Without her hooker drag, she looked positively chic.
Hermes and Prada,
Savaltore and Vuitton.

Her clients would be surprised.

Finding refuge from the biting cold in a red phone booth, her clumsy fingers fumbled with the coin slot, her quivering interior hidden by a fashionably large Burberry trenchcoat, portraying to the society a confident female, beautiful and inditimating. This masquerade, so cleverly staged, fooling the passing world. No, you could not see her bloodshot eyes, hidden by Gucci sunglasses, oh no, you certainly could not decipher her bruises and cuts on her otherwise flawless complexion, Anna Sui took care of that.

Those coulture vipers would have been proud of their products.

The coin finally complied, slotting in neatly. Trembling, she dialled the numbers that were imprinted in her memory for so long. So long, she never thought that she would ever have to use it. But reality revealed its cruel side, mocking her and her fervent prayers every night, her pleads to the Lord were all in vain. Tears stung her already swollen eyes, her lips quivering. as she recalled what had happened, her cheeks flushed with intense humiliation just by the mere thought.

Finally, as though her recepient could sense her pain, and was saving her from further recollection of her ordeal, picked up the phone, rasping a hoarse hello.

"M...Max? It's time. "