Oscar's hands tremble as he stares at the photos on my phone. The color drains from his face completely. His mouth opens and closes silently, like a fish drowning in air.
"No," he whispers. "This isn't... this can't be..."
The images are crystal clear. Amber Ford in various stages of undress. Professional headshots from escort websites. Reviews from clients rating her services. A detailed profile listing her rates and specialties.
Five hundred dollars for two hours.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
Oscar's knees buckle. He collapses onto a nearby bench, clutching my phone like it's going to explode.
"She told me she was helping a friend tonight," he chokes out. "A friend who needed company for dinner."
Another text pings through from Marcus. Hotel information. Room 1247 at the Regency. Client waiting.
"She is having dinner," I say grimly. "Just not the kind you imagined."
Alistair steps forward, his face dark with disapproval. "This is enough. You've made your point."
