The Rich Man

Charlotte's face flushed as she gazed at Gabrielle's innocent and beautiful visage. Deep down, she wanted to advise her not to tread this perilous path. However, Charlotte's thoughts were simple, her words clumsy, and, compounded by the fact that every fallen soul wishes for company in their descent, she hesitated. Eventually, she reluctantly acquiesced to Gabrielle's request.

This time, it was Charlotte who led Gabrielle to Mrs. Mason's apartment. As Gabrielle entered, she felt as though she had stepped into the heart of a giant in a horror movie. The walls were a dusty pink, the carpet a dark red, and a strong, overpowering scent of perfume filled the air. The intensity of the fragrance reminded Gabrielle of the fermenting garbage heaps in summer alleys.

A woman descended from the second floor, cast an indifferent glance at her, and walked towards the sofa, where she began to meticulously apply nail polish to her toes. She wore a spaghetti strap dress, her shoulders rounded, and her upper body as full as blossoming flowers, ready to bear fruit, emitting a mixture of alcohol and sweat. She seemed oblivious to her own scent, wholly focused on painting her toenails.

Mrs. Mason's room was at the far end of the apartment. Just before entering the room, Gabrielle suddenly felt a strong urge to escape. She realized she might be heading down an irreversible path. The prospect of not being able to turn back sent shivers down her spine, and her legs trembled with anxiety.

In that moment, all her senses heightened. Like a gazelle mistakenly venturing into a lion's den, she smelled the decaying atmosphere of this apartment, saw the bluish circles under every woman's eyes, and sensed their fatigue. Gradually, she became aware that selling herself wasn't a solution. Yet, besides that, what other option did she have? She couldn't think of any. Perhaps her head was too small, too delicate—an ideal head for the spotlight, for magazine covers, but not for contemplation.

Thus, she couldn't think of an alternative.

In the end, Gabrielle entered Mrs. Mason's room. To her relief, Mrs. Mason didn't appear menacing, even somewhat amiable. With permed shoulder-length curls, intense black eyeliner, and thick lips, every move and expression exuded a desire for money. It seemed that in this place, one could only discuss matters of flesh and money.

Mrs. Mason gave Gabrielle a surprised look. "Mary?"

"Mary is my mother," Gabrielle replied, her sharpness subdued in Mrs. Mason's presence.

"I see," Mrs. Mason responded, taking the cigarette from her mouth and blowing out a pungent smoke ring. "So, young lady, what brings you to me? I haven't caused any trouble for your mother recently."

"My mother left." Gabrielle intended to portray her situation as more pitiful, but her limited writing skills and her recent carefree spending made it challenging. Instead, she straightforwardly said, "I'm out of money. Can you introduce me to a wealthy man?"

"Sure," Mrs. Mason agreed readily. "But I'll need an introduction fee."

"How much?"

"Not much, $165, the price of a breast augmentation surgery."

"Can I pay you later? I don't have money now."

Mrs. Mason squinted at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay, but you have to sign a contract with me."

"Fine."

The deal was struck. Mrs. Mason carelessly placed the cigarette on the ashtray's edge, licked her thumb, and retrieved a piece of paper from the drawer. She hastily wrote two lines in English. Although her handwriting was messy, Gabrielle could make out phrases like "165 dollars." Gabrielle took the paper and pretended to study it for a while before signing her name, Gabrielle Brown.

After completing everything, Mrs. Mason casually stashed the paper in the drawer, seemingly indifferent to the $165. She pulled out a hardcover album and tossed it in front of Gabrielle. "These are my regular clients; pick two that catch your eye." She picked up her cigarette, took two puffs, and, like a witch in a musical, laughed hoarsely. "Young people nowadays always clamor for fairness. Does this count as fair? I'm giving you—what's that word? Oh, the right to choose."