Sasha looked at our joined hands, then back at me, the uncertainty in her eyes finally giving way to a quiet, resolute fire. "Okay," she whispered, her voice gaining a strength I hadn't heard since we left the city. "Yes. If we're doing this, we're doing it together."

​Monet watched the exchange, her expression a mask of cool, professional detachment, though the way she gripped her champagne flute told a different story. She knew when to pivot.

She hadn't become a billionaire by fighting a tide she couldn't stop; she simply learned how to own the water.

​"A partnership," Monet said, her voice smooth as silk. "How... poetic. But if we are going to elevate the Banghouse to a prestige brand, we need more than just a title change. We need a statement. We'll host a launch party next week—Manhattan's elite, the press, the influencers. We'll show the world exactly who is behind the curtain."

​"Set it up," I said, my gaze never leaving Sasha's. "Next week. Make it the kind of night New York never forgets."

​The Gulfstream's wheels kissed the tarmac of JFK with a sharp, decisive chirp. As the jet taxied toward a private terminal, the cabin lights dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of the city's skyline reflected in the windows. We were home.

​When the air-stair lowered, the humid, electric air of New York rushed in to greet us. Waiting on the asphalt was a sight that screamed power: a convoy of three jet-black Cadillac Escalades, engines idling with a low, predatory hum. Standing at the lead vehicle was Abigail. She looked immaculate, her sharp black business suit tailored to lethal perfection, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe, professional bun. She held a tablet in one hand, her eyes scanning the surroundings with the calculated vigilance of a hawk.

​"Welcome back, Monet," she said, her voice crisp as she stepped forward to open the door. Her eyes flicked briefly to Sasha, then to me, acknowledging the new hierarchy without a single word of hesitation. "The car is ready, and Holmes is standing by for your call. The city has been waiting for you."

​"Nice to see you again, Abigail," I said, my voice dropping an octave.

​A faint, fleeting flush crept up her neck. Despite her cold professional exterior, there was unfinished business between us. She had feelings for me—a spark of attraction that she tried to bury under her duties—and I could see it in the way she refused to hold my gaze for too long. She was my next target, and I intended to hit that mark with surgical precision.

​"Two-Bit is here to escort you home," she added, recovering her composure.

​Right on cue, Two-Bit stepped out of the lead Cadillac, his massive frame casting a long shadow on the tarmac. He moved to collect our bags, a slight grin playing on his lips as he approached.

​"How was your time in LA, Mr. Hart?" he asked, his voice low, trying to maintain a professional edge in front of his boss, Monet.

​"Splendid, my guy," I said, clapping him on the shoulder.

​He started to turn to Sasha to ask the same, but I cut him off with a subtle shake of my head. "She doesn't want to talk about it."

​Two-Bit nodded understandingly, hoisted the bags, and headed for the trunk.

​Monet stepped toward her own vehicle, pausing just long enough to look back at me over her designer shades. "Hart..." she said, her voice carrying a weight that had nothing to do with the studio. "I will call you. We've got business to do."

​We both knew what "business" meant. It wasn't about spreadsheets or scene counts; it was about the raw, magnetic pull we shared.

​"I'll be expecting you," I replied.

​Sasha's hand slid into mine, her fingers interlacing with mine as she pulled me toward our car. She didn't say a word, but the possessive grip of her hand told me everything I needed to know. The LA nightmare was behind us, but the New York war was just beginning.

As the Escalade merged into the midnight flow of the Van Wyck, the partition remained down. Without Monet's cold presence looming over him, Two-Bit finally shed his professional mask. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, checking us in the rearview with a wide, infectious grin.

​"Man, talk to me, Druski!" he laughed, his voice filling the plush interior. "I've been stuck in this concrete jungle while you're out there in the land of sunshine and silicon. How's Hollywood? Is it really as wild as they say? Tell me about the women, man—I know those West Coast girls hit different."

​I caught Sasha's eye. She looked exhausted, but a small, weary smile played on her lips at Two-Bit's energy.

​"The women are exactly what you'd expect, Two-Bit," I said, leaning back into the leather. "Aggressive, expensive, and always looking for a man with action. But don't let the tan lines fool you—New York girls still have more bite."

​"I hear that!" he chuckled, weaving through traffic with effortless precision. "But I saw some of those clips Holmes was reviewing. That Evelyn girl? Pure fire. You're out here living the dream man. I'm just trying to keep the seat warm."

​The banter kept the shadows of the Butchery at bay for the duration of the drive. As we crossed the bridge, the Manhattan skyline rose up to meet us, a jagged crown of glass and light. We eventually pulled up to the private entrance of the building.

​Inside the penthouse, the air was still and smelled of fresh lilies and expensive cedar. The city lights twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the whole place feel like it was floating in the clouds.

​The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind us, the silence was absolute. The chaos of the club, the roar of the jet, and the pressure of Monet's gaze all vanished.

​Sasha dropped her bag and walked straight to the window, looking out at the city. She looked small against the backdrop of the empire we were building, but when she turned back to me, the light from the street reflected in her eyes like stars.

​"We're actually back," she whispered, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. "No more masks. No more rituals."

​"No more rituals," I promised, walking over to her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. "Just us. And a plenty dollars to spend."

Sasha didn't say another word. She just reached for the hem of my oversized jacket, sliding it off her shoulders and letting it pool on the hardwood floor. Then, with a slow grace, she stepped out of her remaining silk, standing completely nude in the amber glow of the penthouse. Her body was a masterpiece of soft curves and firm lines, her skin glowing like polished marble in the dim light. She looked over her shoulder, a playful, feline smile tugging at her lips, her eyes promising a much different kind of heat than the one we'd left in LA.

​"I'm going to take a shower," she murmured, her voice a low vibration. "Try to keep up."

​She winked and disappeared into the steam of the master bath. I watched the sway of her hips until she vanished behind the frosted glass, the sound of the water starting up like a soft roar.

​I had every intention of joining her, but the mogul in me couldn't rest yet. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Lana Grande.

​"He's back," Lana answered before the second ring, her voice buzzing with an electric, high-octane energy. "The King has returned to his castle. Druski, the numbers coming out of the studio are insane. We're outgrowing the servers!"

​"I heard, 18 scenes in 3 days. Holmes is a machine," I said, leaning against the cold glass of the window. "But I'm looking for something specific for the New York relaunch. Did you find the MILFs I asked for? I want mature, sophisticated, and absolutely ravenous."

​"I don't just find them, I curate them," Lana purred. "I've already vetted four legends. These aren't just performers; they're icons who know exactly how to handle a man like you. Check your encrypted mail. I sent over their portfolios and links to their private channels. You're going to recognize a few names."

​"Good work, Lana. I'll check them now."

​"Hurry back to the studio, boss. We're hungry for more."

​I hung up and opened the mail. Four files sat there, glowing on the screen. As I scrolled through the thumbnails, my pulse quickened. These weren't just "mature" stars—they were the elite of the industry, women who had built empires on their own terms.

I tossed the phone onto the marble vanity, the screen still glowing with the names of the industry's most elite legends. They could wait. The digital empire, the million-dollar revenue, and the ravenous fans weren't going anywhere, but the woman in the next room was.

​I stripped with a focused, heavy efficiency, dropping the last of the "Architect's" armor onto the floor.

​The bathroom was a cathedral of steam and white Carrara marble.Through the frosted glass of the walk-in, Sasha was a tantalizing, blurred silhouette of soft curves and moving shadows.

​I slid the glass door open.

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