The deep red, intricately carved doors of the Tipsy Lounge slowly closed behind a group of guests, shutting out the quiet, dark, and dizzying night outside.

Renée leaned against the hallway wall, lined with dark silk fabric, pressing a hand to her aching stomach as she staggered toward the restroom.

Suddenly, the door to a private room swung open, blasting deafening music and unabashed moans of indulgence into the corridor.

Renée turned slightly to the side, making way for those exiting the room. Her bangs fell forward as she kept her head low, shielding her face from view.

Pushing open the restroom door, she could no longer hold back the nausea and stabbing pain in her stomach. She rushed into a stall, collapsed over the toilet, and vomited violently.

Finally, it was over.

Renée slumped back against the stall door, her body slowly sliding down.

The automatic flush sent a rush of water swirling down, carrying with it a pungent mix of alcohol and stomach acid that made her wrinkle her nose.

The floor was cold. Even through the thin fabric of her dress pants, the chill made her shiver.

Struggling to her feet, she stepped out of the stall and staggered to the sink. Turning on the faucet, she bent down and drank straight from the icy stream, the sharp scent of bleach filling her nose.

The bitterness in her mouth was quickly washed away, but the freezing water left her tongue slightly numb. Deep in her throat, however, the burn remained.

She really needed to stop drinking so much. If she kept this up, her stomach would probably end up looking like a fishing net—full of holes.

Renée lifted her head, staring at the figure in the mirror.

Shoulder-length hair, dyed a deep blue, with a slight wave. Flawless, fair skin. Thick, well-shaped brows. Bright, dark eyes. A sharp, elegant nose. Soft, pink lips.

Water droplets slid down her face, tracing the curve of her jaw, dripping from the corners of her lips, her chin, and the tips of her hair—undeniably seductive.

A masterpiece sculpted by God. Impossible to distinguish as male or female.

That breathtakingly beautiful face carried a faint sorrow in its eyes. A look so perfect yet heartbreakingly fragile, one that made countless socialites fall in love, powerful women melt with maternal instincts, and even men go mad with desire.

Renée sighed. It was just a face—whoever wanted it could have it. She didn't ask for it.

From as far back as she could remember, this appearance had brought her nothing but pain and sorrow.

She picked up a towel from the sink, one meant for guests, and wiped the water from her face. Straightening her crisp black suit, she took a deep breath before stepping out of the restroom.

A group of familiar guests brushed past her in the hallway. Renée gave a small nod in acknowledgment, a polite greeting.

A hand casually squeezed her firm, well-shaped buttocks.

She simply kept smiling.

This was her job—working as a "gentleman" in the city's hottest club, the Tipsy Lounge.

Yes, you read that right. Renée was a woman.

And her job? To be a male escort. Known as "René".

At Tipsy Lounge, the most elite male escorts were given a special title—"Gentleman." And "René" was one of the "gentleman".

As night fell, dazzling neon lights illuminated the bustling pleasure district.

Men and women—throwing away fortunes, indulging, letting loose, seeking thrills in drunken nights of fleeting passion.

Men and women—shedding their dignity, smiling, weeping, using their looks, voices, and even their bodies to trade for money.

No one was naturally inclined to become an escort. Some came out of curiosity, some out of boredom or impulse, and some because they had no other choice.

It was a job that demanded youth, endurance, and the very essence of one's life to survive.

Madam Hnin, the owner of Tipsy Lounge, was extremely picky. Guests craved novelty, so no one lasted long in this line of work. At most, two years before they were replaced.

But Renée was different.

She wasn't here by choice—she had been placed here by that man.

And without his command, even in death, she would never leave Tipsy Lounge.

Fortunately, that man never let Renée to sell her body. Her job was simply to drink with guests, chat, joke around, sing, dance, and occasionally play a few hands at the small casino included in the club. Overall, her days were bearable.

Renée's income wasn't extravagant, but it wasn't bad either. She wasn't the most in-demand host, but with her looks, she was rarely left unoccupied.

She wasn't talkative—if anything, she was quiet to the point of being withdrawn. She never flattered guests or took the initiative, traits that made her unsuited for this line of work. But some guests enjoyed her silent, obedient demeanor. And more than that, she had the face of an angel—perfect, ethereal, untouched by the filth of the world.

People always found pleasure in ruining perfection. Even if they couldn't claim it for themselves, they at least wanted to leave their mark.

So, many guests wanted to take Renée to bed.

Men, women—almost half of the first-time visitors to Tipsy Lounge had approached Madam Hnin to discuss the price for a night with "René".

Fortunately, Madam Hnin always protected her.

Or rather, no one dared to go against that man.

🎩

"René, why are you still wandering around? Madam Hnin is looking for you."

A slender woman in a designer cocktail dress, her makeup meticulously applied, sauntered over with an air of lazy elegance.

She was like a cat—sultry, gentle on the surface, but one never knew when her claws might come out to scratch.

At Tipsy Lounge, the escorts were divided into different tiers. Those like Renée, who lived in the private quarters, had been trained to exude sophistication and refined taste, each with their own distinct personality. Naturally, the guests they entertained were people of status and power.

Unlike the cheap clubs outside, the escorts here were not just pretty faces but individuals with stories, thoughts, and depth—designed to captivate from within. They could discuss ancient poetry or the stock market, answer questions about fate or life's dilemmas. They talked about emotions, careers, romance, and philosophy—everything but love.

"Someone requested you again tonight. René, if you ever rise to the top, don't forget me." Nanda coquettishly pressed closer.

Renée tilted her head slightly to the side, but she still couldn't avoid Nanda's lips brushing against her cheek. She responded with a soft smile, gently taking the hand resting on her chest. With a slight tug, she spun Nanda in a graceful circle, smoothly guiding her away from her embrace without making it seem like a rejection.

"Nanda, you look stunning tonight."

Renée lifted Nanda's hand to chin level, but instead of kissing the back of it as Nanda's eager gaze anticipated, she paused for a brief moment—then simply let go.

Nanda noticed the faint, unreadable curve of Renée's lips. Retracting her hand, she crossed her arms, her face warming slightly.

"Ah, if only you spoke this sweetly to the guests too, René. Then I wouldn't have to work so hard—I could just let you take care of me instead."

Renée smiled without warmth, bitter amusement flickering beneath the surface. But outwardly, her expression remained composed as ever, her demeanor as smooth as a perfectly poured glass of wine.

With Nanda's glossy lip print still gleaming on her cheek, she turned and headed toward Madam Hnin's private office.