She stands at the edge of the bed, one hip cocked, wearing nothing but a thin gold chain that catches the light. Her waist pulls in sharply before flaring into full, heavy hips — the kind that leave marks on your memory long after you've looked away.

You watch from the corner, silent, while she checks her phone with a smirk you weren't meant to see. She dressed for someone, but it wasn't you. The perfume she's wearing isn't the one you bought her.

She glances over her shoulder — not at you, through you — and adjusts the chain with one finger. The door hasn't knocked yet. She's already ready.