The Luxus Grand Hotel didn’t merely have guests; it curated temporary residents. Its marble lobby was a monument to hushed opulence, a place where the clinking of crystal was a more common language than speech. I was not a resident, temporary or otherwise. I was a spectator, a man adrift in a sea of affluence I could not afford, waiting for a business associate in a suit that cost more than my car. Choosing Call Girls at The Luxus Grand Hotel
He was late. To pass the time, I sipped a martini so dry it made the Sahara seem damp and observed the ballet of discreet consumption. It was then I noticed him, a man positioned like a sovereign at a small, polished table near the grand staircase. He wasn’t ostentatious; his power was in his stillness. And before him, they paraded.
They were not what one might crudely imagine. There was no garishness, no overt solicitation. This was a transaction of a different echelon. A man in an impeccably tailored suit, who I took to be the hotel’s maître d’ of more than just tables, would approach the sovereign’s table with a discreet tablet. A quiet word, a nod, and then the choosing would begin.
It was not a line-up. It was a promenade.
The first was a vision in crimson silk, a dress that spoke of confidence rather than invitation. She walked through the lobby not as if she were for sale, but as if she owned the very air she breathed. She paused by a gigantic floral arrangement, smelling a lily, her posture a lesson in grace. The sovereign watched, his face unreadable. A slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. The man with the tablet made a note. She was not a product rejected; she was an aesthetic declined. Wrong for the mood. Too bold, perhaps.
The second was an ethereal blonde in a dress of silver gossamer that seemed to drink the light. She moved to the grand piano, where a pianist played a soft Gershwin tune, and she leaned against it, her eyes distant, melancholic, a tragic heroine waiting for her third act. She was art, a living portrait. The sovereign considered her for a long moment, then gave a small, dismissive wave. Too fragile. The narrative she offered was one of sadness, and he was not in the market for a tragedy tonight.
A third emerged, not from the staff corridors, but from the main entrance, as if she had just arrived from a gala elsewhere. Her attire was a sharp, black pantsuit, her hair pulled into a severe bun. She carried a leather portfolio. She looked at her watch, an elegant flick of the wrist, and surveyed the room with an air of impatience. She was power. She was a CEO, a surgeon, a woman who commanded boardrooms. The sovereign’s eyes glinted with interest. This was a角色 he understood. But after a moment, he leaned back. Too much like work.
