Vivian woke up in a completely unfamiliar room. Skyline view. King-sized bed. Gray sheets. Narrow ceilings with warm, low-hung lights. And arms with triceps as thick as her thighs wrapped around her waist.

He smelled like the greatest sin. If Vivian gets backburned, she'd do it for a guy as handsome as him.

But, alas, he was just a client who needed a night to blow off some steam. Professionalism, as Vivian would like to call it, no matter how crass her work is to most people, is a must.

So, she slid off, as gently as she could, so as not to stir the man from his sleep, grabbed her clothes (tissue paper, her manager called them because all they covered was her ass) along with her leather overcoat and high heels, then she left. Not a note. Nothing. Except for a cheap silver earring she slapped on a few minutes before that VIP show.

Vivian called her manager as she descended the long, winding floors of the penthouse (just how rich was the guy?!), and then she was picked up at the entrance, looking like some hooker by the looks the other residents gave her. Vivian had long ignored those; money was money, and it was the 21st century, for sakes.

Her manager, bless him and his Buddha-level patience, settled Vivian into the passenger seat and drove off.

Vivian chuckled and looked at her reflection in the mirror, swiped the stained lipstick on her cheek.

Good.

There wouldn't be any need for them to have any complications.

Or so they thought.

———————

2 days later…