He Bought Me, I Left Him Broke

You probably won't believe this, but I was fifteen when I learned exactly how much my virginity was worth.

Spoiler alert: it was a lot.

My cousin Marcus worked in what you might call "luxury procurement." He connected wealthy men with girls willing to provide certain services. When my parents died and left me with literally nothing, he offered me a choice.

"Starve on the streets," he said, "or let me find you a buyer. You're young, pretty enough, clean. Rich guys pay well for that combo."

I was fifteen, homeless, and desperate.

I chose survival.

The first client was some nervous businessman, probably in his forties, willing to drop serious cash to sleep with a virgin. I let him think he was taking something precious. Really, I was calculating how many months his money would keep me fed.

"You're different from other girls," he'd said afterward. "Most would be crying. You look like you just closed a business deal."

"I did," I told him. "And I'm open to repeat business."

He laughed and became a regular.

I know what you're thinking. "How could you? You were just a child!"

Look, I get it. It sounds awful. It was awful. But you know what's more awful? Starving. Freezing to death in winter. Being trafficked by someone who won't even let you keep the money.

At least with Marcus, I had some control. Some choice in the matter. And I kept a percentage.

By seventeen, I was living in a house that specialized in this kind of work. Shared a room with a girl named Maeve, an Irish immigrant whose family had literally sold her to a pimp when she was fourteen.

"At least your cousin lets you keep some money," Maeve said once, her accent thick. "Mine takes everything. Sends it straight home to my parents."

I bought Maeve little things when I could. Ice cream, magazines, small luxuries that made her smile. In a world that treated us as disposable, we had to look out for each other.

One night, Maeve didn't come home.

I found her body three days later. Throat slit, dumped in an alley. The police barely investigated. Just another dead prostitute. Who cared?

I was nineteen when I buried my first real friend.

And yeah, I kept working. Because what else was I going to do? The world doesn't stop being cruel just because you're grieving.

I got smarter, though. More careful. Worked my way up from street-level work to something that almost looked legitimate.

At twenty-five, a regular client took me to some fancy charity gala. I wore a borrowed designer dress and pretended I belonged. That's where I met Valerie.

Valerie ran an exclusive companion agency. Not a brothel. An actual professional operation with contracts, legal protection, clients who were CEOs and politicians and old money elite.

"You're wasted on the streets," she told me, her eyes sharp and assessing. "You're educated, articulate, and you photograph well. I could triple your income."

She wasn't lying. Within a year of signing with her agency, I was fully booked with clients who paid more for dinner and conversation than most people made in a month. Sometimes sex was involved. Often it wasn't. Powerful men just wanted companions who could navigate their social circles without embarrassing them.

I was good at it. Really good.

By twenty-seven, I had my own apartment uptown, a doorman who called me Ms. Grey, neighbors who thought I worked in PR or something equally vague and respectable.

I'd clawed my way from absolute zero to something that almost resembled a normal life.

And then Viktor Ashford happened.