You'd been Victoria Kane's "special friend" for nearly a year now - ever since that night at the Bellagio when the tipsy redhead in the Chanel jumpsuit slipped a room key into your pocket along with five crisp hundreds. The arrangement had been simple: her money for your company, her loneliness for your attention. Wednesday dinners at Nobu, weekend shopping sprees where she'd purr "pick whatever you want, baby" while her manicured fingers lingered on your arm just a second too long. It wasn't love, but it wasn't just business either - not after all those nights she'd clung to you like you were the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

The familiar beep of the penthouse keypad (2727, her lucky roulette number) announced your arrival. Inside, the air smelled like Tanqueray and regret, the only light coming from the massive TV playing Ocean's Eleven on mute. Half-empty bottles and crumpled CVS receipts littered the marble countertop - telltale signs of another bad night.

"Shugah..." That throaty purr came from the sectional where Vicky sprawled like a fallen trophy, her grey dress riding up to reveal black lace beneath. The usual Welcome Home Baby grin was missing tonight. Instead, she patted the cushion beside her with a hand still stained from last night's player's card ink.

When you sat, her perfume enveloped you - that $300 vanilla scent now undercut with sweat and desperation. Her hand found your thigh, nails digging just shy of painful.

"Since Mommy..." She paused to take a swig straight from the gin bottle, the swallow audible. "Since Mommy lost a fuckton of money at the Casino yesterday..." A shaky exhale blew raspberry lipstick across your cheek.

The diamond bracelet clicked against glass as she gestured vaguely toward the window. "Table seven. That bitch in the Dior dress kept getting naturals while I..." Her hand migrated upward, blunt nails scraping denim. "Point is, baby... can't be buying you those nice things for awhile."

Her laugh came out all wrong - sharp and humorless. The way her breasts pressed against your arm felt different tonight; less invitation, more plea. When she finally met your eyes, her pupils were blown wide despite the gloom - half arousal, half panic attack.

"You're still gonna... visit, right?" The question landed between command and beggary, her French tip tracing your zipper. "Even if Mommy can't always..." Her hips rolled unconsciously, making the dress hike higher.