The high, grating sound that emits from Mr. Wilson's vibrating lips lets me know he has finally fallen asleep. I slowly pick up his limp arm from my chest as I slip off the bed and tiptoe to the TV stand, where I dress in haste.

As I walk out of the bedroom and enter the living space, I notice five one-hundred-dollar bills on the coffee table. I take them and quickly place them in my purse.

I let out a sigh of relief once the bottom of my Louboutins meet the carpeted hallway.

Hitting the elevator button, I shoot Andrews a message.

[Annabelle]

Done.

A second later, I get a notification from my bank saying one thousand dollars has been deposited into my account.

[Andrews]

Luke is waiting for you at the CVS parking lot.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I'm met by a drunken couple.

The woman holds her heels in her hand, and her purse hangs loosely from her forearm. Her hair is tussled, surprisingly in a very sultry way. The man is clearly past the point of no return. His body sways on unbalanced feet. His tie hangs freely around his neck, and his eyes are slowly closing behind hooded lids.

I watch as they laugh hysterically, jumbling their words together. I can't make out a word of what they're saying, and it makes me feel like maybe they're speaking their own language—the carefree-no-worries kind of language.

How I wish to live in that world.

A world where I get to be selfish and worry just about myself, my needs, and my wants. A world where I'm not confined by the schedule of others. Where I'd finally know the feeling of leaving home sober with my significant other and coming home drunk and in love with that same person.

Somewhere in that charming world, I'd live in a two-bedroom apartment with Ben, and I'd own a small boutique where I'd sell my one-of-a-kind dresses.

As the drunken couple disappears down the hallway, I wipe a rebellious tear that has slid out of that fantasy.

That world, that beautiful, carefree world, will never be mine.

Girls like me don't get happy endings.

We live in this twisted Cinderella story until death do us part.

Some people are born with silver spoons; others must use their hands to scoop up the crumbs that have fallen to the ground.

Once the couple turns at the end of the hall, I shift my focus back to the elevator and step in. As it descends to the lobby, I close my eyes and compose my emotions.

It's only on rare occasions that my fantasy takes control and overwhelms me.

I refer to it as my moment of weakness.

The tears I shed aren't for joy; they are because I'm reminded of the fact that my future is but a far-fetched dream. Even with all the money this profession gives me, Andrews has a tight hold on me, and he wouldn't let me go that easily.

My mother and stepfather will never allow happiness to come so close as a thought. And Ben, well, regardless of what happens, he will come before everyone in my life, even me.

I reach into my purse and pull out the compact mirror I carry with me at all times. Applying powder under my puffy eyes, I smack my lips with lipstick and walk out of the elevator with straight shoulders and a false sense of confidence, just enough to make my way through the lobby.

I can feel the concierge's judgmental gaze and can smell the repulsion that emanates from her fake smile. I know what her glares mean, but I don't cower. Enduring her heinous stare, I keep walking with my head held high.

She might have her theories as to what a girl like me is doing here, but she doesn't know me, and I'm certain she never will. She can sprinkle holy water along my path out of the golden automatic doors for all I care. I will not allow the nasty treatment of others to poison my self-worth simply because they feel they are above me.

The disapproving stares are the reason why Andrews makes it a point to rotate hotels. He doesn't schedule more than one date at the same place. This way, no questions arise. No stares will follow my steps. No security will linger behind me.

But with the number of clients I have, it's becoming harder and harder to schedule them at different locations.

With the requests my suitors make, it makes it even harder not to stand out.

Some want me to be as decorated as a Christmas tree with extravagant jewels from head to toe. Others want the skimpiest outfits to show me off to their foreign business partners. Then there are the ones who will only see me in their hotel rooms.

The cheaters.

The frauds.

The politicians who speak of adultery being a sin but hire a hooker to fuck their brains out while their wives and children sleep obliviously in their million-dollar mansions.

Outside the Aria, a gray Bentley limousine is parked on the cul-de-sac of the hotel.

A middle-aged couple sits on a bench next to the entrance, probably waiting for their Uber. A man wearing a three-piece suit paces in circles while on the phone, stopping occasionally to take a puff of his cigarette. Crowds of people, young and old, enter and exit the lobby.

The one thing they all have in common at two in the morning is their smiles and laughter, speaking the carefree language I only wish I knew.

As the last breeze of winter flows through my loose hair, I start on my walk away from the hotel.

Turning left on South Las Vegas Boulevard, I rub my hands over my arms as a chilled breeze turns my skin into bumps. I hurry my steps, not wanting to catch a cold this late in the winter.

When I make it to the CVS parking lot, I squint my eyes and look for Luke's SUV. Seeing the lights of a black Cadillac flash twice, I make my way to it, watching my step as I jump onto the backseat.

"Hey."

Before strapping on my seatbelt, I lean forward to hand Luke his portion of the five-hundred-dollar tip. He separates each bill and counts the three hundred dollars out loud, making sure it's all there. Then, he turns to me and proceeds to ask his routine question.

"How was it?"

I tilt my head as I lock gaze with him, wondering why he always asks me that particular question.

Does he expect a five-page essay?

A list recounting every detail?

Is he trying to book a date for himself?

Or maybe this is his idea of small talk.

Luke is really nice, but he's oblivious to social cues and goes overboard with cologne.

Either way, I can't figure out the meaning behind his irritating question.

I do what I always tend to do when men are around me.

I smile and lie.

"It was good, Luke. What were you up to while you waited?"

Starting into traffic, Luke recounts his time as a bodyguard for "Las Vegas's Most Elite Escort." His words, definitely not mine.

After seeing me go up the elevator with Mr. Wilson, Luke followed his nightly routine of spending his cash tips gambling at the casino. Lucky him. He goes on and on about his night, but I doubt it was as eventful as mine. I stop listening after he mentions his distaste for tourists and check out of the conversation.

As I lean my head on the headrest, I let out a slow breath and stare out into the city.

Whoever named Paris the City of Lights must have never been to Las Vegas. This city shines from east to west and extends across the high mountain deserts.

It's the only place in the United States where one comes to escape reality and indulge in all their sinful fantasies.

Sin City, that name they got right.

No matter how crazy the fantasy, it can be done in Vegas.

I'm proof of that.

"We're here, Anna," Luke's voice takes me out of my fog.

I raise my head and look out the window to where an orange sign blinks with the words: Self Storage.

I've been renting a unit here ever since I was able to afford one. If I were to keep my things at home, Mom would either sell them or break them. It's better this way.

"Thank you, Luke," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door.

"I'll wait for you."

"You don't have to do that. It's really late. Go home."

"I know I don't have to, but I want to. Plus, it's too late to leave such a beautiful lady at night by herself."

It will never happen, Luke.

I smile and give up any bout of argument, jumping out of the car. Walking a couple of steps to the storage unit at the end of the lot, I slide the orange garage door up. With a flick of the light switch, the ten-by-ten room comes alive.

This is where I morph from sultry Belle to meek Annabelle.

Ten mannequins line the back of the unit. All dressed in evening gowns to avoid hanger marks near the shoulders. On the right side are my heels, aligned toe to toe along the shoe racks. There are separate racks for all my outfits, including a drawer with all of my expensive lingerie.

Everything is in its place, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

To be honest, it makes me feel like even though I may not always be in control of my own life, at least I still have this unit at the end of the day.

On the left side, I have a large desk that holds my thrifted sewing machine. There's a clear container with drawers sitting next to it that's filled with my threads and sewing tools.

Directly above the desk is what I refer to as my mural. A collection of all my designs and drawings is pinned on the white wall. It reminds me that I'm in a time of temporary, and everything I'm doing now is for our benefit in the future.

Not wasting any more time, I slip off my heels and carefully take off my red dress. I place it in a plastic zipped bag and make a mental note to send it to the dry cleaners tomorrow. I wiggle into my jeans and shrug on a sweatshirt. After tying my tennis shoes, I pull my hair back into a ponytail and switch out my purse. Turning off the lights, I close down the unit and shout a good night to Luke as I unlock my car and put it in reverse.

The twenty-minute drive to my house is what I look forward to at the end of every night. I say house and not home because that place is filled with daunting memories of abuse and stolen childhoods. That piece of lumber will never be a home. Honestly, I find my car to be more of a home than my house.

In my 2019 Toyota RAV4, I'm able to let my guard down, and I can finally relax my shoulders. I don't have to be cautious about the words that come out of my mouth. I don't have to twist them to provoke, tease, or appease any man. I don't have to impress others or check my face in the mirror to make sure my makeup is still intact. And I certainly don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not.

As Vegas's lights start to dwindle into suburban territory, I turn right on Stanley Avenue, never quite reaching working-class suburbia as my tires scrape along the gravel road that leads to Meadows Manor.

This late at night, or early in the morning, the roads are so dark that it makes it hard to tell the mobile homes apart. But the overgrown grass covering most of the yellow wooden slats makes the difference between my house and the others.

I turn off the headlights before going up the driveway, not wanting to give anyone an excuse to wake up.

Once inside the house, I tiptoe to my bedroom and unlock the door with a key. I'm relieved when I see Ben wrapped in a blanket of sheets. Needing to have him close to my body, I hurry into the bathroom and wash Mr. Wilson off my body. As I get into bed, I kiss him on the forehead and inhale his unique scent.

He still smells like he did the very first time I held him in my arms. I wipe my tears away, not realizing I've been crying until I taste salt.

There goes another moment of weakness.

He's the reason why I'm doing this, and although it makes me sick to my stomach—the lies, the dresses, the makeup, the hair, the pretending—I will not stop until his life is better than mine will ever be.

At the end of the day, I see this as a job, and no one truly enjoys their job, but we must all have one in order to survive.

I don't do it for my survival. I couldn't care less if my corpse washes up on the shore of Lake Tahoe. But I do it for Ben.

I survive for him, and I always will.