The door creaked open, and Volkov's massive frame loomed in the threshold. He looked like a man chewing on broken glass. His eyes darted from my bare, sweat-slicked chest to the sight of Monet sprawled out on the silk sheets behind me, looking thoroughly wrecked and radiant. The power dynamic hadn't just shifted; it had been demolished.

​"Thanks, baldy," I said, my voice dripping with casual arrogance as I snatched the towels from his hand.

​A vein in his temple throbbed, a violent tremor passing through his jaw. For a split second, I saw the raw urge to kill flash in his grey eyes—he wanted to wrap those shovel-sized hands around my throat and finish what he'd started months ago. But then he glanced toward the bed, seeing Monet watching us with a lazy, possessive smirk, and the fire in him hit a wall of cold reality.

​I didn't give him a chance to recover his dignity.

​"Now run along, big man," I said, leaning against the doorframe, letting him take in every inch of the man who had just tamed his boss. "Me and Monet are in the middle of some very unfinished business. Don't let the door hit your bad leg on the way out."

​His breath came in a low, ragged hiss, but he retreated. I slammed the door shut, the heavy thud sounding like a gavel bringing a court to order.

​I turned back to the room, the scent of sex and victory thick in the air. Monet was propped up on her elbows, her dark skin glowing in the amber light, looking at me like I was the only person left on earth.

​"Daddy's home," I said, tossing a towel onto her lap.

​She let out a low, breathless laugh, catching the fabric and pressing it against her chest. "I'm not sure if I should call you that yet, Druski," she purred, her eyes scanning my body with a hunger that suggested she was already recovering. "But damn... you sure can fuck, Mr. Hart. I've seen the tapes, but the live performance? It's a goddamn revelation."

​I leaned over her, my shadow falling across her dark, radiant skin. "Want to go another round?" I whispered against the shell of her ear, my lips grazing the skin before I pulled back to give her a slow, deep kiss that tasted of victory.

​She giggled—a sound so rare and girlish it felt like I'd stripped away another layer of the "Big Mom" armor. "I would love that, believe me, but I don't think I can move, let alone go another round."

​"Come on, baby," I said, my hand traveling a slow, deliberate path up the inside of her thigh, feeling the lingering tremors in her muscles. "You sure you're satisfied with just one session?"

​"We can try again some other time," she said, catching my hand and squeezing it. Her voice was thick with exhaustion. "You fucked me so hard, Druski, that I think you've actually recalibrated my nervous system. I'm done for the morning."

​I watched her for a moment, the silence of the room amplifying the tension that always simmered beneath her surface. "Did I fuck you harder than Thomaso?" I asked, the name dropping like a stone into a still pond.

​She stiffened instantly. For a heartbeat, the warmth vanished, replaced by a flash of something sharp and ancient—as if I'd pressed a button that led to a darkened room. Then, the ice melted, and her face softened into a distant, melancholy smile.

​"Ah... Thomaso," she sighed, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling. "You just took me back to the good times. The life before the throne."

​"Thomaso... who was he, really?" I asked, propping myself up on my elbow.

​"He was my husband," she said, her voice dropping into a register I'd never heard—soft, vulnerable, and dangerously quiet.

​"'Was' as in past tense?"

​She closed her eyes, her long lashes casting shadows against her cheekbones. I held my breath, wondering if I'd pushed too far. "He's dead," she said simply.

​"Oh... fuck... sorry, Monet. I didn't know."

​"Don't be," she said, suddenly swinging her legs out of the bed with a renewed, sharp energy. The vulnerability was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She stood up, the towel wrapped tightly around her waist, her posture returning to that of the Queen. "Let's not talk about Thomaso. He's in the past, and the past is a graveyard."

​I watched her move across the room, the way her hips swayed even when she was exhausted, the way she carried herself like she owned the very air she breathed. Part of me wondered if the "poor guy" had met his end at her hand, or if his death was the reason she had become the ruthless woman sitting on my couch earlier.

​But as the towel slipped slightly, revealing the curve of her spine and the firm swell of her backside, those grim thoughts evaporated. My gaze stayed locked on her, the predator in me already calculating how soon "some other time" could be.

She turned back to me, her hand gripping the bathroom door handle, the silk towel clinging to her damp skin.

​"I need to get dressed. I have a meeting with the board," she said, her eyes flashing with that familiar executive steel. "I'm flying to LA this afternoon. I've gotta be prepared."

​LA? My pulse spiked. That was exactly where Sasha had invited me. The pieces were starting to move on the board, and I was right in the center of it.

​"Aren't you going to the studio today?" she asked, glancing at me over her shoulder.

​"Nah, I gave myself the off for the whole week," I said, leaning back against the headboard, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles from the "initiation."

​She smiled, a knowing, slightly feline curve of her lips. "Doing that so you can spend some time with that little girlfriend of yours?"

​She meant Chloe. She was testing the waters of my loyalty, even now.

​"No, actually another girl," I said, my voice cool. I wasn't going to lie to her; in this world, secrets were more dangerous than the truth.

​"I give you the green light to be with any girl you want, Druski. Just don't catch an STI," she said, her tone suddenly professional, though her eyes lingered on my body one last time. "And whenever it's my turn, you put me first. Understand?"

​"Yeah, roger that, baby," I said with a smirk.

​She didn't stay long. Within twenty minutes, she had transformed back into the untouchable "Big Mom." She dressed in a sharp, slate-grey power suit that hid the marks I'd left on her skin, grabbed her bag, and walked out. I heard the front door heavy-thud shut, followed by the muffled sound of Volkov's boots retreating down the hallway.

​The apartment was suddenly, deafeningly quiet. The scent of her perfume—and our morning—still hung heavy in the air.

​I reached over to the nightstand, grabbed my phone, and scrolled through my contacts until I hit Sasha. I hit dial. It was time to find out if this trip to the West Coast was a business move, a pleasure cruise, or a trap.

​The phone rang twice before a husky, playful voice picked up.

​"Well, well. If it isn't the King of the Hill," Sasha purred. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about our little vacation."

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