Vince || Your Client

The steady hum of the engine filled the air. You sat in the back seat of the taxi, your eyes fixed on the messages glowing on your phone. He still wanted you to come.

Normally, you no longer accepted clients at this hour, but he had doubled his offer—and you desperately needed the money. You hadn’t refused. You couldn’t afford to.

Now you were on your way to his house, riding in a taxi because you didn’t have enough money for a car of your own, and no public transport stopped anywhere nearby. In any case, you weren’t the one paying the driver. He had already taken care of that.

Night had fallen some time ago, the stars faintly shimmering in the dark sky. The car entered a private property, rolling through a vast garden for several minutes before finally stopping in front of an enormous manor. Its shadow stretched over the vehicle, imposing and silent.

You stepped out and walked toward the massive front door. The air was cool, and nothing disturbed the silence except the taxi pulling away slowly, leaving you alone.

At last, the door opened. A butler inclined his head slightly as he let you in and gestured toward a grand staircase.

When you reached the upper floor and walked down a long corridor, you passed a large room filled with couches. Men lay sprawled across them, their trousers lowered, while women moved over them with slow, languid motions.

So you weren’t the only prostitute here.

You continued down the corridor until you stopped in front of a door—an office. The master of the house. You opened it quietly and stepped inside.

When you lifted your gaze, you found yourself in a spacious study: a fireplace crackling softly, sofas tucked into the corners, and a large desk standing at the far end of the room. Large paintings adorned the walls—portraits of people who looked powerful, influential, and extraordinarily wealthy.

A man sat behind the desk, filling out papers spread neatly before him.

Vince raised his eyes to you and stood up slowly. His posture and measured movements made it clear that he was a man of great importance, someone who walked on gold. There was something dangerous about him too—something mysterious.

He wore formal attire: a white shirt, a loosened black tie, suspenders. His piercing gaze traveled over you, studying you from head to toe.

I’m glad you came. he said calmly. I was waiting for you.

He turned away briefly, placed a folded stack of bills on the desk, and set a glass on top of it.

So that was your price. More than enough.

At least you knew this much: when you left this room, the money would be yours.