Scarlet Disaster by Colette Rhodes

 

Prologue

This is like a dream.I was staying in a gorgeous hotel in gorgeous New York, courtesy of a gorgeous guy.

Frank:

What are you wearing, Scarlet?

I mean, he was a paying client and he was calling me a fake name, but for the first time in years, I felt hopeful that there was potential. That maybe I’d met someone I could build something real with.

Pulling my red hair into a high bun so it wouldn’t appear in the shot, I stripped off my fitted sweater and took a selfie that showcased my boobs in my fitted camisole, lips parted like I was about to orgasm. I tweaked the colors a little and sent it off to Frank, not really expecting a reply. I wasn’t his real girlfriend, just his paid one. For now.

I pulled my knit sweater back on and let my hair down, ready to tug my beanie on before I left the hotel. I was flying home to Alaska later today, and Frank hadn’t exactly asked me to stay or anything, which was… well, less than ideal. But he was a wealthy, successful investor—or something like that—and I doubted he’d be able to make decisions like asking me to move here permanently on a whim. Or proposing that this move from a paid arrangement to something… vanilla. A regular relationship. A real relationship.

Would he even do that? Maybe I had to be the one to bring that up?

Last month, Frank had requested that I stop camming as part of our arrangement, which I was happy to agree to. I’d been camming for five years and I was ready for a change anyway, plus he was paying me enough to justify it. Surely that was a sign that he wanted more from this?

I should bring it up. I was going to bring it up.

Once I was safely back in Fairbanks.

I did a final sweep of the room and finished packing my suitcase, lovingly laying the new La Perla lingerie Frank had given me on the top and zipping it up. Hopefully someone at the airport would open it up. That would give me some entertainment for the long-as-hell flight home.

Job done and getting fidgety that Frank hadn’t bothered replying, I dropped into the armchair by the window and checked my social media apps, scrolling through the comments on my latest post. I’d tastefully showcased some of my new lingerie in a mirror selfie—a pale blue set that matched my blue contact lenses—with an oversized knit cardigan and the blonde wig I wore as ‘Scarlet’ both artfully arranged to keep the pic social-media safe. The high-end hotel room was in the background, and there were a bunch of comments about me living like a queen with crown emojis that made me smile.

Praise from online strangers was an addiction I had no desire to kick, even if it was all a show. It was Scarlet they were complimenting—a filtered, edited, fake version of Lou, complete with blonde wig and blue contact lenses.

Maybe I could stay in New York, living my best inauthentic life forever? My good friend and ex-roommate, Ria, was staying with her family in Queens, and while she had a few extra houseguests at the moment, I doubted she’d turn me away if I asked to stay with her for a couple of days.

Get it together, I scolded internally, shaking my head. My savings were pretty healthy, they weren’t spontaneously move to New York healthy. I owned a home in Fairbanks that I’d have to deal with before anything more permanent could happen with Frank.

If that’s what he wanted.

Ugh, maybe I should go back to camming. I was a pro at figuring out what got someone’s motor running, but when emotions were involved, I was on totally foreign ground.

There was a knock at the door and I slipped my phone into the pocket of my jeans, crossing the room to check who it was through the peephole. An elegant woman stood in the hall, dressed in expensive-looking beige slacks, a white blouse, and low heels. Her dark hair was threaded with silver and was neatly pulled back into a chic bun. She looked a lot older than me, but she’d had some subtle work done on her face that made her age hard to place.

I pulled the door open a little, angling myself slightly behind it.

“Can I help you?”

“Scarlet, right?” she asked, in a voice that implied she definitely knew that wasn’t my real name.

“And you are?” I replied, as politely as possible.

“Elena Ashford.”

My breath caught in my throat. Ashford was Frank’s last name. It… it was probably a coincidence. Right?

“I’m Frank Ashford’s wife.”

That lying sack of shit. That lying married sack of shit.