Close enough to feel the Taboo Aura washing over her like summer heat. Close enough to catch his scent—something expensive but not cologne, just him, just natural pheromones amplified by supernatural presence.

Close enough to feel the subtle, insidious need to submit crawling up her spine like fingers made of want.

He towered above her despite her heels adding three inches.

When he looked down, she gulped visibly, her mind flooding with crystal-clear images from what she'd witnessed—his hands on Dominique's throat, the arch of the evaluator's back, the sound of screaming orgasms echoing through hidden speakers.

"See that?" He pointed to the Rolls-Royce Phantom parked in Meridian's front lot, impossible to miss among the other luxury vehicles—matte black perfection that made every other car look like toys.

"That's what I drive. Four hundred thousand dollars of British engineering. That's not counting the Lamborghini Veneno I left at home. Or the McLaren. Or the Range Rovers and more."

Catherine's eyes tracked to the Phantom, and her thoughts screamed: {Jesus Christ, he's not lying. That's really his car. How much money does this kid have?}

"So let me ask you something, Catherine." His voice dropped lower, carrying weight that made her breath catch. "Do you honestly think I'm here for money?"

She opened mouth, closed it, opened again. No response came—brain short-circuiting trying to reconcile teenager with supernatural abilities and multi-million-dollar car collection.

He turned to face her fully, and she had to tilt head back to maintain eye contact. The Lust Presence unfurled just slightly—not full blast, just enough to make her thighs press together involuntarily, enough to make her pulse visible in her throat.

"I'm not here for your money," Eros said, voice carrying quiet intensity that felt like physical pressure against her skin.

"I'm here because of my sacred need to satisfy women. To give them what they're starving for. What they've been denied. What they deserve but can't find anywhere else in this fucked-up world that treats female pleasure like inconvenience instead of priority."

He gestured toward the sprawling beyond the window—million lights representing million stories, million women trapped in million different prisons of expectation and disappointment.

"Out there, Catherine, there are women dying inside marriages that look perfect from outside. CEOs who built empires but can't remember last time they felt genuinely desired. Diplomats' wives who speak five languages but can't translate their sexual frustration into anything their husbands understand.

"Artists and executives and doctors and lawyers and professors—brilliant, accomplished, powerful women who go home every night to beds where they're invisible. Where their needs are inconvenience. Where their pleasure is afterthought at best, complete fantasy at worst."

His voice grew more passionate, and Catherine found herself leaning in despite herself, hypnotized by conviction that radiated from him like heat from sun.

"These women masturbate in locked bathrooms while their husbands sleep, crying because they can't remember last time someone made them feel beautiful. They buy expensive vibrators and feel pathetic using them because technology can't replace being genuinely desired.

"They have affairs that leave them feeling emptier because the men they're fucking are just as selfish as the ones they married. They consider divorce but can't because of kids, or careers, or social expectations, or religious pressure, or just fear of being alone."

He turned back to the window, and Catherine followed his gaze instinctively. "They're everywhere, Catherine. Everywhere. Suffering in silence because admitting sexual dissatisfaction is admitting failure somehow.

"Like being brilliant and accomplished and powerful isn't enough if you can't keep your man interested. Like their needs are somehow unreasonable. Like wanting to feel worshipped and desired and satisfied is asking too much."

Catherine's throat felt tight. Through Plea, her thoughts whispered: {He's describing me. Oh god, he's describing my twenties. My past marriage. Every woman I know.}

"My means are limited," Eros continued. "I can satisfy dozens, maybe hundreds of women over time just by myself. But there's an audience I can't reach alone. Women who won't risk hiring unknown escorts or talk to some unknown boy who'd risk her job and Image.

"Women' trapped in positions where scandals could destroy careers built over decades. Women whose wealth and status make them targets for blackmail and exposure. Women who need discretion more than they need air."

He turned back to her, and let him See her desire map igniting—pulse hammering, breathing shallow, skin flushing beneath professional mask that was crumbling like sandcastle against tide.

"That's where you come in. That's where Meridian comes in."

"I don't understand," Catherine said, voice smaller than she'd like.

"Yes, you do." He smiled—not cruel, but absolutely certain. "Through your agency, through your client network, through your reputation and security protocols and vetting processes—I can reach thousands. Women who would never risk random escort but will trust Meridian's recommendation. Women who need liberation but have no safe way to seek it. Women who deserve to discover what their bodies are actually capable of when touched by someone who understands desire like religion."

He stepped closer—not threatening, but magnetic, gravity well she couldn't escape. "I don't need your money, Catherine. I need your access. Your client list. Your reputation opening doors that would stay locked to random seventeen-year-old claiming he can satisfy their deepest needs.

"I need Meridian's seal of approval, your security infrastructure, your ability to provide discretion that protects everyone involved."

Catherine stared at him, thoughts screaming: {This is insane. This is the most insane thing I've ever heard. And I believe every fucking word.}

"Keep the money," Eros said simply. "Whatever percentage you want beyond my thousand monthly. Use it to expand operations. Improve security. Recruit better female talents and add to your modeling agency. Build the best goddamn escort agency in the world. Or keep it as profit—I genuinely don't care. All I care about is their satisfaction."

His voice grew softer but somehow more intense. "I want to walk into sessions and leave women fundamentally changed. I want them to go home to their inadequate husbands and realize what they've been missing. I want them to look in mirrors and see themselves as desirable again.

"I want them to touch their own bodies and remember what pleasure actually feels like. I want them to understand they're not broken or undesirable or past their prime—they've just never been touched by someone who actually understands what female satisfaction means."

He leaned against the window, and afternoon light caught him in ways that made him look carved from marble and sin. "You watched my evaluation, Catherine. You saw what I did to Dominique. Woman who's broken a hundred men, reduced to begging. Woman who evaluates for living, turned into screaming, squirting, crying vulnerable beauty finding herself and what she's been missing all this time, she'll probably call in sick tomorrow because her body can't handle what I did to it."

Catherine's breathing had gone ragged. Her thoughts: {God yes, I saw it. I came watching it. Three times. Three fucking times.}

"That's what I want to give every woman who walks through your doors," Eros continued. "Not just orgasms—transformation. Not just satisfaction—revelation. Not just sex—religious fucking experience that rewrites their understanding of what their bodies can feel. I want them to leave sessions and immediately book follow-ups because they need it like oxygen now.

"I want word-of-mouth to spread through their social circles like wildfire until Meridian has waiting list years long. I want your agency to become legendary—not just as escort service, but as place where women go to remember they're goddesses instead of conveniences."

He pushed off from window, standing to full intimidating height. "So yeah, Catherine. Keep your money. I don't need it. I need your platform. Your infrastructure. Your ability to connect me with women who need salvation but don't know where to find it."

Silence stretched between them—heavy, charged, full of implications that would reshape everything.

Finally, Catherine laughed—shaky sound mixing disbelief and something that might've been reverence. "You're either the most genuine person I've ever met, or the most dangerous manipulator in Miami. I honestly can't tell which."

"Does it matter?" Eros asked, smiling. "If the end result is women leaving sessions satisfied beyond anything they've experienced? If your agency's reputation becomes legendary because every client I see becomes walking advertisement for Meridian's excellence? If women start whispering about the teenage god who works for Catherine Reynolds and changed their entire understanding of pleasure?"

Through Plea, he heard her final thought before she responded: {No. It doesn't matter at all. As long as he delivers what he promises. And after what I watched today... I think he might actually be capable of it. God help us all.}

"Alright," Catherine said, voice steady despite everything. "One thousand monthly. You're officially insane, but I'm not going to argue with insanity that looks like yours."

She extended her hand. "Welcome to Meridian Elite, Eros Velmior Desiderion. Let's change some lives."

He took her hand, and even that simple contact made her shiver.

"Let's liberate some goddesses," he corrected, smiling.

And Catherine realized she'd just hired either a savior or a cult leader.

Possibly both.

Through Plea, one final thought whispered from her mind—quieter than the others, more vulnerable, tinged with desperate hope: {I hope he liberates me too.}

Oh, Catherine, I cannot leave here without doing that... Time to remind Madison's aunt what pleasure is.

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