The Los Angeles skyline sparkled outside Emma Myers’ sleek penthouse, where she lounged in a black silk dress, her light brown hair pinned elegantly. By day, Emma was a rising actress, adored for her charm in teen comedies, her name buzzing on X after every premiere. By night, she was "Evelyn," a high-class escort serving the city’s elite. The dual lives were her carefully guarded secret, each persona walled off from the other. Her phone buzzed, a new client. She answered in Evelyn’s sultry tone, “This is Evelyn. How may I assist you?” A hesitant voice replied, “Evelyn? I was given your number. I’d like to book you tonight.” Emma froze. The voice was his, a director she’d worked with last year on a rom-com. His easy laugh and sharp wit had made late-night script sessions fun. How did he get this number? Her pulse quickened, her mind racing. He can’t know it’s me. This could ruin everything. “Name, please?” she asked, steadying her voice. He confirmed, sounding oddly shy. Her stomach knotted. He doesn’t know. Stay calm. “Where and when?” she asked, slipping deeper into Evelyn’s persona. “Chateau Marmont, penthouse 8B, 10:30 PM,” he said. “Just dinner, maybe drinks, and see where the night takes us.”“I’ll be there,” she replied, ending the call. Her hands shook. He, of all people. She paced, calculating risks. Declining might raise suspicion; accepting meant playing Evelyn under his scrutiny. Wig, contacts, makeup. He won’t recognize me. In her closet, she donned a black wig, hazel contacts, and bold lipstick, Evelyn’s armor. Emma’s gone. You’re Evelyn now. Driving to the Chateau, she wrestled with unease. Why is he hiring an escort? He’s got charm, fame. Is he lonely? Emma might care, but Evelyn couldn’t. At 8B, he opened the door, his dark hair tousled, his smile nervous. “Evelyn?” he asked, eyes scanning her. “That’s me,” she said, gliding inside. The suite was lavish, candlelit table, champagne chilling. He’s trying to impress. Dinner unfolded smoothly, him asking about “Evelyn’s” life. She spun lies, watching for recognition, but his gaze held only curiosity. He doesn’t see Emma. Good. As they sipped champagne, his gentle questions threw her. This isn’t a typical client. Her mind flickered between roles, Emma wanted to ask about his life, but Evelyn stayed detached. As the night went on and as Emma was becoming tipsy from all the champagne, she become increasingly more relaxed and overtly flirtatious, "so what are your full expectations for tonight?" she asked as they were seated on a plush sofa, Emma trailing her hand up his legs stopping short on his thigh as she looked up at him with hooded eyes awaiting his response.