Page 1 of Rotanev
1
Liani
The invitation satheavy in my hand. Well, technically, it was a business card. But it read like a summons.
An audition, Jasmine Black had called it.
Just showing up guaranteed me one thousand dollars. If I stayed until the end, another thousand. And that was just the reward for mingling. If I was given a job with Jasmine Black Incorporated, also known as JBI, I could make upwards of ten thousand dollars a week.
By becoming a whore.
I flinched at the thought. True, yes. But this was temporary. Once I paid off Corban, I could quit and run far away from New York City.
Just a few weeks.
I could handle that.
It was only my body. I’d endured far worse. Not all pain was physical.
The driver navigated Manhattan, his bodyguard-like presence daunting. JBI had sent him to retrieve me, and aside from an initial greeting, he’d remained stoic and silent. It unsettled my insides, made me question my decision to proceed with tonight. But Veronica—the one who’d recruited me into this mess—promised this agency was legit. Well, as legit as a high-classescort servicecould get.
I saw through the terminology.
I knew what would be expected of me.
No one paid a grand for a date without expecting something in return. And, according to the contract I’d reviewed, some dates required an overnight experience.
Didn’t take a genius to figure out whatthatmeant.
“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver announced, pulling up to a stop outside a fancy hotel overlooking Central Park. My invitation would grant me access to the top floor—where the party was located.
“Thank you.” I touched the handle just as the door opened for me, another man in a suit with an earpiece standing outside.
“Miss Mikos,” he greeted me, holding out his hand. “I’ll be escorting you upstairs.”
“Oh. Okay.” I accepted his help from the car even though I didn’t need it. One of tonight’s requirements was to leave all personal items at home. As such, I had a key tucked into my thong because my backless dress didn’t allow for a bra. And the business card in my hand.
The cool early spring air touched my exposed arms, sending a chill down my spine as the unnamed man beside me accompanied me up the stairs and into the building. He nodded at the doorman and the couples lingering inside, leading us directly to a bank of elevators at the back of the ornately decorated lobby.
“How was the drive?” he asked, his voice warmer than I expected, almost friendly.
“Uneventful,” I replied, my throat dry.
The doors opened, and he ushered me inside with a palm against my lower back. As soon as we were alone, he pressed a button and faced me. “Card, please.”
I handed it to him.
“This is going to go around your wrist,” he said as he produced a cuff-like gold bracelet. He held it out for me. “Hold for a moment.”
I did and examined the initials carved into the top—JBI.
“The code on your card is tied to your account,” he added while keying it into a handheld device. “If someone wishes to purchase time with you, they’ll do so by touching their watch to that.” He gestured to the cuff. “Clients, including our new ones in attendance tonight, are all trained on the process.” He finished typing, then took the bracelet back and scanned it with his phone-sized gadget. “Pretty straightforward.”
Sure. For him. I, however, was overwhelmed.
A client can purchase me tonight?That hadn’t been explained as part of the audition process. I thought I was just supposed to show up and see how the party went. Then be paid for attending. Not potentiallyentertainsomeone.
I shivered at the prospect, suddenly very uncertain of my decision to come tonight.
