The CEO’s Favorite Sugar Baby

The coffee mug nearly slipped from my hand when the grumpy customer at table 4 muttered another complaint.

“Miss, I asked for this coffee with less sugar! Are you trying to kill me with diabetes?”

I forced a smile as I took the cup back.

“Of course, sir. I’ll bring you another one.”

I turned with a sigh and walked to the counter, where Zoe was finishing an order. When our eyes met, I rolled mine, and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Another complainer?”

She asked, shaking her head.

“The usual.”

I answered, pouring the coffee down the sink with a little more aggression than necessary.

My phone vibrated in the pocket of my apron. I pulled it out with a bad feeling, and when I saw Mr. Vasquez’s name my landlord a chill ran down my spine. With a sigh, I opened the message.

Vasquez: Babi, the rent is late. I need that money by Friday, otherwise I’ll have to look for another tenant. Nothing personal.

I closed my eyes for a moment. The rent money? It had evaporated when I had to buy a new fridge last month. The old one had simply given up on life, and living without a fridge was out of the question.

What the hell was I going to do now?

“Earth to Babi?”

Zoe snapped her fingers in front of my face.

“Nothing, just… a problem with the rent.”

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and grabbed the new coffee for the annoying customer.

“Oh, short on cash? You always figure something out.”

I wished that were true.

…

After our shift, we left together, enjoying the evening breeze. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my worn-out coat while looking at Zoe, who was wearing a new and apparently expensive jacket.

“Hey, where’d you get that jacket?”

I asked, frowning.

“We work at the same place and I know this salary doesn’t cover luxuries like that.”

She hesitated for a moment before sighing.

“Do you promise not to judge?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Depends. Are you selling organs on the black market?”

Zoe laughed.

“No! But… I’m doing a pretty lucrative thing.”

“Zoe…”

“Okay, okay. I’m a sugar baby.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“You know… a site with rich men willing to support a girl in exchange for company, fun, that kind of thing.”

I widened my eyes.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes! And before you jump to the wrong conclusions, it doesn’t always involve s*x. Some just want company, someone to talk to, go out with… and the money is great.”

I processed that in silence while Mr. Vasquez’s warning echoed in my mind. I needed money. Fast. But would I be willing to enter that world?

I was still digesting the information as we walked along the sidewalk lit by the yellowish streetlights.

“Are you serious? Like… you go out with these guys and they just pay you?”

Zoe laughed, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“Exactly. Sometimes it’s just dinner, sometimes a trip, and sometimes… something more, if I want. But the choice is always mine.”

I furrowed my brow.

“And they’re… how? I mean, the guys?”

“Rich, charming, generous.”

She listed on her fingers.

“But most of the time, older. Like… over 40.”

I made a face.

“Over forty? Like, old enough to be my dad?”

“Oh, come on! Not everyone ages badly, okay? Some are super attractive. Besides, they know how to treat a woman right. No splitting the bill, no games. It’s all direct and clear.”

I stayed silent for a moment, thinking.

“And they pay well?”

“Very.”

Zoe smiled, proud.

“Besides the money, I also got this jacket, a new iPhone, and a weekend at a luxury resort. All just for being pleasant and keeping them company.”

I let out a long sigh. I could barely pay the rent, while Zoe walked around loaded with gifts and trips.

We called an Uber and got into the car, continuing the conversation as the driver made his way through the city.

“Look, I know it seems like a shock at first.”

Zoe said, looking at me with curiosity.

“But think about it. You’re already serving annoying people all day for a ridiculous salary. At least these guys treat you well.”

I bit my lower lip. I couldn’t deny that the idea seemed tempting.

The car stopped in front of the old building where I lived. I got out, and Zoe waved before the driver pulled away.

I stood still for a moment, watching the city lights in the distance, before letting out a heavy sigh and climbing the creaky stairs to my small apartment.

With every step I took, Zoe’s words echoed in my mind.

“Easy money.”

“Rich men who know how to treat a woman.”

But another voice, softer and more distant, was there too. The voice of my mother, who was no longer here.

I could imagine the disappointed expression of the woman who had spent her life teaching the importance of hard work and honesty.

I threw my bag onto the sofa and collapsed next to it, staring at the peeling ceiling.

I was desperate.

But how far would I be willing to go to fix this?

The silence of my apartment was oppressive. I stretched out on the old sofa and stared at the stained ceiling, lost in thought. The conversation with Zoe still echoed in my head, but another memory began to take up space one that never truly left me.

I closed my eyes and saw my mother.

In the last years of her life, the disease consumed her quickly. At first it was just an occasional cough, something the doctors didn’t seem to take very seriously. Then came the bouts of shortness of breath, the endless nights of dry, painful coughing. The diagnosis came too late: pulmonary fibrosis. They said there wasn’t much that could be done. Air started to fail her more than ever, and soon she couldn’t walk without losing her breath.

I was only twelve when I watched her waste away. Her hands, once strong, became fragile and thin. Her gaze, which had once shone with life and affection, turned dull and resigned. In the end, she could barely speak without cho