"An alternative?" I repeated, my mind racing through possibilities. I wondered if he was suggesting a replacement actor, but that would violate the core premise of the series.

​"I'm listening..." I said, holding the phone tighter, my attention fully captured despite the throbbing in my back.

​I heard him take a calculated breath, ready to drop the hammer.

​"Mr. Hart, if you cannot perform today, we need to bring in a replacement for your scheduled scenes with Ms. Adams. We simply cannot afford to miss a day of shooting momentum."

​"What!!!!" I shouted into the receiver, the noise instantly amplifying the spike of pain in my back. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Could you repeat that? I must have not heard you clearly!!!"

​I could hear Holmes sighing over the phone, a sound of professional impatience.

​"Say it again, motherfucker!!!" I dared him, my voice shaking with pure, cold fury.

​"I said we need to get a replacement for your scheduled scene. We can't miss a day," Holmes repeated, his voice level and bold, confirming my worst fear.

​The cold repetition of the word "replacement" hit me like a physical punch, momentarily eclipsing the back pain.

​Damn it, I thought, the rational part of my brain forced to confront reality. He's right. I can't move. I physically can't perform 'The MILF's Demand' right now. The scene calls for aggressive doggy style and heavy lifting. I'd ruin the take and permanently injure myself.

​But that rational thought was instantly buried by pure, unadulterated ego.

​"Are you serious, Holmes?" I hissed, keeping my voice low but lethal. My spine may be shot, but my reputation was not. "You think you can just bring in some low-grade porn star to take my spot? I am the CEO! I am the brand! You can't just plug in some replacement part when the main engine needs maintenance!"

​The idea of some other guy—some nameless male porn performer, probably one Holmes had lined up just in case—getting to fuck Yolanda Adams, getting to feel that incredible, thick body, made my blood boil. It was an insult to my status and a direct threat to the series' premise. Worst of all, Holmes was the one orchestrating it, asserting his control over my image and my scenes.

​"I don't care if you have fifty MILFs lined up today," I spat into the phone. "No one else touches my fucking scene. No one else touches Yolanda. You reschedule her."

Holmes' voice remained unnervingly calm, the polar opposite of my explosive fury.

​"Mr. Hart, I appreciate your proprietary feelings toward your scenes," he replied smoothly. "However, I am operating under a strict order from Monet herself to deliver three scenes today. We have contractual deadlines tied to network marketing, and Monet demands efficiency above all else. The shoot must continue."

​He delivered the final threat with quiet finality. "If you cannot authorize this scheduling adjustment, Mr. Hart, I will have no choice but to call Monet and explain that the delay is due to your inability to maintain a professional shooting schedule. I trust you know how she values efficiency."

​The mention of Monet snapped me back to reality. She was the final authority, and a call to her could result in a contractual renegotiation—one that would undoubtedly favor her and punish me financially. My ego was huge, but my desire for the millions was bigger.

​I squeezed my eyes shut, running a hand over my strained back. "Fine," I conceded, the word tasting like ash. "Fine! Bring in a replacement."

​A victorious hum of approval came from Holmes. "A wise decision, Mr. Hart. We are aligned on the financial priority."

​"But hold on," I quickly interjected, trying to salvage some control. "You're not just bringing in some random lowlife. I choose the talent. I want to maintain the artistic integrity and market appeal of my series. I will be the one greenlighting who steps in."

​"Do you have anyone specific in mind, Mr. Hart?" Holmes asked, his tone skeptical.

​I paused, thinking desperately. Who did I know in the industry? Who could possibly stand in for the CEO? My mind came up blank. I didn't socialize with the talent; I was the talent. I glanced at Two Bit, who was listening intently, shaking his head slightly.

​"No," I finally ground out, defeated. "No, I don't. Just... bring in your goddamn porn star, Holmes. But you better make sure he doesn't fuck up my scene."

​"Excellent. We will proceed immediately. Expect an update on your schedule and the replacement's name by noon. Focus on your recovery, Mr. Hart." Holmes hung up without another word.

​I dropped the phone onto the bed, letting out a frustrated sigh that was half pain, half fury.

​

"Son of a bitch!!" I roared, slamming my fist lightly onto the mattress, instantly regretting the jarring motion that sent a fresh wave of agony through my back.

​"What?" Two Bit said, stepping further into the room, his expression a mix of amusement and genuine concern.

​"This motherfucker thinks he runs this show, my fucking show," I fumed, pacing a few painful steps before leaning back on the wall. "He's making executive decisions about my talent, scheduling my assets, and replacing me on my set!"

​"Well, aren't you the fucking CEO, bro?" Two Bit challenged, crossing his arms.

​"The company is mine," I asserted, though the words felt hollow.

​"Then why are you acting like a pussy?" Two Bit demanded.

​I stopped pacing and stared at him. His expression was dead serious, not mocking. And I knew he was right. I'd been acting like a pussy since this whole production started, letting Monet push me, and now letting Holmes leverage my injury to gain control. My situation with Monet was currently unavoidable due to the contracts, but Holmes, he was a different beast entirely.

​"You're right, man," I said, my fury slowly calcifying into cold resolve. "Everyone's been fucking with me. Playing with me like I'm some fucking imbecile." I started pacing again, ignoring the dull throb in my spine. "No more. It all ends today. I'm flipping the board. No one will fuck with me and get away with it anymore."

​Two Bit smiled, a genuine, wide grin. "It's about damn time you became more than a porn star, Hart. Welcome to the real world." He clapped me gently on the shoulder—a surprisingly warm gesture.

​A few minutes later, he left, promising to check in on me later.

​I spent the rest of the day in a painful regimen: alternating between a hot pack and an ice pack, downing heavy doses of ibuprofen, and stretching gently when I could manage. By late afternoon, the acute pain had subsided into a dull, manageable ache.

​I had a plan to implement my new resolve, and it started with the people closest to the chessboard.

​I picked up my phone and texted Chloe.

​[TEXT MESSAGE TO CHLOE]

​[Meet me at Central Park at 6:30]

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