The next morning arrived with a slow drizzle, the kind that blurred the edges of the world and softened even the roughest corners of the city. Bianca stood by the small window of her room, sipping coffee that tasted more like burned water than anything comforting. Her body was still sore in places—her thighs, her hips, the tender pull in her lower belly—but she didn't flinch from it. Pain had started to feel familiar. Almost grounding.
She was learning how quickly the city could swallow a person whole.
But Bianca wasn't naïve. Not anymore. She'd made her choice. Maybe out of necessity, maybe out of survival, but still—it was hers. Each night, she stepped out into the cold not as a victim, but as a woman who had carved a space for herself in a world that had tried so many times to erase her.
She wasn't looking for love. Not in the way people wrote about it, anyway. But she did long for something more—connection, understanding, maybe even the kind of companionship that didn't come with a price tag. She wondered if that was naïve after all.
That afternoon, while walking back from the pharmacy, she passed a café with fogged windows and warm lighting inside. Her reflection caught in the glass—a young woman in a short coat, eyes too tired for her age, but posture strong, chin lifted like armor.
"Bianca?"
The voice was unfamiliar and cautious. She turned.
It was a man, maybe late thirties, dressed not like her usual clients. Clean-shaven, modest coat, eyes that weren't immediately scanning her body. There was hesitation in his gaze—an uncertainty she wasn't used to.
"Yes?"
"I... I saw you last night," he said, awkward, shifting. "By the corner of Fifth. I— I wasn't sure if I should speak to you."
Her heart jumped. She wasn't sure if it was danger or something else.
"Why are you talking to me now?" she asked, her tone more tired than defensive.
He exhaled. "I don't know. I guess I just... you seemed different."
She blinked. Of all the things to say.
"I'm not," she said plainly. "I'm like anyone else out there."
"I don't think so," he said, voice softer now. "Would you let me take you for coffee?"
Bianca hesitated. No one asked her that. Not without expectations attached.
She almost said no. But something in his voice—gentle, restrained—made her curious.
She nodded once.
Inside the café, sitting across from him under the warm lights, Bianca felt a strange calm settle in. They spoke in half-sentences and guarded questions, like two people learning to trust a frozen river.
His name was Victor. He was a teacher. Divorced. He wasn't asking for anything—not her time, not her body. Just her company.
It was unfamiliar ground.
Bianca didn't fool herself into thinking this meant anything yet. But when she walked back into the cold afterward, a little smile tugged at her lips. It wasn't hope exactly. But it was something.
Something small and warm in a world that had mostly been cold.
**************
The rain had stopped, but the pavement still glistened as Bianca stepped onto the street that night. The city's neon buzz hummed overhead, casting strange colors onto passing cars and the faces of those who, like her, only truly came alive after dark. She had changed out of her coat and into a black dress—tight, short, deliberate. Everything she wore was a signal, a language of its own.
She moved like she belonged there because, in a way, she did.
This was the world that had taken from her and the one she had learned to master. Every corner had a lesson, every stare a motive. But Bianca had developed instincts like sharpened glass—beautiful, dangerous, and cut from experience.
The first man that night was young—too young to be out here unless he was either running from something or aching to prove something. He drove a battered red sedan and leaned across the passenger seat window when she approached.
"How much?" he asked, eyes wide and nervous.
She appraised him with a glance. "Depends. What do you want?"
"I don't know… something real."
She almost laughed. Not cruelly—just out of reflex. No one came out here looking for real. Not really.
She opened the door and slid in, the smell of sweat and fast food lingering in the air.
They parked behind a warehouse two blocks down. He handed her cash—too much for how uncertain he looked. He fumbled, stammered, apologized with his eyes more than his mouth.
Bianca took charge. Not for his sake—but because it gave her control. And control was everything in her world.
It wasn't about pleasure. Not tonight. It was about understanding people. Some wanted to feel wanted. Others just wanted to forget. This boy—he wanted to feel something that didn't scare him.
After he was done and the silence stretched awkwardly between them, he looked at her like he wanted to say something meaningful. She didn't give him the chance. She got out, pulled her coat tighter around her, and disappeared back into the night.
---
The second man was different.
Older. Smooth. Confident in a way that set off every warning inside her. He watched her from across the street like he already owned her, even before she approached. His accent was foreign—European, maybe—his words precise.
"You have a beautiful walk," he said, voice low. "Do you speak French?"
She shook her head but gave him a smile. "But I speak money."
He chuckled, eyes gleaming. "Let's talk business then."
His hotel was expensive. Not luxury—discreet. The kind of place that didn't ask questions.
Inside, his hands were slow. Intentional. Unlike the nervous boy from earlier, this man wanted to savor everything—her scent, the softness of her skin, the sounds she made. He whispered things in French as he undressed her, words she didn't understand but felt like silk against her ears.
"Tu es magnifique... douce comme le miel." (You are magnificent… sweet like honey.)
He laid her down with reverence, but his grip was firm, fingers tracing every inch of her like she was a secret he wanted to memorize. She let herself sink into it—not because she believed his sweetness, but because it was easier to play the part when the illusion felt good.
Afterward, he handed her a folded envelope.
"Take your time leaving," he said as he adjusted his cufflinks. "You deserve a moment."
She waited until the door clicked shut before she sat up, opened the envelope, and counted the bills—neatly stacked, precise. No one had ever paid her that much for one night.
Still, as she stood before the mirror and looked at herself, something cold curled in her stomach. Not regret—but something quieter. The recognition that no matter how soft the sheets or gentle the words, this world still belonged to the night.
And so did she.