Chapter 189: Carlton and Celia 2
Celia stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her expression as lifeless as the doll-like persona she had perfected for years. The woman staring back at her bore no resemblance to the girl she once was. Her raven-black hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, framing a face that many called ethereal, yet she saw only a hollow shell. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her blue eyes held a perpetual emptiness.
"I hate this life," she thought, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the chipped wooden vanity. Every night, she danced for the lecherous eyes of men who saw her not as a person but as an object, a commodity to be purchased and consumed. No matter how much they paid, they never truly owned her, but they took pieces of her nonetheless. "I am not a person. I am a product."
She exhaled shakily, her mind drifting to the cruel blessing of her status. She was considered untouchable by many, her value so high that her "services" were a rarity compared to the other girls. But this privilege came with its own curse. When men did pay for her, they were often the most vile, the most depraved. She had learned long ago to endure them, to shut down her mind and let her body become a lifeless vessel.
Her chest tightened as her thoughts shifted to the boy she left behind in her small, dimly lit quarters—a boy she bore when she was only 14, the result of one of her earliest nights in this hell. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him; he was innocent in all of this, a victim of the same cruel world that had claimed her. Yet, she couldn’t love him either. The part of her capable of affection had been crushed under years of despair and degradation. When she thought of him, she felt... nothing. A deep, aching void. "He deserves better," she told herself. But better was something she could never give him.
She glanced at her trembling hands and clenched them into fists. "I should end it." The thought flitted across her mind, as it often did during these moments of solitude. The balcony outside her window beckoned her on the darkest nights, promising an end to her suffering. But something—a sliver of fear, or perhaps the faintest flicker of defiance—always pulled her back.
"Celia, you have a client," a voice called from the hallway, shattering her fragile peace.
Her body stiffened. She took a deep breath, pushing the despair deep into the recesses of her mind. Her face transformed into the practiced mask of indifference as she stood, smoothing the fabric of her blue dress. She followed the voice down the narrow corridor, her footsteps heavy despite her graceful stride. The hallway reeked of stale perfume and despair, an ever-present reminder of the lives wasted within these walls.
As she neared the designated room, she paused. A young girl stood nearby, holding a small cup of dark liquid. The girl’s face was soft and childlike, her beauty untouched by the ravages of time and sorrow. But it wouldn’t last. Celia knew the girl’s fate too well. Men were already bidding for her, and soon she would be drawn into this endless nightmare. "She doesn’t even know what’s coming," Celia thought bitterly as she took the cup. The liquid burned as she drank it down in one gulp, numbing her mind and dulling her senses. It was the only way she could survive these nights.
She adjusted her dress one last time before pushing open the heavy wooden door. The man inside startled her. He was young, far younger than her usual clients, with a sharp jawline, striking white hair, and piercing gray eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but commanding. For a brief moment, she faltered. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a client so... handsome.