*CHAPTER FOUR* Tamar couldn’t remember the last time she had felt truly alone. Not the kind where no one was physically present. She’d gotten used to that already. But the kind that lived inside you. That burrowed itself deep, like a thorn under the skin, festering. It growled at her in the silent moments, in the spaces between breaths, in the hush of rooms long after the men had left and the smell of their sweats still lingered in the sheets. But it wasn’t just loneliness that followed her like a shadow. No. It was something colder. Emptiness. That cruel, faithful companion. It curled itself around her ribcage and settled in her bones, showing up in her reflection, in the way her laugh no longer rose from her belly, in the way she no longer dreamed. It was always there, just out of reach, waiting for her to pause long enough to feel it. And so, she didn’t. Not anymore. She moved like a machine now. Wake, work, wait. A predictable cycle. One that made the days blur together. Names she didn’t remember. Faces she never wanted to see again. Rooms that all looked the same: cold lighting, stiff sheets, that faint smell of cologne mixed with desperation. She’d stopped caring. About them. About herself. It was easier that way. The men came and went, like the wave. In, out. Fast, forgettable. Some tried to reach her. Tried to break through the thick wall she had built brick by brutal brick. They whispered things: _You deserve better. You’re not like the others. There’s something different about you._ But Tamar had long since learned to tune them out. Their voices were just noise. They didn’t know her. Not at all. They didn’t see the pain that clawed behind her eyes when they turned off the lights. They didn’t hear the echo of her mother’s voice begging her to choose another path. They didn’t know what it felt like to bury the person you used to be beneath layers of survival. They didn’t know about the nights she curled up in the bathroom after they left, clutching her knees, trying to remember the last time someone touched her without wanting something in return. Some were cruel. Rough hands. Impatient breaths. They took, always took. Others were quiet, almost gentle. But their silence stung more. Indifference felt like abandonment when you already felt invisible. Tamar knew the script. She had perfected it. Smile. Tilt your head. Whisper his name. Pretend it feels good. Pretend you’re not dying inside. She moved from room to room like a ghost in high heels, looking for something she never found. Hope, maybe. Or herself. But the ache stayed. It clung to her skin, followed her footsteps, made a home with her and now staring through the mirror she now sat before. There she was, reflected back at herself. The girl in the mirror was a stranger in a red dress. Tight, short, unapologetically loud. It clung to her like an alarm, announcing her before she said a word. Her makeup was bold and seductive. A mask carved to hide the truth. But it didn’t work. Her eyes betrayed her. They were too tired, too sunken. She leaned forward, as if inspecting someone else. Her fingers trembled as she reached to fix her lipstick, and for the first time in weeks, she hesitated. Who was she now? Who had she become? Once, she had dreamed of being something… someone. Someone who could make people feel something other than lust. Someone who could bring joy, healing, warmth. But that dream had withered, dried up, and fallen away like ash. Was it even worth pretending anymore? The doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected. She blinked. Not flinching. She rarely flinched anymore. Getting up slowly, she glided to the door, heels clicking against the tiled floor like a metronome counting down the seconds to another meaningless night. Her hand hovered on the knob before she opened it halfway. And there he was. _Him._ The man from before. The one whose eyes had lingered on hers too long. The one who had called her Leah, like it was her name. He stood there, hands shoved into his coat pockets, a soft expression on his face. Not pity. Something else. “Flora,” he said, his voice low, reverent, like the name was sacred instead of soiled. She stiffened. She didn’t respond. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he added. Her gaze wavered. Something stirred in her chest, something she shoved down too quickly. “If you’re here for what they all come for,” she said flatly, her wall going up like a gate crashing shut, “come in.” He took a breath. “That’s not—” “If not, then leave,” she cut him off. “Leah—” He shut his eyes realizing his mistake. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped, voice sharper than she intended. Her throat tightened, her fingers curled into her palm. “Stop mistaking me for her. I’m not Leah!” He looked down for a second, regret flashing across his face. “I don’t know whatever she did to you,” she continued bitterly, “but I am not her. I am Flora. A prostitute. Nothing more. Nothing less.” Silence. And it hurt more than if he had shouted. “You don’t have to do this,” he said softly. She laughed. A dry, humorless sound. “You think this is a choice? That I wake up every morning and choose to sell parts of myself? To be pawed at by strangers? This isn’t a fairytale gone wrong. This is survival. And I’ve made peace with it. Maybe you should too.” He stepped back slightly, but not out of anger, out of sorrow. A sorrow that made her ache in ways she hated. “If you ever decide to see yourself the way I see you,” he said quietly, “you’ll know where to find me.” She scoffed. “See myself as what? A broken fantasy? A hollow reflection of someone you once loved?” He said nothing. She stepped closer, bitterness on her breath. “I’d rather be Flora to a world that wants nothing from me but flesh, than Leah to a man who sees a ghost.” Still, he lingered. One last look. One last moment. Then he turned, each step away heavy with silence. She didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. When the door clicked shut, it was like something cracked inside her. She turned slowly and walked back to the mirror. Her reflection met her again. Same eyes. Same tired soul. “Tamar,” she whispered, voice shaking. Even that name now seemed foreign to her. She reached for the lipstick again, dragging it across her lips with trembling hands. “Flora suits me better,” she said to the broken girl in the mirror. She stared at herself and let the truth fall from her lips. “I’m a prostitute,” she whispered. “And I’m worth nothing more.” This time, the words didn’t sting. They simply _were._ And with them, she buried Tamar once more, under layers of makeup, pain, and red dresses. Because pretending was too heavy. And surviving, at least, made her feel real. ....