Chapter 24
Theo
The walls of Jamael's office felt closer today, like they were closing in on me. I shifted on the couch, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. That stupid clock on his desk was crazy loud, tick-tick-ticking away while I tried to figure out how to start this conversation.
“So,” Jamael started, his voice all therapist-smooth, “you've had more client encounters since our last meeting.”
I nodded, still staring at my shoes. “Two clients. After the party. They took me back to their suite.” The memory flashed—hands everywhere, two voices giving instructions while I just went on autopilot, my brain basically checking out. “And a shift in the Dark Room.”
“And how did that make you feel?” Jamael asked, with that gentle push therapists are so good at.
“It was fine,” I said automatically, then caught myself. That was total BS and not why I'd asked to see him. “I mean, physically, it was fine.” I looked up. Jamael just sat there, patient as ever, his notepad untouched. “But I felt... nothing.”
Jamael nodded. “Nothing as in...?”
“Empty,” I blurted, the word coming out louder than I meant it to.
“Just... going through the motions. Like I was watching myself from some weird distance.” I raked my hand through my hair, frustrated I couldn't explain it better.
“With those clients, I was physically there but mentally a million miles away. And with Julian…” I trailed off, thinking about how Vincent had stepped in.
“I don't think I would've stopped him from doing whatever he wanted that night. That's messed up, right?”
Jamael's face got serious, and he put his notepad down.
“Theo, what you're describing is concerning,” he said. “Not caring what happens to you isn't just job burnout. It's like you're disconnecting from yourself.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, slouching deeper into the couch.
“It's like... after Ricard left, I just hit some internal off-switch.” I struggled to find the right words.
“When I first got here, I was freaking out but at least I was feeling something, you know?
Now it's like I'm some zombie going through the motions.”
“Do you think this feeling is just about work, or is it bigger than that?” Jamael asked.
I thought about it for a second. “I think... I don't think I'm cut out for this job,” I said, and weirdly, it felt good to admit it. “I thought I could do the whole 'separate sex from feelings' thing. Isn't that what you're supposed to do in this gig? But I totally suck at it.”
“Not everyone is suited for every job,” Jamael said. “There's no shame in figuring out something's not for you.”
“But the money...” I started, thinking about Casey's medical bills stacked up on my kitchen counter.
“Is money worth feeling like you're not even present in your own body?” Jamael asked. “Worth putting yourself in situations where you don't even care what happens to you?”
When he put it like that, I felt kinda stupid, but real life isn't that simple. “Casey needs that fancy rehab center,” I explained. “It costs a freaking fortune. Way more than I could make anywhere else.”
“Have you looked into other options? Financial aid? Payment plans?” Jamael asked.
“A little bit, but it all seemed so… overwhelming,” I admitted, feeling my face heat up. “When those bills started coming in, I panicked. This job seemed like a quick fix.”
“Quick fixes usually aren't sustainable,” Jamael pointed out. “Especially when they're messing with your head this much.”
His words struck a chord, resonating with something I had been feeling but couldn’t quite articulate. “I think you’re right,” I said. “I’ve been trying to convince myself I could make it work, but... I don’t think I can.”
“That’s not failure,” Jamael assured me. “It’s self-awareness. It takes courage to admit when something isn’t right.”
I managed a small smile. “I’ve learned a lot here, Jamael. I think I’ll continue therapy in the future as soon as I find a job with healthcare.”
“That would be beneficial,” he agreed. “And I’m happy to provide recommendations if you’d like. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “No, I think I know what I need to do now.”
“And what’s that?” he prompted.
I stood, feeling lighter despite the weight of my decision. “I need to talk to my bosses. I guess I’m quitting.”
Jamael rose as well, extending his hand. “I wish you all the best, Theo. Whatever path you choose from here.”
I shook his hand, gratitude washing over me. “Thank you. For everything.”
I left Jamael's office and headed for the elevator, feeling weirdly calm about my decision.
The hallway didn't seem so dark anymore.
Funny how making up your mind can do that, like someone flipped on a light switch in your brain.
I wasn't cut out for this sex worker stuff, and faking it was just making me miserable.
Voices whispered in my head, reminding me of Casey's medical bills and how we needed the money. The specialized rehab facility in San Diego that could help him recover faster. The mounting debt that threatened to drown us both.
But then I heard my brother's voice from our last call: Take care of yourself. Even with his speech still slurred from the brain injury, the concern in his tone had been unmistakable. Casey had always put me first.
He'd hate knowing what I was putting myself through now, even for his sake.
The elevator doors slid open. Last time I rode this elevator, I was heading up to sign my contract, practically shaking with a mix of panic and relief at the money I'd be making.
Weird to think that was only a few weeks ago. Felt like years.
Now I was going back to quit before I'd really even started. Story of my life, right?
The administrative floor was super quiet compared to the rest of The Ranch.
No music, no laughter, no sounds of people hooking up in semi-public spaces.
Just thick carpet that swallowed my footsteps and that vanilla-cinnamon scent that expensive places always seem to pump through the air.
The assistant at the desk, some guy with eyes sharp enough to cut glass and a smile that screamed “I know all your secrets” looked up as I approached.
“Mr. Bennett,” he greeted me, recognition flickering across his features. “Do you have an appointment with the bosses?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I was hoping one of them might have a few minutes to speak with me. It’s important.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Mr. Stone is out of the office, but The Master is here. Let me check if he’s available.” He tapped at his tablet, then spoke into his headset in a low voice. After a brief exchange, he looked back up at me. “You’re in luck. He can see you now.”
He rose and led me to the imposing double doors of The Master's office, knocking once before pushing them open. “Mr. Bennett to see you, sir.”
The Master’s office was dark and imposing, just like the man who stood by the window, overseeing the resort. He turned as we entered, his expression unreadable. “Thank you, Antonio. That will be all.”
The assistant withdrew, closing the doors behind him with a soft click. Ibrahim gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit down.”
I took a seat, suddenly nervous despite my resolve. Ibrahim moved to his chair, his movements deliberate and controlled. Everything about him exuded authority, from his impeccable suit to his steady gaze.
“What can I do for you, Theo?” he asked, his voice calm and measured.
I took a deep breath. “I wanted to discuss my contract.”
Ibrahim’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. “I see. Is there an issue with the terms?”
“No, the terms are fine. It’s just... I’ve decided not to renew at the end of the season.”
Ibrahim leaned back, studying me with those penetrating eyes. “Has something happened to precipitate this decision? Or is it because you were hurt?”
I shook my head. “No, nothing happened. And I wasn’t hurt. Not physically, anyway.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “I’ve just decided that this isn’t the life I want to live. As good as the money is, I can’t keep my heart locked up.”
Ibrahim nodded, as if my explanation made perfect sense. “This profession isn’t for everyone. It requires a certain compartmentalization that some find more challenging than others.”
“I thought I could do it,” I admitted. “I thought I could separate the physical from the emotional. But I can’t.”
Ibrahim’s lips curved in a small, knowing smile. “Few can, in truth. Those who claim otherwise are usually lying to themselves.” He steepled his fingers, regarding me thoughtfully. “You will be given your full season’s salary, even if you decide to leave now, during your probationary period.”
That was unexpected. “That’s generous, but I’m prepared to fulfill my end of the contract.”
Ibrahim nodded, something like approval in his gaze. “That’s admirable. Though if you find the situation becomes untenable, the offer remains open.” He leaned forward. “May I ask what you plan to do after your time here?”
I shrugged, the reality of my uncertain future settling in. “I’m not sure yet. Find another job, I guess. Something that will help me support my brother.”
“Ah, yes. Your brother.” Ibrahim’s expression softened further. “How is he doing?”
“Better,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. “The physical therapy is helping. He’s making progress.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Ibrahim rose from his chair, signaling the end of our conversation. “I wish you well, Theo, whatever path you choose. And should you ever reconsider, or need a reference for future employment, my door is always open.”
I stood as well, extending my hand. “Thank you. For understanding and for... everything.”
Ibrahim took my hand, his grip firm. “You’re welcome. And Theo?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t regard your time here as a failure. Think of it as a learning experience. About the world, and about yourself.”
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “I will.”
As I left The Master's office and headed back to the elevator, that same calm feeling got stronger. I'd made my decision and taken the first step toward... well, I didn't know what exactly, but something else. Something that wouldn't make me feel like a robot going through the motions.
We could stretch my paycheck from The Ranch for a few months if we didn't switch to the fancy San Diego rehab center right away. I could find something full-time, and pick up some weekend bartending shifts again. The pay would be garbage compared to The Ranch, but at least I knew what I was doing.
Money would be tight, but we’d be okay.
The rest of the day was a blur of normal Ranch stuff.
Mixing drinks at the bar. Nodding along to some tech CEO's boring story about his startup.
Smiling at guests. Playing the role, but with this new feeling of “this isn't my real life anymore” making it easier somehow.
By evening, I was beat but feeling okay, ready to crash early.
I was about to head out when my wristlet buzzed—new client assignment right now. Curious, I checked the nearest tablet. The alert was blinking but didn't have any details.
“Great,” I muttered when I saw the location. Villa 6. Ricard's villa. The place where we'd watched Iron Man on the couch, cooked dinner in the kitchen, swam in the pool at midnight. Where I'd felt more like myself than anywhere else at The Ranch.
Seriously? The universe couldn't give me a break? Some new rich dude was staying in Ricard's villa the exact same day I decided to quit? Talk about twisted timing.
For a second, I thought about claiming food poisoning from dinner, or maybe a migraine. But that would just delay the inevitable. If I was going to finish out my contract like I'd promised Ibrahim, I needed to suck it up and do the job, no matter how much it sucked to go back to that villa.
With a sigh, I accepted the request and dragged myself toward the villa. Each step felt like I had cement blocks tied to my feet. On any other night, this walk would've been nice, calming.
Instead, it invoked memories of Ricard.
Villa 6 came into view, and my stomach did this weird flip. Same red roof tiles. Same fancy entrance. Same everything, except the person inside wouldn't be him. Some new client would sleep in that bed, use that shower, sit at that counter where we'd eaten breakfast together.
I stopped at the bottom of the steps, trying to get my head in the game.
Just another client. Just one more performance.
One more reminder of why this job wasn't for me.
I promised myself I'd be professional, a Perfect Companion, even if inside I felt like I was held together with duct tape and wishful thinking.
Taking a deep breath, I climbed the steps and knocked on the door, keeping my eyes down on this one cracked tile I'd noticed the last time I was here.
I heard the door open and felt the air-conditioned breeze hit my face, but I couldn't look up.
Couldn't face seeing some stranger standing in the doorway where Ricard should be.
I stood there like an idiot, totally unable to look up. What was I doing? This wasn't fair to the new client. Whoever they were deserved at least eye contact.
Be professional. Get through this.
Okay. Three, two, one... look up and smile. I can do this.
Before I could move, I felt a finger under my chin, gently tilting my face upward. That touch. I knew that touch. My heart went from zero to a hundred in half a second as I raised my eyes and saw...
Ricard. My duke.
Holy. Shit.
He was standing there in the doorway, tall and perfect against the light coming from inside.
No fancy suit this time, just a simple white button-down and dark pants, his hair all messy like he'd been running his hands through it.
Those blue eyes locked onto mine with an expression I couldn't figure out. Nervous? Hopeful? Scared?
I froze, my brain short-circuiting. This wasn't possible. He was supposed to be on a plane back to Europe, handling his brother's mess, doing duke stuff. Not here. Not looking at me like... like what? Like he'd come back for something important?
About fifteen emotions hit me at once, like getting slammed by a wave. Joy that made my chest hurt. Anger about our fight and how he'd basically called me just a hooker. Total confusion about why he was back at all.
And underneath all that, this stupid, dangerous hope bubbling up that I was trying hard to squash.
Hope was what got me hurt in the first place. But there it was anyway, refusing to stay buried.