The rest of the afternoon was a blur of high-definition skin and studio lights, but my mind was miles away. I couldn't shake the weight of Abigail's words. A "surprise" from Big Mom was never a birthday cake; it was usually a reminder of how easily she could crush my throat.

​What had I missed? The debt was still hanging over me like a guillotine, but the studio was thriving. We were making her money. Why fuck with the golden goose now?

​"Roxy's got a hell of a throat on her, don't you think?"

​Holmes's voice cut through my paranoia. I blinked, refocusing on the monitors. On screen, a chaotic, high-production threesome was unfolding. Kevin Lust was buried deep in Jade, while Roxy, the new girl I'd spotted earlier, was working his cock with a frantic, hungry intensity.

​"She's a natural," I muttered, watching her lips slide over him. "She wraps around it like she was born for it."

​Despite our rocky start—back when I thought the bastard was sent to hijack my throne—I'd developed a grudging respect for Holmes. He was a pro. More importantly, he actually gave a shit. In an industry that chewed people up and spat them out, he treated the models like assets, not just meat. He checked for consent, monitored their mental health, and made sure they weren't spiraling.

​"Porn is the devil, Mr. Hart," Holmes said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the screen but his mind clearly elsewhere. "I've watched too many beautiful girls self-destruct in front of a lens. It's a dark business if you stay in it too long."

​I looked at Roxy's ecstatic face on the monitor and then back at him. I didn't see the darkness. I saw power. I saw a girl getting paid to do what she was good at, and a million guys willing to pay for the privilege of watching.

​"I don't see the devil, Holmes," I said, leaning back. "I see a win-win. I love fucking them, and the world loves watching it. What's so dark about that?"

​He didn't answer. He just sighed and looked back at the monitors.

I leaned back, my eyes tracking the rhythm on the monitor. Kevin Lust was mid-thrust, his muscles corded and glistening under the hot studio lights. Roxy was arched beneath him, her eyes rolled back, playing the part of the obsessed starlet to perfection.

​"Look at her," Holmes said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a weariness that didn't match the high-energy moans coming through the speakers. "She thinks she's invincible. They all do at the start."

​I shrugged. "She's making five figures a week, Holmes. That's a hell of a lot of invincibility."

​"I knew a girl once. Ann," he said, ignoring my remark. He wasn't looking at the screen anymore; he was looking through it. "She started the day she turned eighteen. Fresh-faced, eyes like saucers, and a smile that could melt the cold heart of a banker. Her mother found out, screamed 'whore' in her face, and disowned her on the spot. Ann didn't even blink. She told me the camera was her new family. It never judged her. It only adored her."

​On the monitor, Jade joined the fray, her hands roaming over Roxy's skin. The choreography was seamless, a high-gloss tribute to hedonism.

​"She was a star," Holmes continued. "But the cameras turn off eventually. She wanted what every eighteen-year-old girl wants. She wanted to be loved. She'd go on dates, meet 'nice' guys, but the moment they Googled her name, the mood changed. They didn't see a girlfriend. They saw a toy. A slut. A piece of meat they could use without feeling guilty, because 'everyone else already had.'"

​I stayed silent. I'd heard the sob stories before, but there was something in Holmes's tone that made the air in the booth feel colder.

​"The invincibility didn't just crack, Mr. Hart. It shattered. The girl who didn't care what the world thought suddenly realized the world was never going to let her be anything else. She started showing up to sets high. Then she stopped showing up at all. Last I heard, she was trading her body for a fix in a trailer park in Barstow."

​He finally turned to me, his eyes hard. "The world is a cruel place for a girl who sells her soul for a lens. Just remember that when you're counting your profits."

​I looked back at Roxy. She was climaxing now, a perfect, cinematic explosion of pleasure that would be edited, polished, and sold to thousands. To me, it was a product. To Holmes, it was a countdown.

​"The scene is done," I said, standing up and checking my watch. "Wrap it up, Holmes. My ride is waiting."

​I walked out of the booth, the image of Ann—or the idea of her—lingering for a split second before the thought of Abigail and Big Mom's 'surprise' pushed everything else aside.

I found Sasha and Jess huddled with Willow and a few lighting techs. The energy in the group was electric, a sharp contrast to the heavy, philosophical weight Holmes had just dumped on me.

​"Oh, there he is. The main man himself," Jess chirped, flashing a smile that was all teeth and ambition.

​"Hey girls. What's the buzz?" I asked, stopping beside them.

​"We were just going through the storyboard for our threesome tomorrow," Sasha said, her eyes bright. "The details just dropped, and Hart... you're not going to believe who's behind this."

​"Okay..." I said, trying to bridge the gap between their excitement and my own mounting dread about Abigail. "What's the catch?"

​"The scene was scripted by fucking Lana Grande herself," Jess said, her voice hitching with genuine awe.

​"No fucking way," I breathed.

​Lana Grande was a legend. In this industry, she was royalty—one of the few who had started in front of the lens, survived the meat grinder, and come out the other side as a mogul. She was in her mid-fifties now, but her reputation for directing high-concept, visceral scenes was unmatched. She didn't just write scripts; she designed experiences.

​"Holmes says she's actually coming to the set to supervise," Sasha added. "I'm shaking just thinking about it. To be directed by her? It's a career-maker."

​"Me too," I said, forcing a grin. For a second, I felt the thrill of it—the business was scaling faster than I had ever dreamed. "Listen, Sasha, Two-Bit is taking you back tonight. I've got... business to attend to."

​The light dimmed in her eyes for a second, but she nodded. She knew how the world worked.

​I turned and walked out of the studio, the cool night air hitting my face like a slap. Parked right at the curb, like a sleek, black predator waiting for its prey, was Abigail's Cadillac Escalade. The windows were tinted dark enough to hide a murder.

​I didn't wait for an invitation. I pulled the heavy door open and climbed into the plush, leather interior. The scent of her expensive perfume—something sharp, floral, and dangerous—hit me instantly.

​Abigail didn't even look at me. She just tapped the partition to signal the driver.

​"Buckle up, Hart," she said, her voice cold as the AC. "You're about to see a side of the family you didn't know existed."

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