2. Scarlet
SCARLET
An orgasm spreads through me, violent and merciless, in wave after wave of pleasure that consumes me entirely. My head swirls, and for a moment, the entire world around me disappears.
This feels good.
So damn good.
My whole body shakes as his hand tightens around my throat, applying more pressure there. It feels like I’m in heaven; there’s no other explanation for the sensation that pounds through my body, dragging out for an eternity. Second after second, I’m lost in this bliss.
It’s euphoric. Cathartic, even.
Another shudder breaks through my body before the pleasure finally begins to disperse, and I’m left trembling and gasping for air. The hand removes from my throat, and the weight that was on top of me until moments ago plops to the side.
Both belong to Xavier O’Connell, one of my regulars, and, undoubtedly, one of the best fucks I’ve ever had.
Seeing his name on my schedule is enough to brighten up my entire day.
I turn to face him. His dirty blonde hair falls messily around his face, and his deep brown eyes remain locked on mine.
Then a smile curves across his face. It mirrors the one that appears on mine.
“You know your time is out, don’t you?” I murmur. Xavier has been a regular for so long that we’ve developed a somewhat less formal relationship. Usually I wouldn’t dare to speak to a client like this, but Xavier knows me, and I know him.
That’s one of many things I like about working at The Network.
I build connections, get paid for spending time in rich men’s company, and occasionally get rewarded with a mind-blowing orgasm like this one. It’s been a dream job for me since day one.
“Do you speak to all your clients like this?” he says, but I don’t miss the teasing undertone in his voice. The smile on my face widens.
“Only my favorite ones.”
As I unlock the door to my apartment, I feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. My body is light and my mind clear as the familiar scent of home greets me when I drop my keys into the little ceramic bowl by the door.
This apartment was a complete mess when I first found it.
It was a tiny, dim place that most people would have walked right past, but I saw its potential.
Now the once-bare walls are covered in light purple wallpaper with soft, swirling patterns.
A massive dark green couch stretches across the living room, overflowing with pillows in every color and size I could find.
The vintage coffee table sitting in front of it’s still one of my favorite thrift store treasures.
Bookshelves line the walls, stacked high with volumes on the occult, astrology, and a few random novels I’ve collected over the years.
The kitchen opens to the right, with a small round dining table tucked in the corner.
The cabinets are old, straight from the 80s, and although I once thought about replacing them, I’ve grown to love them.
It all feels so perfectly, so wonderfully like home. It’s a place where I feel like I, for once, truly belong.
I drop my bag beside the door and make a beeline for the couch.
My tarot cards and a small pile of books I’ll need for my weekly astrology forecast are already waiting there.
I sink into the soft cushions and begin to shuffle the deck.
I try to focus all my thoughts and all my energy on the cards in my hands.
Intention matters in readings like this.
It’s something I’ve learned over time, something I know better than anyone.
Then my phone buzzes loudly beside me, breaking my concentration.
Jessie’s name lights up the screen. Jessie is more than just a friend; she’s the person who helped me find my way when everything fell apart.
She’s the one who introduced me to The Network, and without her, who knows what my life would have looked like by now. For that, she has my eternal gratitude.
If it were anyone else, I’d let the call go to voicemail right now.
But for her, I answer.
“Hey girl,” her cheerful voice fills the room when I pick up. “How are you doing?”
“I’m well,” I say, and it’s the truth. Life has been good, even if work at The Network can sometimes be draining with long nights and an occasional overly demanding client.
Right now, though, everything feels better than it has ever been.
I finally feel like I belong here at Cascade Point, something that would have seemed impossible a while ago.
“Wonderful … wonderful,” Jessie replies, but I hear the hesitation beneath it. She’s holding something back, and the tension sneaks in between us.
“What is it?” I ask, not bothering to soften my tone.
I need to know. As I speak, though, a strange calm nudges me to keep shuffling my tarot cards.
My hands know what to do, moving the deck with ease.
I draw three cards: the Lovers, Two of Cups, and the Empress.
I tilt my head, studying them carefully.
Each one speaks of strong romantic energy and the kind of connections that could shift the course of someone’s life.
With Venus and Mars in the mix, the meaning becomes even more intense.
“Don’t panic, but Seth reached out asking about you,” Jessie finally says, and the words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I freeze. My focus is no longer on my reading.
Seth is why I left Tennessee and moved across states, away from everything familiar.
I had thought I knew him and that we were meant to be, only to discover he was nothing like the person I had thought he was.
The breakup had been painful and messy. I had been lost for months, but finding work at The Network gave me the focus I needed to rebuild my life.
So why is he trying to sneak his way back into my life now?
“What did you tell him?” I ask as I set the cards down gently on the couch, my fingers lingering on their smooth edges.
“To go to hell,” Jessie says immediately. “I told him I don’t know where you are, and that he should leave you alone. I just wanted you to know. Be careful.”
“Always,” I say, and she knows I mean it.
An hour later, I do what I always do when stress builds inside me.
I reorganize my things. It’s a ritual that grounds me and helps me clear my head more.
Today, my victim is my vintage glasses collection.
Each pair is carefully lifted from its spot, polished, and rearranged by shape, color, and era.
An astrology podcast plays in the background.
After all, I need to confirm the readings from earlier.
Another buzz breaks through the quiet. This one is different, distinct and instantly recognizable. My phone lights up with a confirmation notification from The Network. My heartbeat quickens. I have been booked, which is exactly what I’ve been hoping for today.
I reach for the phone and open the details. Mr. Knox Fisher has requested that I accompany him to the upcoming country club gala. My brows draw together in curiosity. The payment is more than generous, above what I ask for events like this, and I can’t ignore the intrigue that rises in me.
Who is this man? And what kind of energy does he carry?
A quick internet search answers most of my questions. Knox Fisher. Hotel heir. Worth billions. Thirty years old. Six feet tall. The world, it seems, is already at his feet.
I click on one of the pictures. To say he is intimidating would be an understatement.
His dark brown hair is neatly slicked back, framing sharp features.
He has high cheekbones, full lips, and a jaw sculpted from marble, but it’s his eyes that capture me most. They carry a cold, piercing blue shade that seems to look straight through the layers of a person and see the truth beneath even the surface.
I feel a shiver that wants to roll down my spine, but I force it back.
There is still one more thing I need to know before the gala, though.
I begin scrolling through every article about him, searching for business profiles, interviews, and social media mentions, only to find his date of birth.
Business details fill the pages, outlining acquisitions, hotels, and philanthropic endeavors, but the stars will tell me everything else I truly need to know.