Mia woke before dawn, tangled in her sheets, her skin warm and restless. A strange ache pulsed low in her body, faint but insistent. She shifted, pressing her thighs together, unsure whether to surrender or suppress it. Her hand slid beneath the blanket almost hesitantly.

But it didn’t help. It never had. She was never an expert in this area. Anand's words still rang in her ear, even after months.

It had been a month since Sanvi planted the idea of hiring gigolo. She never considered it until today.

Malvika's words played in her mind like a background music. Own your heartbreak with grace-

She wasn't sure what exactly Miss Menon meant. Perhaps she wanted her to define it for herself? Perhaps she meant, Mia shouldn't cry like a baby?

Mia blinked.

She traced her thumb over its surface, almost absently. A soft pink, embossed with nothing but a phone number in delicate gold. In the background, a lotus shimmered faintly in the same golden hue.

The Golden Lotus.

“Minimalist and classy. Interesting,” she muttered to herself.

A sigh escaped her lips, heavy with uncertainty. Was this really a good idea? To hire him? Was it a good idea to spend money just to try forgetting Anand?

Her mind raced in loops.

It was a winter evening, Malvika's solo exhibition warned the whole artist community. The gallery buzzed with quiet admiration.

Mia was taking notes, observing her artworks, trying to understand her as a person, when she saw him. Charming. Attractive. Commanding.

"Reporters aren't allowed without prior invitation -" he muttered, lowering his lips right behind her ears.

"I'm not a reporter, I'm the one writing her biography." Mia shot back.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Anand Bakshi here..." He extended his hands.

"Mia, Mia Khanna. Just a struggling writer, trying to make her mark."

Anand lifted her hand and placed a gentle kiss on back of her hand, playfully, "Welcome to my gallery."

"I didn't know you own it-"

"And I didn't know, Malvika Menon has such a beautiful protege..."

Mia didn't know that interaction would take her so far. So far from herself that now she didn't recognise her own reflection in mirror.

She hadn’t been with anyone since Anand. The thought of a stranger—no strings, no expectations—both unsettled and tempted her. Casual hookups had never been her thing, let alone hiring a gigolo. Her heart was fragile, too fragile, and she knew it.

Yet the card burned in her hand like a dare. It whispered of possibility, of distraction, of escape. And maybe of danger.

She buried her face into the pillow, groaning at her own indecision.

What if it was a trap? What if she couldn’t go through with it? What if, once again, she ended up proving Anand right—that she was never good enough in bed?

But curiosity is a stubborn thing. The longer she stared at the card, the stronger it pulled at her.

Finally, almost as if her body moved before her mind could protest, Mia reached for her phone. Her fingers hesitated over the keypad, heart hammering, before she exhaled sharply and dialed the number.

The phone rang once. Twice. Thrice. Mia’s finger hovered over the screen, ready to abort the plan, when the line clicked.

“Hello?” A deep manly voice spoke, tinged with a sleepy after-tone.

Her heartbeat stumbled. Her throat went dry. “Hi,” she managed, but the word faltered midway. She froze, clueless about how this kind of conversation was supposed to flow.

“How can I help you?” the man asked, voice calm, unhurried.

Mia squeezed her eyes shut. “I’d like to… book a service?” The words tumbled out, each syllable wrapped in embarrassment. Was that even how this worked?

“Service?” He sounded almost amused.

Wrong choice of words. She slapped her forehead with her palm.

“I’d like to hire you. For tonight,” she corrected, her voice low and rushed.

A brief pause. Then, there was a sound of a faint chuckle. “Okay. Send me the location and time.”

"Wait," she hesitated, "You didn't even ask my name..."

"I only ask things that are really important."

Mia's excitement dimmed a little, was this the way these things worked?

She swallowed, "You'd be carrying protection, right?"

"Yes. But, if you want..." He took a pause, then a chuckle. "Everything will be according to you, mam."

Mia sighed. She swallowed hard, nerves tightening into a knot.

The call ended before she could overthink. Hastily, she typed out the details.

'2/33 Awasthi Road, Kolkata 11. Time: 8 p.m.'

The reply came almost instantly.

'Is that an apartment?'

Her thumbs flew.

'Yes. Is that Okay?'

'Sure. I’ll be there.'

Her phone screen dimmed, but her pulse didn’t settle. She dropped the device onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as reality sank in. Tonight, there would be no turning back.

Mia was absent-minded the entire day. Her pen slipped across the page, words breaking mid-sentence, letters blurring into careless spelling mistakes.

She stared at the computer screen for hours, rereading the same paragraph without understanding a single line.

Every tick of the clock seemed to echo louder than usual, a slow reminder that evening was drawing closer. Her body was at work, but her mind had long drifted elsewhere—toward the weight of his voice, calm and assuring, the tiny chuckled she thought she heard...

The anticipation of the evening gnawed at her—softly at first, then like a fever. It hollowed out her focus, turned every mundane task into a countdown she couldn’t escape.

Far away, in an apartment that overlooked the glittering city, a figure stood before the mirror. An silk robe draped his toned frame, his movements smooth and precise.

He trimmed his beard with the care of a sculptor, filed his nails to a perfect sheen, and leaned closer to examine his reflection. A faint blemish marred his otherwise flawless jawline.

“A pimple. Just brilliant,” he muttered, annoyed but quick to conceal it beneath his grooming routine.

The robe slipped away, replaced with a crisp white shirt, tailored trousers, and a charcoal-gray suit cut sharp enough to draw eyes. A silk tie, gold cufflinks, polished leather shoes—each detail deliberate. From the dresser, he selected a bottle of Tom Ford, spritzing sparingly. Enough to linger, never to overwhelm.

Satisfied, he studied the man staring back from the mirror. Not just a man—a performance. An illusion. A carefully crafted fantasy.

And yet, tonight already felt strange.

An apartment. Not a hotel. Clients rarely, if ever, invited him to their private spaces. Too personal. Too exposed. It blurred the line between professional and intimate in a way he usually avoided.

His mind flicked back to the brief phone call. She had sounded hesitant, unsure, almost naïve. The kind of voice that didn’t belong to women who knew how to find him.

How had she even gotten his card?

He kept those limited, discreet, never scattered carelessly. And judging by her fumbling words, she had no idea how any of this worked.

Did she even know how expensive he was?

Did she even know he charged a hundred thousand just for a night?

His lips curled into a smile, "I'm so curious to meet you, Miss."

Sliding his cellphone into his pocket, he allowed himself the smallest glint of curiosity. Either she was very new to this world… or very reckless.

Either way, tonight was bound to be interesting.

Mia sat curled up on the couch, her knees tucked beneath a black tunic. Her restless, wide eyes flickered behind the kohl.

The apartment was spotless now—clothes shoved into closets, wine glasses set out on the table like some kind of ritual offering.

Still, her chest felt tight, her pulse refusing to slow. She glanced at the clock.

Seven fifty-three.

She checked her phone again. No new messages. Only the brief exchange from earlier, staring back at her like evidence of a crime.

'Is that an apartment?

'Yes. Is that Okay?'

'Sure. I’ll be there.'

She chewed on her lip, her mind unraveling. What if he didn’t come? What if he did? What if he was dangerous? Or worse—what if she embarrassed herself?

Seven fifty-seven.

She stood, paced, sat again. She poured herself half a glass of wine, then put it down untouched. Her palms were damp. Her throat dry. Every sound outside made her flinch—the elevator doors creaking, a distant knock on another apartment, footsteps in the corridor.

Seven fifty-nine.

Her heart pounded. Any second now.

And then—three measured knocks echoed against her door.

Mia froze.

He was here.