How I Paid My Tuition

The envelope from the bursar's office sat on my kitchen counter like a death sentence. I ran my finger over the embossed seal of the university, my heart hammering against my ribs as I sliced it open with a butter knife.

Final Notice: Tuition Balance Due - $12,450

"Fuck," I whispered, the word escaping my lips before I could stop it.

I was twenty-one, a junior studying art history at a prestigious private university in Chicago, and I was drowning. My scholarships covered the bare minimum, my part-time job at the campus bookstore paid for ramen and instant coffee, and my parents... well, my parents had made it clear after my freshman year that I was on my own. Dad's construction business had folded, Mom was working double shifts at a diner in our hometown of Dayton, and there was simply nothing left to give.

I sank onto my threadbare couch—the one I'd rescued from a sidewalk on moving day—and stared at the cracked ceiling of my studio apartment. The radiator hissed and clanked, a reminder that winter was coming and I hadn't paid last month's heating bill yet.

My phone buzzed. Sarah, my roommate from sophomore year who'd dropped out to "figure things out," which apparently meant figuring out how to afford a loft in River North and a wardrobe of designer clothes.

Sarah: Drinks tonight? New place in Gold Coast. You look like you need it.

I stared at the message. Sarah and I had been close once, before she'd started making mysterious amounts of money and hanging with a different crowd. I'd always assumed she'd found some rich boyfriend, or maybe she'd gone into pharmaceutical sales like she'd joked about. But lately, I'd been wondering.

Me: Can't afford it. Literally.

Sarah: My treat. And we need to talk. 8pm. Wear something nice.

I didn't own anything particularly nice, but I managed to put together an outfit: a black skirt that hit mid-thigh, a silk blouse I'd thrifted that actually fit well, and heels that I'd worn to exactly one formal event before the strap broke. I fixed it with safety pins and hoped for the best.

The bar was called Obsidian, all black marble and low lighting and cocktails that cost more than my weekly grocery budget. Sarah was already there, perched on a velvet stool, looking radiant in a dress that probably cost two months of my rent. She waved me over, her smile bright and genuine.

"You look amazing," she said, pulling me into a hug. "Sit. Drink. We need to have a conversation."

She ordered me something with bourbon and bitters, and I drank half of it in one go, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.

"So," Sarah said, leaning in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know about the tuition situation. You posted that panicked Facebook status last week before you deleted it."

I felt my face flush. "Yeah. I'm... I'm looking at taking a semester off. Maybe transferring to state school."

"Don't," Sarah said firmly. "I have a solution. A temporary one, at least. Something that paid off my debt in four months, and now I'm saving for grad school."

I looked at her, really looked at her. The glowing skin, the confidence that radiated off her, the way men at the bar kept glancing over. "Sarah... are you...?"

"Escorting," she said simply, not breaking eye contact. "High-end. Not street walking, not pimps, not anything dangerous. I have an agency. Discreet, professional, exclusive clientele. Doctors, lawyers, executives. Men who want companionship and discretion, and who pay extremely well for both."

I should have been shocked. I should have stood up and walked out. But instead, I felt something dangerous curl in my stomach—a mixture of curiosity and desperate hope.

"How much?" I heard myself ask.

"Two hundred dollars," she said, "for an hour of your time. Sometimes more, depending on the client and the services. My average night is eight hundred to a thousand. My best night was four thousand."

I did the math in my head. Four thousand dollars. That would cover almost half my tuition balance. In one night.

"I've never..." I started, then stopped, embarrassed.

"You're a virgin?" Sarah asked, surprised.

"No! I mean, I've had sex. Just not... professionally. And never with anyone I didn't know. And never for money."

Sarah nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Listen, Maya. I'm not saying you have to do this. I'm saying it's an option. The agency screens clients extensively. You set your boundaries. You can start with just companionship—dinner dates, arm candy for events. Some girls never go beyond that. Others... expand their services. The money gets better the more you're willing to do, but it's always your choice."

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through something. "I have a client tomorrow night. Corporate lawyer, forty-five, divorced. He wants dinner and conversation at a nice restaurant, then back to his hotel for a massage and handjob. That's it. Pays six hundred. I can't make it—family emergency. Want to take it?"

My heart was racing so fast I thought I might pass out. "I don't know how to give a professional massage. I don't know... anything."

"I'll teach you," Sarah said. "Tonight. We'll go to my place, I'll show you the basics. And Maya? He's nice. Respectful. Tips well. If you're going to start somewhere, this is the place."

I finished my drink. Then I ordered another. And when Sarah asked me again, two hours later, if I was interested, I heard myself say yes.

Sarah's apartment was everything mine wasn't—spacious, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. She poured us wine and set up a massage table in her spare bedroom, which she'd converted into what she called "the practice space."

"First rule," she said, as I changed into a silk robe she'd lent me. "This is acting. You're playing a role. The confident, sensual woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to give pleasure. Even if you're shaking inside, you project calm and control."

She demonstrated the massage techniques—long strokes, pressure points, the teasing buildup that turned a standard rubdown into erotic foreplay. "You start with the back, professional but firm. Then you move to the legs, getting closer to the inner thighs. By the time you have them flip over, they're already half-hard and desperate."

She showed me how to use oil, how to read body language, how to make eye contact that promised everything while delivering exactly what was paid for.

"For tomorrow," she said, "you'll wear something simple but elegant. The little black dress you have will work. Heels. Hair down. Light makeup—he likes the girl-next-door look. You'll meet at the restaurant, have dinner, make conversation. He's going to want to know about you. Make up a backstory—art history student, aspiring curator, doing this to pay for school. Most of them love the idea of helping a struggling student."

"And the... handjob?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"That's the easy part," Sarah laughed. "Use lube, lots of it. Start slow, build up. Watch his breathing. When he gets close, slow down, tease him. Make it last. They pay for time, and they want to feel like it's worth every minute. When he finally comes, have a towel ready. Be matter-of-fact about cleanup—it's professional, not intimate."

She had me practice on a dildo she'd pulled from a drawer, guiding my grip, my rhythm, the dirty talk that some clients wanted. "You don't have to say much tomorrow, but eventually you'll learn what each man likes. Some want silence. Some want you to tell them how big they are, how much you want them. Some want you to be dominant, calling them dirty old men who need to pay for pussy."

The words felt strange in my mouth, but by midnight, I was saying them with more confidence. By two AM, I'd decided I was actually going to do this.

His name was Richard, and he was exactly as Sarah had described—tall, silver-haired, with kind eyes and a wedding ring tan line on his finger that he didn't bother to hide. He stood when I approached the table at the steakhouse, pulling out my chair with old-fashioned courtesy.

"You must be Maya," he said, his voice warm and rich. "Sarah spoke highly of you."

"She spoke highly of you as well," I replied, sliding into the seat, crossing my legs so my skirt rode up just enough to show thigh.

Dinner was easier than I'd expected. Richard was lonely, recently divorced, traveling for work and tired of eating alone. He asked about my studies, my ambitions, my life. I told him about my love of Renaissance art, my dream of working in a museum, my fear of dropping out. He listened with genuine interest, and when the check came, he paid without comment and offered his arm.

"Shall we?" he asked.

I took it, feeling the muscle beneath his suit jacket, the warmth of his skin. We walked the three blocks to his hotel—the kind of five-star establishment I'd never set foot in before—and rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor in silence that crackled with anticipation.

His room was a suite, expansive and immaculate. A bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket. Through the window, the city lights sparkled like fallen stars.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

He poured, and we stood on the balcony, looking out at the lake, making small talk that grew increasingly flirtatious. His hand found the small of my back, and I didn't pull away. Instead, I leaned into his touch, letting him know I was ready.

"I should set up," I said softly, finishing my champagne.

He nodded, understanding the cue. "The bedroom is through there. I'll... freshen up."

Sarah had packed a bag for me—massage oil, towels, condoms just in case, though tonight wasn't supposed to go that far. I laid a towel on the bed, dimmed the lights, lit the candle I'd brought. When Richard emerged from the bathroom in a robe, I was waiting, standing beside the bed in my black dress, looking as confident as I could manage.

"Lie down," I instructed, my voice steadier than I felt. "Face down, please."

He obeyed, stretching out on the bed, his body long and lean. I straddled him, my knees on either side of his hips, and began to work the knots from his shoulders. The oil warmed between my palms, and I used the techniques Sarah had taught me—firm pressure, slow circles, working my way down his spine.

"You're good at this," he murmured into the pillow.

"I've been practicing," I said, which was true, if only for a night.

I moved to his legs, kneading the thick muscle of his thighs, my fingers creeping higher with each stroke. When I brushed the edge of his boxer briefs, he tensed, and I felt a surge of power. I was in control. I was the one making him feel this way.

"Turn over," I whispered.

He rolled onto his back, and I could see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric. I kept my expression neutral, professional, as I worked on his chest, his stomach, my hands moving lower with each pass.

"May I?" I asked, my hand hovering over the waistband of his underwear.

"Please," he breathed.

I pulled the fabric down, freeing his cock—thick and veined, already leaking at the tip. I poured oil into my palm, warming it, then wrapped my hand around his shaft.

He groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

I started slow, just as Sarah had taught me, long strokes from base to tip, my thumb circling the sensitive head. I varied the pressure, the speed, watching his reactions. When his breathing quickened, I slowed down. When he relaxed, I sped up.

"You're beautiful," he said, his eyes half-open, watching me. "So young. So soft."

"Thank you," I replied, maintaining eye contact as my hand worked him.

"Do you... do you enjoy this?"

I considered the question. Did I enjoy it? The power, certainly. The strangeness of it, the taboo. My body was responding despite my nerves, a warmth building between my legs as I watched him writhe beneath my touch.

"Yes," I said, and realized it wasn't entirely a lie.

I increased my pace, gripping tighter, my hand sliding smoothly along his length. His hips bucked upward, meeting my strokes, and I used my other hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp.

"Close," he warned. "I'm close."

I didn't slow down. Instead, I leaned forward, letting him see down my dress, letting him imagine what was beneath. "Come for me," I whispered, my first real attempt at dirty talk. "I want to see you come."

That did it. With a groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest, he erupted, thick ropes of cum spilling over my fist, onto his stomach. I kept stroking, milking him through it, until he was spent and sensitive, pushing my hand away with a laugh.

"Too much," he panted. "God, too much."

I smiled, reaching for a towel, wiping my hand clean, then cleaning him with gentle, efficient movements. The intimacy of the act struck me—not sexual, exactly, but caring. Tending to him.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes soft. "That was... exactly what I needed."

I helped him sit up, fetched him a glass of water, stayed with him while he recovered. We talked for another hour, about art, about his daughter who was also in college, about his fears of growing old alone. When I finally gathered my things to leave, he handed me an envelope.

"Six hundred," he said. "And a little extra. For your tuition."

I peeked inside—eight hundred dollars in crisp bills. More money than I'd made in two weeks at the bookstore.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it.

"Will I see you again?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, and knew it was true.

The agency Sarah worked with was called Velvet Touch, run by a woman named Celeste who was sixty, elegant, and terrifyingly organized. She interviewed me in her penthouse office, asked about my boundaries, my limits, my health. She required monthly STI testing, which the agency covered. She took forty percent, which seemed high until I learned that she handled all the screening, booking, and security.

"You start at tier one," Celeste explained, showing me a pricing chart. "Companionship only—dinners, events, conversation. Two hundred per hour. If you choose to offer erotic massage, that's tier two, three hundred per hour. Tier three includes oral—both giving and receiving. Four hundred. Tier four is full service, everything included. Five hundred per hour, minimum two hours."

I thought about my tuition, my bills, the way my hands had shaken counting Richard's money on the train home.

"I'll start at tier two," I said. "But I want to move up quickly."

Celeste smiled, appraising me with sharp eyes. "I thought you might. You have the look men want—innocent but willing. Fresh but eager. I'll list you as available starting Friday."

My phone buzzed constantly after that. Within a week, I had six clients, all variations on Richard—successful, lonely, willing to pay for the illusion of connection. I gave massages, learned to read bodies, discovered that I had an instinct for pleasure that couldn't be taught.

By the third week, I was bored.

The money was good, but the encounters felt repetitive. I wanted more—more intensity, more challenge, more money. I called Celeste and requested a move to tier three.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Once you offer oral, clients will expect it."

"I'm sure," I said.

My first tier three client was a hedge fund manager named Marcus, black, forty, with a body that suggested he spent serious time in the gym. He wanted me to meet him at his apartment in the Loop, which was unusual—most clients preferred hotels—but Celeste had vetted him thoroughly.

"Sarah speaks highly of you," he said, opening the door in a t-shirt and jeans that probably cost more than my monthly rent. "Says you're new but eager."

"I am," I admitted, stepping inside.

His place was minimalist, masculine, with floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. He offered me wine, which I accepted, and we talked for twenty minutes about the market, about art, about the strange loneliness of being successful in a city that valued nothing but success.

"Shall we?" he finally asked, and I nodded.

He led me to the bedroom, which was dominated by a king-sized bed with charcoal gray sheets. I started to set up for a massage, but he stopped me.

"I want to taste you first," he said, his voice low and commanding. "I've been thinking about a beautiful young pussy all week. Is that alright?"

The directness shocked me, then aroused me. "Yes," I whispered.

He undressed me slowly, peeling away my dress, my bra, my panties, until I stood naked before him. He took his time looking at me, his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on my breasts, my hips, the trimmed hair between my legs.

"Perfect," he murmured, then lifted me onto the bed as if I weighed nothing.

He started at my neck, kissing and nibbling, working his way down to my breasts. He took his time there, sucking my nipples until they were hard and aching, using his teeth just enough to make me gasp. Then lower, across my stomach, his hands spreading my legs wide.

When he finally put his mouth on me, I cried out. He was skilled, so skilled—his tongue circling my clit with perfect pressure, his fingers sliding inside me, curling to find the spot that made my vision blur. I'd had boyfriends try to go down on me before, fumbling and uncertain, but Marcus ate pussy like it was his profession, like my pleasure was his only goal.

"You're so wet," he murmured against me, the vibration making me shiver. "So ready."

I was. I was arching against his mouth, my hands fisting in the sheets, pleasure building in waves that crashed over me again and again. When I came, it was harder than I'd ever come before, my whole body shaking, my voice hoarse from crying out.

He kissed his way back up my body, smiling. "Good girl. Now it's your turn."

I understood. This was tier three, and I was expected to reciprocate.

He stood, stripping off his clothes, revealing a body that was even better than I'd imagined—chiseled abs, powerful thighs, and a cock that was thick and heavy, already fully erect. I knelt before him on the bed, nervous but determined.

"Take your time," he said gently, stroking my hair. "I want you to enjoy it."

I started with my hands, learning the weight and heat of him, the way he twitched when I touched certain spots. Then I leaned in, licking the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum that had gathered there. He groaned, his hand tightening in my hair, and I felt a rush of power.

I took him into my mouth slowly, working my way down his shaft, my tongue flat against the underside. He was big, bigger than I'd been with before, and I had to relax my throat to take him deeper. I remembered what Sarah had said about breathing, about using my hand to cover what my mouth couldn't reach.

"Fuck," he breathed, his hips moving slightly, careful not to choke me. "Your mouth is incredible."

I found a rhythm, bobbing my head, using my hand in tandem, sucking on the upstroke. I experimented—hollowing my cheeks, swirling my tongue around the head, taking him as deep as I could until my eyes watered and I had to pull back, gasping.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I looked up, my eyes watering, my lips swollen and wet, and the expression on his face—pure lust, pure awe—made me feel like a goddess.

"I'm going to come," he warned. "I'm going to come in your mouth. Is that okay?"

I nodded, keeping my lips wrapped around him, and felt the first spurt hit the back of my throat. It was thick, salty, more than I'd expected, and I swallowed instinctively, then again, and again, until he was finished, his hand petting my hair, his breathing ragged.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, helping me up, pulling me against his chest. "That was... that was amazing."

We lay together for a while, talking, touching. He didn't try to fuck me—he'd paid for tier three, and he was satisfied. When I left, he tipped me three hundred dollars extra and asked to see me again.

I said yes.

By mid-October, I'd saved four thousand dollars. I was seeing regular clients now—Richard, who wanted conversation and handjobs; Marcus, who loved to eat pussy and have me swallow his cum; a judge named Arthur who just wanted to cuddle and talk about his cases; a surgeon who liked to be spanked and called dirty names.

But I was still curious about tier four. Full service. Intercourse. The ultimate intimacy, sold by the hour.

I talked to Sarah about it over coffee at her apartment. "Is it different?" I asked. "Emotionally, I mean?"

She considered. "Yes and no. It's more intimate, obviously. But it's also just... another service. The key is to stay present, stay in your body, remember that you're providing pleasure. Don't dissociate, but don't fall in love. It's a job, Maya. A very well-paid job."

"Who was your first?"

"A politician. Very famous, very married. He wanted anal, which I'd never done. I charged him double and used half a bottle of lube." She laughed at my expression. "It was fine. Actually, it was good. He knew what he was doing, took his time, made sure I enjoyed it. Some clients are like that. Others... you endure. But the money makes it worth it."

I booked my first tier four appointment for a Friday night. The client was described only as "D—corporate executive, prefers submissive women, interested in roleplay."

His name was David, and he was younger than my usual clients—mid-thirties, sharp-featured, with eyes that assessed me like I was a product he was considering purchasing. We met at a hotel in the West Loop, one of those boutique places with exposed brick and industrial lighting.

"Take off your clothes," he said, without preamble, once we were in the room. "Slowly. I want to watch."

I obeyed, performing the striptease I'd practiced in Sarah's mirror, making eye contact, letting him see my nervousness and my arousal both. When I was naked, he circled me, inspecting, touching here and there—a breast, my hip, between my legs, where he found me already wet.

"Good," he said. "You're responsive. I like that. Now, on your knees."

I knelt, expecting him to want his cock sucked, but instead he walked to the chair and sat down, still fully dressed.

"Crawl to me," he commanded.

I crawled, feeling the carpet against my knees, feeling my arousal spike at the degradation of it. When I reached him, he unzipped his pants and took out his cock—pale, veined, already hard.

"Ask permission to suck it," he said.

"Please," I whispered, looking up at him. "Please, can I suck your cock?"

"Why should I let you?"

"Because I want it," I said, improvising. "Because I want to taste you, to feel you in my mouth. Please, sir."

He smiled, pleased. "Good girl. You may."

I took him into my mouth, but he kept control, his hand in my hair, guiding my head, setting the pace. He fucked my face slowly, deeply, making me take him until I gagged, then pulling back, letting me breathe, then pushing in again.

"You're going to take my cock in every hole tonight," he told me, his voice steady as he used my mouth. "Your mouth, your pussy, your ass. You're going to be my little whore, aren't you?"

I moaned around him, the words sending shockwaves through me. I hadn't known I liked this—the dirty talk, the dominance, the loss of control. But I did. I liked it very much.

He pulled me off his cock and stood, stripping efficiently. He was lean and fit, with scars on his chest that looked surgical. He pulled me up and pushed me onto the bed, face down, and I felt him behind me, his hands spreading my legs, his fingers probing my entrance.

"So wet," he murmured. "You like being treated like a slut, don't you?"

"Yes," I gasped, as he pushed two fingers inside me.

"Say it. Say 'I'm a dirty whore who needs to be fucked.'"

I hesitated, then: "I'm a dirty whore who needs to be fucked."

"Again. Louder."

"I'm a dirty whore who needs to be fucked!" I cried out, and then he was inside me, one hard thrust that filled me completely.

I screamed, the sensation overwhelming—he was thick, and he wasn't gentle, pounding into me with force that drove the air from my lungs. But he was also skilled, angling his hips to hit the spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes, reaching around to rub my clit in rough circles.

"You're so tight," he growled. "So fucking tight around my cock. Do you take it raw from all your clients?"

"No," I gasped, "only with condoms, I'm safe, I'm—"

He laughed, pulling out, flipping me over. "I know. I read your test results. But I like hearing you say it. I like hearing you beg."

He entered me again, missionary this time, my legs over his shoulders, going deeper than before. I was moaning constantly now, unable to control myself, my hands gripping his arms, my nails digging in.

"Please," I whimpered, "please, harder, please—"

He gave me harder, his hips snapping against mine, the bed slamming against the wall. I was close, so close, and when he reached between us to pinch my clit, I came apart, my orgasm ripping through me with shocking intensity, my back arching, my voice breaking on a scream.

He kept fucking me through it, using my spasming body, prolonging my pleasure until it was almost pain. Then, with a final thrust, he buried himself deep and came, pulsing inside me, his head thrown back, his jaw tight.

We lay there for a moment, catching our breath. Then he pulled out, and I felt his cum leaking out of me, a strange intimacy that made me blush.

"Shower," he said, his dominance receding, his voice gentler now. "Then we can talk."

We showered together, washing each other with casual intimacy. In the bathroom light, he looked different—softer, younger. He told me about his job, the stress of it, the way he needed to control things in the bedroom to feel balanced in his life. I told him about school, my dreams, my fears.

When I left, he paid me twelve hundred dollars—two hours at tier four, plus a substantial tip. He also gave me his personal number and asked me to text him if I was ever available outside the agency.

I saved the number. I saved the money. And I realized that I was no longer the desperate girl from the bursar's office. I was something else now—empowered, confident, financially secure. I was a professional.

November brought an invitation I hadn't expected. Celeste called me into her office, her expression unreadable.

"I have a special event," she said. "Private party. Very exclusive. Very well-paid. Five thousand for the night, plus whatever tips you earn."

I sat up straighter. "What kind of party?"

"A gathering. Wealthy men, some women, all vetted. They want entertainment. Beautiful girls who are willing to... perform. It's not mandatory that you participate with guests, but the more you're willing to do, the more you make. Some girls just serve drinks naked. Others... do more."

I thought about it. Five thousand dollars would cover almost half my remaining tuition. "What would be expected of me specifically?"

"That's up to you. But I will say—the host specifically requested you. He's seen your photos, heard about you from other clients. He wants you there, and he's willing to pay premium for... let's call it enthusiasm."

"Who is he?"

"Anonymous until you accept. But I can tell you he's legitimate, safe, and extremely wealthy. The party is at his estate in Lake Forest. Black tie. You'll be provided with clothing."

I accepted.

The dress arrived the day before the party—a gown of midnight blue silk that clung to every curve, with a neckline that plunged to my navel and a slit that ran to my hip. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever worn, and when I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I looked sophisticated, sensual, expensive.

A car picked me up at nine PM—a black Mercedes with tinted windows and a driver who didn't speak. We drove north, into the wealthy suburbs, past gates and security checkpoints, until we reached a mansion that looked like it belonged in a movie.

I was escorted inside by a woman in a suit who checked my ID, took my phone, and led me through rooms of marble and crystal to a back patio where the party was in full swing. There were maybe fifty guests, all elegantly dressed, drinking champagne and eating canapés. And among them, maybe twenty women like me—beautiful, young, wearing variations of my dress in different colors.

"Welcome," the woman said. "The rules are simple. The guests know you're here professionally. You can refuse anything. There's a safe word—'red'—that stops all activity immediately. There's a lounge upstairs if you need a break. And at midnight, the main event begins in the great hall. Until then, mingle, enjoy yourselves, earn your tips."

I took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and began to circulate. The guests were polite, flirtatious, their hands lingering on my waist, my hip, the bare skin of my back. I talked to a tech billionaire who wanted to know my thoughts on AI, a senator who couldn't stop staring at my cleavage, a couple—a man and woman in their fifties—who invited me to join them later.

At midnight, a bell rang, and the crowd moved indoors to a great hall with a vaulted ceiling and a floor that had been cleared for... something. In the center of the room was a massive bed, draped in white silk, surrounded by comfortable chairs and sofas.

"Ladies," a voice said, and the host emerged from the crowd. He was tall, dark, handsome in a severe way, with eyes that found mine immediately. "And gentlemen. Tonight is about pleasure. About watching and being watched. About breaking taboos in a safe, consensual space. Our first performer is a favorite of many of you. Please welcome... Maya."

My heart stopped. He was looking at me. This was why I'd been invited.

I stepped forward, my legs shaking, and the crowd parted for me. The host took my hand, helping me onto the bed, and whispered in my ear: "You can say no. You can leave right now, keep the five thousand, and go home. Or you can stay, and show them what you do best. The choice is yours."