Love & Lies Galore

Madame Renaud controlled everything. Your Instagram. Your Twitter. Your TikTok. Even your Venmo name, if she felt like it. She didn’t ask for passwords—she expected them. Once she had them, your accounts stopped being yours. They became hers. Polished. Sophisticated. High-end. Classy. A perfect feed. In return…you got a car. Any car you wanted. G-Wagon. Range Rover. BMW. Tesla. Lexus. Take your pick. New. Leased. Zero down. Zero car notes. You’d pull up to Whole Foods or the Gold’s Gym in the Garden District and heads would turn, every single time. But there was a catch. You had to be one of her girls. Working girls. One of the fifteen—sometimes twenty—she kept on staff. Madame didn’t run a cathouse. She ran an exclusive consortium. Quiet and absolute. You worked. You entertained. You kept her clients happy. In exchange she covered everything. Rent? Paid. Exquisite meal plans delivered to your door—organic, keto, vegan, whatever your brand was. High-end athleisure and designer clothes curated monthly. A private gym membership where CEOs and Saints players trained. A condo with stainless steel appliances and views of the Quarter. Even facials and Botox, if you wanted them. You could take private clients on the side too, sure. But hers always came first. At the end of every month, your account would ping with a fat deposit. The kind that made you feel safe. Untouchable. Like maybe you weren’t playing the game—you were winning it. But then came her fee. Her cut. She could’ve just taken it off the top—easy, clean, done. But she didn’t. She made you pay it back to her directly. Why? It wasn’t about the money. It was about control. Control and accountability. Mainly control. Otherwise, she made everything else seem easy. Big Easy, peasy. Unless you were late. Whatever you do, don’t be late. Madame Renaud didn’t play the late pay game. She didn’t send reminders. Didn’t call to “work something out.” She acted. Swiftly. Next day swift. Locks changed before you got home. Gym membership canceled. Car towed and parked in some dealership lot like you’d never touched the steering wheel. Your reputation? Dead. The calls stopped. The DMs dried up. Clients ghosted. Your old followers began to wonder why you hadn’t posted in weeks. She fell off, they’d say. But you didn’t fall off. You were pushed. By then it was too late.