Chapter 1: The Hustle

At thirty-two, I was supporting a broke male college student. My phone buzzed with another Venmo request. Rent again.

It’s not exactly the dream most little girls have, but here I was, footing the bills for a guy who still used his student ID for movie discounts. Sometimes I pictured myself as the butt of a stand-up set at Kingston Mines—“Lady, get yourself a dog, not a boyfriend who needs a meal plan.” But I guess in this city, everyone’s got a hustle.

Passing by the university, I saw Sean with a girl in his arms.

For half a second, I told myself maybe it was just a hug, maybe nothing. But the way his arms locked around her—my chest went tight. Then, my stomach twisted. The sunlight filtered through campus oaks, dappling their faces. Sean’s jaw was clenched, arms tense around the girl, like he was holding on for dear life—or maybe for the show of it. University kids milled past, not even noticing, their earbuds blasting whatever’s charting that week.

His eyes were red, full of frustration and barely held-back emotion. "Don’t act like I’m some loser, okay?"

He spat the words like they burned his tongue, voice wavering between a dare and a plea. The kind of look you give when you’ve already lost and you know it, but you’re still trying to claw back a little dignity. Sean always was proud to a fault, even when he was flat broke and eating ramen out of Tupperware.

A classic sugar baby setup.

If anyone had looked close, the whole thing would’ve been obvious—power, money, youth, and that little edge of desperation. You see enough of these arrangements in the city; no one even bats an eye. But every time, the lines blur: who’s saving who, and who’s keeping score?

So how did it end up looking like I’d corrupted Sean?

People talk, always have. In the right crowd, my name’s got its own gravity, so of course it twists the story: poor Sean, led astray by the woman with the penthouse view. As if I’d ever dragged anyone into a mess they didn’t already want.

He thinks he’s tainted, but honestly, plenty of people wouldn’t mind a little mess.

I’ve met people who’d kill for the kind of attention Sean gets, who’d leap at the chance to trade a clean reputation for a taste of city lights and five-star brunches. Maybe he’s never realized that being a little bit broken is just another flavor out here.

I exhaled a cloud of smoke, turned my head to the blond student swaggering by in head-to-toe fake designer brands, and said:

I flicked my cigarette butt into the sidewalk ashtray—because this was River North, and God forbid you litter—and muttered, “Ask him if he’s willing to call someone ‘Mommy.’”