I pulled out my phone as I stepped out into the cool evening air, the neon lights of the city reflecting off the polished pavement. I dialed Chloe, my heart steady despite the blatant lie I was about to tell.

​"Hey," she picked up, her voice sounding a mix of tired and suspicious. "You're late, Druski. I made dinner."

​"Listen, Chloe," I said, my voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative tone my new charisma stats provided. "Change of plans. The studio is pulling an all-nighter for a high-budget project. They need the 'night-time' aesthetic for a major sequence. I'm not going to be home until tomorrow morning."

​There was a long silence on the other end. I could practically hear her gritting her teeth. "An all-nighter? Druski, you've been at that studio all day. Who are you even shooting with?"

​"Just work, Chloe. This is what being a CEO looks like. High demand, high pay. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

​"Fine," she snapped, though I could hear the slight waver in her voice—she was starting to realize I wasn't the same guy she could just boss around anymore. "But don't expect me to be waiting up with a smile."

​She hung up, and I stared at the blank screen for a second.

-----------

Two-bit dropped me at the address Lana had given me. The car pulled away, leaving me standing in front of a sleek, high-rise architectural marvel that screamed "new money" and absolute power. This wasn't just a house; it was a fortress built on the profits of a legendary career.

​The heavy, brushed-metal door swung open before I could even reach for the bell. Lana was standing there, and the sight of her nearly stalled the hum in my chest.

​She had ditched the "Director" suit for something that should have been illegal. She was wearing a floor-length, emerald green silk wrap that was held together by a single, dangerously loose knot at her waist. The fabric was so thin it clung to every curve of her surgically perfected body. Her "queen-sized" breasts were partially visible through the deep plunge of the silk, and as she leaned against the doorframe, she purposely let the wrap part to reveal a long, toned leg and a pair of six-inch gold stilettos.

​Her hair was down now, cascading over her shoulders in dark, expensive waves, and her makeup was smoky, centered on eyes that had seen everything and were currently unimpressed by most of it.

​"You're late by thirty seconds, Druski," she purred, her voice like warm honey over gravel. "In my world, that's a lifetime. But..." she raked her eyes down my body, sensing the arousal radiating off me like heat waves, "...I suppose you look like you were worth the wait."

​She turned, not waiting for an answer, and escorted me inside. The foyer was all white marble and floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the sprawling lights of the city. The scent of vanilla and expensive bourbon hung in the air.

​"Make yourself comfortable," she said, her hips swaying with that legendary rhythm as she led me toward a sunken living room. "But don't get too settled. I didn't bring you here to talk about the weather."

​She stopped by a crystal decanter, her silk wrap fluttering open just enough to tease the 432-body-count experience she had mentioned earlier.

She walked off to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of champagne, her emerald silk wrap shimmering like a green flame in the dim light. I sat back on the plush velvet sofa, letting my eyes roam the room. It was exactly what you'd expect from an industry titan: minimalist, expensive, and cold.

​As I scanned the space, my gaze was pulled toward a massive, gold-framed portrait hanging on the far wall. It dominated the room. In the painting, Lana stood regally next to a man who looked to be in his late fifties—distinguished, silver-haired, and dressed in a bespoke tuxedo. He had the look of a man who owned entire city blocks.

​I didn't need the system to tell me who he was. That was clearly the man behind the woman.

​Lana returned, the soft clink of crystal glasses preceding her. She was carrying a bottle of vintage champagne, its label alone probably worth more than my first month's rent. I didn't turn to greet her. I kept my eyes fixed on the man in the painting, my silhouette still and imposing against the city lights.

​"I see you've met Michael," she said, her voice smooth and devoid of any husband-related guilt.

​"Michael?" I repeated, my voice low.

​"My husband," she said, setting the bottle down on the marble coffee table with a practiced grace. She didn't seem bothered by the fact that I was staring at him while she stood there in a sheer silk wrap. If anything, the presence of the portrait seemed to add a layer of taboo that my heart hummed in response to.

​She stepped up beside me, her shoulder nearly touching mine as she followed my gaze. "He's in Dubai for the week. Business, as usual. He handles the numbers; I handle the... talent."

​She turned her head to look at me, a playful, challenging glint in her eyes. "Does the fact that he's watching from the wall bother you, Druski? Or does it make you want to prove your 'ten' rating even more?"

I finally tore my eyes away from the portrait and turned toward her, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across my face. I didn't look intimidated; if anything, the presence of the "King" in the room only made the air feel more electric.

​"He looks like a man who's used to watching," I said, my voice dripping with cold confidence. I took a step toward her, closing the distance until the scent of her perfume was overwhelming. "I'll make sure he gets a good show from the wall. Maybe he'll learn something about how to actually handle you."

​Lana's eyes flared—not with anger, but with a sudden, sharp spike of arousal. She wasn't used to men who looked at her husband's power and laughed. She set the champagne glasses down, her hands trembling just a fraction. The iron will she had bragged about was starting to show its first cracks.

​"You have a very dangerous tongue, Druski," she breathed, her gaze dropping to my mouth.

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