head out of the studio.
Well, calling it a “studio” is a joke. It’s the kind of place you only find if you’re desperate—three floors up in a building that probably hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the eighties, the elevator perpetually out of order, and the carpets sticky with the ghosts of a hundred shoes.
The sign on the door reads “Starlight Productions,” but everyone knows it’s just a closet with a microphone, a secondhand laptop, and Jake, the self-proclaimed king of cheap erotica.
I lean against the battered counter as Jake fiddles with the audio files, humming off-key. I wait until he finally looks up, his eyes hopeful, almost boyish.
“Jake,” I start, twisting the strap of my bag. “Can we talk about my rate?”
His smile freezes just a little, but he recovers fast, like he’s had this conversation a hundred times before.
“Oh, Zee, you know I’d love to. Really. But things are tight right now.
Streaming numbers are up, but advertisers, they’re impossible.
You’re the best I got, but the market just isn’t there for a raise right now. ”
I try not to let the desperation leak into my voice. “Jake, I’m barely making rent. My landlord’s about to change the locks. You told me last month if I picked up the weekend slots, you’d bump my rate.”
He gives me that look—pity, apology, and something sly, all wrapped together. “And I appreciate it, you know I do. But things haven’t picked up like I hoped. These stories? They sell, but not like the old days. Maybe next quarter, huh?”
I bite my tongue. I know the truth. Every time the numbers spike, Jake is the first to brag about his “genius business sense,” but the last to share any of it. He’ll buy himself a new watch before he gives me another ten bucks an hour.
He pats my shoulder, all friendly. “Hang in there, Zee. You’re a star. We’ll get through this. In the meantime, keep those recordings coming, yeah?”
I nod, forcing a smile that feels brittle. I grab my bag and step out into the hall, the door clicking behind me.
By the time I trudge home, Manhattan feels like it’s trying to spit me out.
It’s almost midnight, the kind of late where all that’s left on the sidewalks are rats and regret.
My building is five stories of crumbling brick, the stoop sticky with old gum and rain.
There’s no doorman here, just the glow of a busted lightbulb and the ever-present whiff of stale takeout and city dreams gone sour.
On my door, there’s a slip of paper fluttering like a white flag—another note from my landlord, written in that angry, blocky script I could recognize in my sleep.
Final notice.
Rent overdue.
Payment expected by Friday or locks will be changed.
I stare at it, my mind blank, the words swimming as exhaustion seeps into my bones. I don’t even bother throwing it away. I just crumple it in my hand and toss it on the pile of other threats and warnings collecting on my kitchen counter.
My apartment is barely more than a closet.
There’s a mattress pushed against one wall, a thrifted lamp with a faded floral shade, two windows with no view, and a kitchenette that wouldn’t look out of place in a dollhouse.
I drop my bag, my keys, and my dreams in the same heap by the door and kick off my shoes, toes freezing against the warped linoleum.
My stomach growls—a hollow, ugly sound. I rummage through the cupboards and come up with a single packet of ramen, the last one.
I don’t even bother boiling the water on the stove; I just fill it with hot tap water and hope for the best, huddling by the window in my oldest hoodie, knees pulled up to my chest as I wait for the noodles to get soft.
I try to eat, but the taste is nothing, just salt and chemicals, and I almost choke. It’s the thought of all the things I can’t fix that finally breaks me. The debt notices, the credit card bills, the grocery store receipts stacked like a losing hand. Rent is four days late…
And I have thirty-two dollars in my bank account.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, cursing myself for crying. I hate it. I hate feeling small, and hungry, and invisible. I hate that I’m twenty-seven and my biggest accomplishment this week is making strangers come with my voice.
The noodles are half-eaten, forgotten, as I drag my battered second-hand laptop onto the bed.
The screen flickers to life, dim and blue, illuminating the clutter of my tiny world.
I open every job board I know: Indeed, Glassdoor, LinkedIn, Craigslist, some weird new site called HiredHub that probably just wants to steal my identity.
I scroll until my eyes blur, every posting a little more hopeless than the last.
Wanted: Virtual Assistant, four years’ experience, pays $13 an hour, must be available weekends and nights.
Receptionist, Midtown, temp-to-perm, pay “competitive” (read: minimum wage), must be bilingual, three years’ admin experience required.
I click through them all, copying and pasting my résumé, editing my cover letter, pretending for the hundredth time that I have “strong Excel skills” and “a passion for customer service.”
My phone pings, and it’s another text from my landlord.
Friday. Or else.
That’s when the tears really start. I press my face into my hoodie sleeve and sob, shoulders shaking, hot and silent and ugly. I’m so tired. I’m so goddamn tired.
When I finally lift my head, I’m blinking through the blur when I see it: a job listing I haven’t seen before.
Vasiliev Holdings LLC—Personal Assistant to CEO (Confidential)
The description is almost comically vague:
“Discreet, resourceful, flexible. Must handle sensitive information. High-level scheduling, travel arrangements, research, occasional personal errands. Excellent compensation, room for growth. Immediate start.”
There’s a link to a company site, just a glossy page with a Midtown address, no photos, no team bios. The only thing that matters is the salary: Fat five figures. Plus benefits.
I laugh. It’s a bitter sound, watery and desperate. Sure, I think, it has to be a joke. No one’s paying that much for an assistant.
But I keep reading. They want someone who can “think independently, creative decisions, etc.”
I scroll down. Bachelor’s degree required. Experience in a corporate environment preferred. Excellent verbal and written communication skills essential.
I shake my head, already feeling myself back away. I’m overqualified in all the wrong ways. I haven’t had a real office job in two years. My best reference is a guy who pays me to fake orgasms over a mic. And I know my luck—applications like this are black holes. I’ll never hear back.
Still, I open my résumé. I clean up the wording, adjust the dates, and fluff the old admin job at my aunt’s dental practice until it sounds important. I copy the job description into my cover letter, try to make myself sound invisible and indispensable at the same time.
Then, on a whim, I scroll through my audio files. I find my last recording—a sultry, confident voice purring out forbidden fantasies, every word dripping with control and certainty. It doesn’t even sound like me. That woman doesn’t cry in the dark or eat shitty, cheap noodles for dinner.
I play it again, just to hear what confidence sounds like.
By the time it ends, my hands aren’t shaking anymore. I fill out the application, paste in my résumé, attach my cover letter, and—without really thinking—drag the file into the upload box.
I hit send.
The confirmation screen pops up: Thank you for your application. We will contact you if you are selected for an interview.
I stare at the screen, cold dread rising as I realize what I’ve done. The silence in my apartment is so thick I can hear my own heart thudding in my chest.
But there’s nothing I can do now. The application is gone.
I shut the laptop, crawl under my threadbare blanket, and let myself hope—just for a second—that maybe, just maybe, luck might finally be on my side.
And they never look at my application.