Salliford Jimney sat at the dining room table, surrounded by the likes and the like-nots.

Such a dinner party, darling, such.

She bent down a second, running her polished candy apple red nail up and down her last pair of good panty hose. This was it. This was the last chance to make a good first impression.

She smiled her thin pink smile, glossed and rosy. She pulled her glass of white wine close to her lips and pressed them across the flute.

She was hungry for attention, and she was craving the money. The men in this room, their musk, their scent, pulled her in and she wanted it all over her. She took a small sip. She didn’t want it going to her head. His musk, the plaid jacket across from her, the cleft chin, the blue eyes — she was intoxicated by him the most.

But she had business to attend to, and that business sat around the table.

And before all the introductions started, she began to think about changing her name.