ESCORT / spencer reid.

seven

     IVORY LOOKED at her phone for what
seemed to be the millionth time tonight. Her eyebrows dipped in confusion; she thought that Spencer would at least send her a text message of some sort maybe thanking her for the food. She drove a whole thirty minutes to go to his favorite place, for him, and he didn't even ask her how her day was going.

But the man was probably busy, Ivory told herself. This was always the problem with her—she overthought every possible problem and solution, making her obsess over tiny little acts and insecurities.

Which was exactly why people constantly let her down. Because Ivory Arden couldn't help but expect the best out of others—because she tried her hardest pleasing everyone. But rarely they ever reciprocated.

She thought Spencer was different, but she supposed that it was only her who went lengths to impress others.

"Something bothering you tonight?" Her client asked. Ivory's head snapped up and she frowned, shaking her head.

"You know you can tell me. You know everything about me, I don't see why I can't know anything about you." The man responded; his name was Richard Seavers, the CEO of a large car company that she didn't care enough to remember.

"Nothing big." She said, smiling. "So, what's the plan tonight?"

"You tell me." The man responded, reaching into his bag.

/

Ivory winced, rubbing her blistered wrists as she sat on her couch inside her home. She closed her eyes—but immediately opened them again, her eyes darting around her home.

Her heart was racing, her throat dry. Ivory couldn't stop thinking about her client tonight. Richard Seavers was aggressive, not giving account her pain tolerance. She gritted her teeth, painfully looking down at her purple wrists—in which the cracked skin had dried blood welled up in it.

She was pissed; pissed, upset, and scared. Ivory hated these terrible nights when she came home feeling like a toy to others, and nothing else.

It was disgusting. Men were disgusting. She was disgusting.

She grabbed her chest, telling herself to calm down repeatedly, drawing in deep breaths slowly. When the woman realized she couldn't take it anymore—she broke. Crying, sobbing, piercing her fingernails into her palms by accident, with no one else around.

She didn't cry in front of others, because no one would listen to her anyways. No one would comfort her—why would they?

Ivory let out a choked sob, followed by a strangled scream, lifting herself onto her feet and heading to the bathroom, her cries echoing louder when she saw her own reflection.

Slut. Whore. Home-wrecker.

That was what she saw. Ivory saw a woman she didn't even recognize—someone completely foreign and so ugly.

She hated everything—she wished her life was normal. She wished that people could just be normal, quit reaching out to her. She wanted to stop.

Ivory wanted to stop so badly, but she couldn't. She was scared.

After hours sitting alone on her bathroom floor, Ivory stood up, her fingers curling around the edge of the sink counter as she regained her balance. She stared at herself one more time, wiping away her tears and putting on her strong face, straightening her shoulders.