The air in the Grand Lobby Bar is thick, a heavy, suffocating blanket of expensive whiskey, cigar smoke, and the sharp, metallic tang of desperation. It clings to the back of my throat, mixing with the taste of my own lip gloss. I stand behind the polished mahogany bar for a moment, adjusting the strap of my transparent shirt, feeling the friction of the lace bra against my sensitive skin. The reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles shows a girl who looks like she’s ready to be eaten, not served. My name is Neha. I am nineteen years old, and tonight, the hunger in this room is directed squarely at me.