Cursed Opal (The Cardinal Winds, #3) - Kathryn Ann Kingsley Page 0,1
sting away from her burning lungs or aching limbs. She was certain rich families were allowed to leave the hospital with a lifetime supply.
But not someone like her.
Not someone in her line of work.
She was likely to give it away to some lowlife or addict. She couldn’t be trusted. She was a degenerate, after all.
She was an escort.
She shut her eyes.
She was a prostitute.
There was no point to nicer words and indignation anymore. When they had diagnosed her disease, she could see the glances the doctors gave each other. A pretty young girl who could pay in cash? Who lived by herself in an expensive flat? One who had no prestigious family name, and who came to the hospital with no whimpering fiancé or loved ones at her side?
Not to mention, one who refused to tell them what she did for a living?
There was only one other option.
It wasn’t until they told her that she was dying that the doctor finally flat out asked her if she was a whore.
And it was then that she decided there was no use lying about it. She could pay for hospice herself. She wouldn’t be a “burden on society.” They couldn’t kick her out. So why not tell the truth?
Then she had remembered. Because the nurses never looked at her the same way again once she told them. Their smiles were no longer kind but filled with righteousness. Because they looked at her as if to say “yes, you slut, this is what you deserve.”
Slut, harlot, slapper, slag, tramp, hooker, floozy, hussy, whore. She knew them all, and several more in a dozen languages.
There really were a lot of words for a “loose woman.”
Opal had heard them ever since she had gone into her line of work. They had been spat at her as insults, whispered between jealous rivals, and grunted at her in darkened rooms by her patrons.
It hurt her feelings at first. It still did, if she were honest. But like all things, she developed armor to it over the years. Especially because she was successful. She had a regular list of high-paying, very bourgeoisie clientele. She was—had been—one of the most sought-after escorts in high society. Not only because she knew what to do after a dinner ended, but because she knew what to do during one.
For every second son of a rich family, for every poor gay descendent of some fancy well-to-do businessman, she was the best of the best. With her long, perfect blonde hair, hourglass figure, and flawless smile, she knew how to win over a room. She knew how to laugh like a vapid idiot. She knew how to keep her conversations short, pithy, and devoid of meaningful content.
She was there to make her patron look impressive. Not to be a real person on her own.
And then, after dinner was over, she would do whatever it was the gentlemen required of her. Either to simply kill time with them and play cards—she really did love her nights with Sean, that poor closeted boy—or to fulfill whatever wishes they could dream of with a lady.
And boy, some of her clients had strange dreams. But she smiled, laughed, and found the pleasure in it all.
She was good at her job. Damn good. And what was the saying? If you love your work, it isn’t work at all? She had taken pride at how booked her nights were. At how many times one gentleman would call her for her services only to find she was already spoken for. Not only for that evening, but oftentimes she was already booked to attend the same gala with a different gentleman. She loved the parties. She loved the dresses. She loved being desired.
But more than that, she loved…well, love. In all its forms.
Even if it was the reason she was now on her deathbed.
She looked down at the stained piece of fabric in her hand. She could almost hear her mother scolding her for it. She was always getting into trouble as a little girl. But there was little else to do as a workhouse rat.
Maybe she should have sewn fabric like her mother. Maybe she should have worked the switchboards and become a phone operator. Maybe she should have done a lot of things. Is this what it’s like to die? Being presented with a list of all the things I could have done over the years? Maybe this, and maybe that? She sighed. I hate dying.