Lost in the fog of her thoughts, the Jefferson Street stop was suddenly upon her. She disembarked the train and walked toward home. It was early evening but already getting dark. Nat huddled into her thrift-store coat, buried her face in her scarf, the midmorning promise of spring forgotten in the wintry chill of night. Turning onto her street, she saw that her building was lit from within, its warm glow menacing instead of welcoming. It meant that at least one of her roommates was home. Since her written second warning, she’d become a master of avoidance. Her luck would run out eventually, but not now. Please . . .

As she let herself in, she heard banging from the kitchen, smelled frying onions. Someone was cooking. She closed the door softly and silently removed her shoes. Scurrying down the hallway in her sock feet, she planned to slip into her room, unnoticed. But before she could reach her door, Mara materialized before her.

“Hi, Nat.” Her red hair was pulled back, her face pointed. Like her words.

“Hi.”

“Toni and I have been wondering when you’re going to pay us the money you owe us.”

“Next week,” Nat said, forcing a confident tone. “I get paid on Friday.” Her final pay, she knew, would not come close to covering her debt. But if she could arrange a couple of pay-per-meet dates with sugar daddies, she would have the cash.

“We actually need the money by Tuesday,” Mara said, and there was a wicked glint in her eye. She was enjoying her power, lauding it over Nat. “If you can’t pay us back, you’re going to have to find another place to live.”

“Tuesday it is,” Nat snapped. She marched into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled her laptop out of her backpack and turned it on. What if none of these rich men were interested in her? What if only perverts or sickos had sent messages? Her roommates wanted her out, that much was obvious. This website, these men, were her only hope.

Settling onto her unmade bed, she logged into the website. Next to her in-box, there was a red number: 13. She had thirteen messages. Her profile had been up for less than an hour! Feeling slightly sick (fear? panic? excitement?), she scrolled through the missives. Some of the men had posted a profile photo, some had not. The lack of an image was not subterfuge, Ava had advised. Some of these men were high-profile, well-known in their industries. Some—probably many—were married. She opened the first message from YezPlz.

I’m a very sucessfull business man looking for lovely lady to spoyl.

His spelling did not inspire confidence in his success, nor in his ability to spoil.

She moved through the messages. BKdaddy, a flabby-looking tech multimillionaire, would pay her four hundred dollars to wear lingerie and massage his feet. Will.I.Be would love to treat her lavishly, but only if her blood type was A positive or O. (According to Will, blood type was the greatest predictor of relationship success.) RealDeal invited her over to his East Village apartment, where he’d pay her six hundred dollars to take a bath with him. (The blank stare in his profile picture screamed serial killer.) Wes-Jen was looking for a playmate for him and his wife. And then, there was Profman, a retired professor who was seventy-five . . . but don’t worry, his age wasn’t a factor, downstairs.