M ɪ ᴅ ᴀ s T ᴏ ᴜ ᴄ ʜ

Thank you amicably. I have always had a fervent center that relishes the deep seclusion and perversion of decadence. Seemingly naturally, I prowled and slunk my way into the unimaginably sensuous realm of true wealth. Unlike other temptresses, I luckily was without debts or contracts. If I had the desire to fly to Cannes one evening for a whisky and Cuban ballad, I could arrange it myself. I still possess that liberty today.

The manner in which you “work your way up” depends on your location(s) and taste. If you prefer lobster, Victoria’s Secret, and paying your college tuition, then you won’t need much ladder-climbing in LA. If you prefer a penthouse in Singapore and black-market gems from South America, you’ll only get it through connections.

     When she threw the door to the bathroom open, she was trying to be playful, trying to startle the unmovable man, trying to catch this goddamn stone statue off-guard. 

     She did startle him. And she found him rummaging through her purse, pocketing some of her belongings. Her hand, instinctively, flew to grasp her thigh, where a dagger was secure in her garter and underneath her skirt. Not that she had any clue of how to use it.

     When it was quite clear that she had caught him red-handed and he wasn’t getting away with any of her things, she made him turn all of his pockets inside out. After collecting a few of her pieces of jewelry from him, several hundred dollars (she didn’t which one of them the money actually belonged to, but it was hers now!) from him and securing her bag back under her arm, she tried to leave. It’s not like she could go to the police or anything, but she threatened anyway. They would just write her off for prostitution, and she was sure he knew it too. She was fuming. How could she have been so blind? 

     He had a firm grasp on bowl of the wine glass. Gods, that was quickly becoming her biggest pet peeve. It didn’t even matter that much since it was a red wine, but still, couldn’t he pretend to be classy? It didn’t look nice, and they were dining in a Michelin star rated restaurant. 

     She lightly touched the jewels draped around her neck, then absently ran her hands over the baubles that adorned her fingers. A quick inventory check, if you will. Not that she was concerned anyone had made off with her jewels while they were still on her body (she had serious personal space issues anyway, she was nearly certain she could catch a thief before he could properly retrieve her luxuries), but it was just a simple routine she followed every now and then. Maybe it was for assurance, maybe it was to ground herself: to bring herself back to reality, to emphasize that this wasn’t a delusion, a drill, or a dream. Or a nightmare… Or was it? She mulled it over as he rambled on. 

     God, did he have a mouth on him or what? He had been talking non-stop since they had arrived, and they were already approaching their 4th course. The topic of conversation had frequently wandered to his deceased wife; Sylvie knew it was still a sensitive issue, but Jesus, she had been dead for four years. Get over it already. 

     “Sera?” he said, clearly not entirely convinced she was hanging on his every word. 

     The name snapped her back into focus. She was not Sylvie right now, but Sera, and she was working. Being professional armcandy was a tough job, and somebody had to do it. Come on, girl, she thought, Keep it together... At least pretend to be interested... 

     “Yes,” she answered, “I’m listening. Please continue.” She tipped her head and beamed at him. It was a little reassurance that she was still fabulous to look at, even if she wasn’t a fabulous listener. 

     And he did. Continue, that is. He went on and on and on, listing all the admirable qualities of his late wife, everything he loved about her, all her strangle little quirks. Sylvie felt she knew this woman intimately and yet she hadn’t even the faintest idea of what she looked like. 

     She found her mind deviating from the conversation once more. Did he speak this highly of her when she was living? Sylvie knew the male mentality better than that. Poor jackass probably didn’t appreciate the woman while she was alive. Poor girl probably died thinking her husband didn’t even love her. And then suddenly, she’s dead, and he’s filled with regret. Words he never said. Sentiments he never expressed. And he feels like the shittiest person on the planet, all because his wife, the love of his life, died a lonely, miserable death, and it was all his fault. 

     Not that any of that was of Sylvie’s concern. To be frank, she really didn’t give a damn. 

     The conversation did find Sylvie eventually yearning for affection—real, genuine affection—from someone under the age of 55. How lovely it would be, to have someone talk about her as enthusiastically as this man babbled about his wife. As he chattered on, she realized he loved so much that it caused him more pain than anything… Which gave Sylvie a nice reminder of why she didn’t bother with actual love. She mentally named this potential daddy “Chatterbox,” and continued to fake empathetic whimpers and coos when appropriate. 

     Through the bits of conversation she bothered to listen to, she was certain of one thing: 

     She had draped herself over the bright red chaise. It was ugly as hell (and she wouldn’t be caught dead with it in her own home), but she still felt glamorous, with her champagne on the side table and her newly gifted sapphire ring weighing heavy on her hand. She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair, observing as the sunlight that was filtering through the windows reflected off the facets of the gem. Shifting her position languidly, she watched as the blue refraction on the wall stirred with her movements. Her legs brushed against the red fabric that adorned the lounge chair. Textiles were not something she was good with identifying—along with cars, men’s fashion, and other things she deemed too tedious to care about. The upholstery had a luxurious feel to it, though. Velvet? She paused as she contemplated. Velvet didn’t seem very upscale in the grand scheme of things. 

     Sylvie felt lethargic as she lifted her eyes to meet those of her benefactor. She knew she should probably entertain him in some way or another, but she couldn’t bring herself to muster the energy. As of late, she had been thinking about dropping this particular man, anyway; she knew nearly nothing about his place of work, though the information she had gleaned from him told her that his occupation was too precarious to be lucrative. She usually didn’t bother engaging in arrangements with men she knew little to nothing about, but she had entered this one in a fit of boredom. Making a mental note not to do that again, she batted her eyes at him. He couldn’t expect her to make an active effort today, could he? It was her day off, anyway—at least, it was, until he had called her up and asked to meet. He expressed that he had a surprise for her, and that’s how her hand had become heavier than it was when she first walked in. 

     He stood before her, his eyes locked with hers as he sipped his champagne. His fingers were clasped around the bowl of the flute, and it annoyed her beyond belief (High quality, chilled champagne, and he was warming it all up with his clammy fingers—not that she was about to tell a provider how to hold his glass). His other hand was tucked in the safety of his pocket, and he nearly looked ethereal as the sun set behind him. She glanced down at her ring, gave a quick flutter of her fingers, and looked back up at him. A flicker of something (amusement at the very least) flashed across his face—maybe even a hint of elation, seeing that she was enjoying the gift. Peering at him, she ran her eyes over his stature. The motion was slow and deliberate: she knew he was watching her appraise him, as if she was sizing up the gift that she really wanted. He looked pleased as she returned her gaze to his. Of course he did, every man wants to be wanted. She had to admit that he was devastatingly handsome. She finally gave him the satisfaction of a reaction: she smirked at him before biting her lip, then promptly turned over on the chaise, with her back facing him. 

     His looks were one of the reasons she was so suspicious of him. He was youthful, handsome, and vague as hell about his job. No legitimate person of interest was young, attractive, AND rich. At the very most, these men could claim two—and she was looking for wealthy, so that didn’t leave much to choices. He could have any girl he wanted, so why pay for her company? And what the hell did he have to hide? The illusion of privacy was something most men had, but this man actually went to the effort of covering his ass. She made another mental note: this time, to check to see if he had any arrest records under any other names. There was something amiss with the company she shared tonight, and she was going to figure out what it was before it cost her things that money couldn’t pay for. 

     The biggest reason that she wanted to break it off with him, however, was because his money seemed to be dwindling. Though the two only had a handful of meetings, his generosity seemed to be scarcer every time they met. They had a wonderful first date—she was sure he was trying to impress, to secure her in an arrangement—but the gifts seemed to get more pathetic every time they met up. This, coupled with Sylvie’s scant knowledge of his actual occupation, led her to believe that the money either wasn’t his or he was obtaining it with illicit means. She didn’t want to end up on a hit list because of his stupidity. The ring must have cost him thousands of dollars; where did it come from all of the sudden? She knew this was a giant red flag, but a stubborn part of her told her to keep meeting with him: she had too many questions to cut it off prematurely. Was this the beginning or end of his generosity? Was he testing her with the first few meets? If the benefits faltered even slightly again, she was out. Just a few more meetings, she decided. She could persevere. 

     Holding her hand up—for better viewing of the ring of course, but high enough so he could see her admiring it—she studied the opulent piece. She basked in the silence before finally opening her mouth to speak. Admittedly, she didn’t know exactly what he was looking for in an arrangement (which she was horrified to think about, as her sole job as a companion was to know what he was attracted to and what he wanted out of life) but she got the impression he liked the ‘old glamour’ type of thing. It seemed he was just a poor guy who couldn’t catch a break in his career: a man who turned to illegal activities to net enough profit so he could hire someone to live out his old-fashioned fantasies. And she was sure as hell going to work that angle. 

     “Darling, it’s gorgeous; I absolutely love it! How in earth did you ever manage to afford this?” 

     She cringed; her voice wasn’t up to the challenge of mimicking the tone and inflection that the women in black and white movies had obviously mastered. Third mental note: she’d have to work on it. She hoped like hell he didn’t notice. She noticed, though. His hesitation. He shouldn’t have been thinking of an answer… It was a simple question, he should have known the answer. The long pause before he cleared his throat and began to speak was glaringly obvious, and they both knew it. 

     She heard his footsteps on the carpet before she heard his reply. “Just another shift at the company, love.” Sure. The ‘company’, okay. The response was so fucking ambiguous, and all it did was make her uneasy. He worked at some sort of medical company; that’s all she knew. Or at least, that’s all he had come up with. His steps were nearing, and a flash of anxiety went through her. She prayed he wasn’t going to do anything rash, since she didn’t trust him to be thoughtful with his actions if he sensed she was a threat. She didn’t dare move. It took her utmost concentration to resist flinching when he stopped right next to her and abruptly invaded her space with his hand. 

     Looking over, she realized he was offering his hand. She made eye contact with him for a few grueling moments before he spoke again. “Let’s head to dinner,” he murmured. Making a point of keeping her eyes on his for a moment longer, she lazily swung her legs over the side of the chaise and took his hand as she rose. She gave him a saccharine smile when she stood upright. Resting her hand on his arm, she turned towards the door. She tried to keep a semblance of a charming expression on her face, but she allowed her eyes to glaze over as they left the room. 

However, the more I grow, the more I realize exactly how much emotions terrify people... Specifically those of an engaging, industrious young woman. A staggering bulk of the male population can easily be classified as pushovers, and any show of negative emotion will--inevitably--make them feel at fault. Some gears must suddenly click in those miniature minds of theirs, and as they witness the bubbling up of negativity from the aforementioned lovely lady, they suddenly become very aware, very self-conscious. They find themselves mentally reviewing their earlier actions, but the panic has already set in. It's too late.

Sylvie let out a small squeak as she abruptly made contact with the female. Not a moment had passed when she instinctively bent down to retrieve the fallen sunglasses. It didn't take long for her to register that they were expensive glasses--not that Sylvie spent a lot of money on sunglasses, but she did spend a lot of money on upscale things. Whatever the female had done in order to have such lavish sunglasses, Sylvie knew the girl had to be hustlin'. 

     If he’s expecting anyone to answer him at all it’s with hopes that’d they’d have something intelligent and riveting to bring to the conversation. He’s met instead with — this. He can’t say he’s not mildly intrigued if not a bit insulted by the manner of her reply but he’ll engage for the time being. He’s drying ties, and hoping his suit jackets don’t shrink in the wash. He’s got another hour to kill and the manner of her reply says a lot about where the focus of this conversation is going.

     ” But then it’d never properly manifest. See a man like him would welcome the idea of death almost as much as he’d abhor it. If you really wanted to make him suffer then you’d force him to sit through clinical sessions in which he’d have to reflect on himself and realize how much his narcissism is a cover for deep self esteem issues, and severe hatred.” Once she goes quiet his head turns, just slightly and his eyes narrow. “ Are you aware of the metaphorical idea of betting money? Not in the literal sense? But sure alright Okay. What would you like to bet on? What’s something you’re good at? “

Sylvie eyed the man as she waited for a response. She could tell that she was evoking some sort of emotional response of out of him, and though it wasn't clear the nature of it, she knew enough to know it wasn't a positive emotion. Smirking, she gave herself a mental pat on the back. It was always satisfying to extract a completely unnecessary reaction out of someone. She knew her clothes were almost done in the dryer, but she thought about staying and conversing with this man for as long as it took to properly label the emotion she elicited from him. 

❝ It's interesting that you think of it in that manner; I would think that he wouldn't welcome death until the 'manifestation' was complete, wouldn't you? It's not usual that people look towards the more grim things in life until something else is not right internally. And delightful as therapy is, it seems that it never really works for situations of that caliber... Though I can't say that I'm any sort of authority on that matter.❞ His reactions left Sylvie delighted; the more worked up he became, the more accomplished she felt. 

He nods his head slowly, pursing his lips. “Sylvie.” He repeats to himself. “That’s a very interesting name. I never heard it before.” He gives a small smile. “It’s pretty.” He nods his head. “Who gave you the name?”

The female couldn’t halt her laughter, this stranger all too amusing for her to even think about stopping. “Yes, ma’am, I won’t tell a soul about your secret methods.” She breathed through breaks of laughter with a firm nod of her head, her faded pink locks bobbing with her. Iris bring her hand up to salute the other. “I’m all ears, coach.”