The sunlight was blinding as it poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. I was dead to the world until the sharp, persistent vibration of my phone on the nightstand forced me awake.

I groaned, reaching for it.

Chloe.

The second I pressed accept, the silence of the room was shattered. "Where the fuck are you, Hart?! I've been sitting in this dump for fourteen hours! I called you twenty times! Did you get arrested? Are you dead? Tell me you're not with some bitch—"

I didn't even argue. I just pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen for a second before hitting the red button. My old life was calling, but I was already a thousand miles away from that cramped apartment and Chloe's constant noise.

I spent a long time in the shower, letting the high-pressure water wash away the lingering scent of the studio. My mind was back on the kitchen island from last night. I could still feel the way Abigail's body had surged toward mine despite her protests.

She was a fortress, but the gates were already beginning to buckle. I just needed to find the right wedge to drive through the cracks.

After drying off, I fixed a quick breakfast in the high-end kitchen, feeling like a ghost in someone else's life. Then, I headed for the walk-in closet. It was packed with racks of designer suits—silk, wool, linens in colors that were way too loud for my taste. Purple blazers and cream-colored slacks. Big Mom wanted me to look like a mogul, but I wasn't there yet.

I dug through the back until I found something that felt like me: a heavy-knit grey t-shirt and a pair of black track pants.

Just as I was pulling them on, my phone buzzed again. This time it was Two-Bit.

"I'm at the door, Boss. Elevator's keyed for me," he said.

A moment later, the private lift chimed and the doors slid open.

Two-Bit stepped out, his usual tough-guy scowl instantly evaporating the second he took in the view. He stood there, jaw practically hitting the marble floor as he looked at the skyline, the leather furniture, and the sheer scale of the place.

"Goddamn, Hart," he breathed, turning in a slow circle. "I knew Big Mom liked you, but I didn't know she 'Penthouse in Harlem' liked you. This place is fucking unreal."

"It's a cage, Two-Bit," I said, grabbing my keys off the counter. "Just a very expensive one. Is the car ready?"

"Ready and waiting," he said, still eyeing the stocked bar like he wanted to move in. "But we gotta move. Lana Grande is already at the studio, and from what I heard, she doesn't like people being late to her set."

"What about Sasha?" I asked, checking my reflection one last time.

​"Jess is picking her up and bringing her straight to the set," Two-Bit replied, finally tearing his eyes away from the panoramic view of the city. "Come on, we're already behind."

​The drive back to the studio felt different. The city looked smaller from the back of a luxury SUV, like a game I was finally starting to win. When we pulled up, the energy inside the building was humming at a higher frequency than usual. I found Sasha and Jess huddled in a corner with Holmes, their heads bent over a thick packet of notes. They looked focused, almost nervous.

​"There he is," Holmes said, looking up. He looked like he hadn't slept, but his eyes were sharp. "We were just going over the blocking for the first act. Lana's particular about the 'emotional' beats."

​Before I could respond, the heavy soundstage doors swung open. The room went quiet, a collective breath held in the air.

​Lana Grande walked in, and the term "retired" felt like a lie. She was the ultimate GILF—a woman who had mastered the art of aging without ever losing her edge. She was in her mid-fifties, but she moved with a feline grace that put the younger girls to shame. Her hair was a sophisticated silver-blonde, styled in a sharp bob, and she wore a tailored silk blouse that hinted at a body kept in peak condition.

​She wasn't just beautiful; she was intimidating. She carried an aura of authority that demanded every eye in the room stay fixed on her.

​"Is this the stable?" she asked, her voice a sultry, smoky contralto that carried to every corner of the room. She didn't wait for an answer as her gaze raked over Sasha and Jess, then finally landed on me.

​She walked over, her eyes scanning me from head to toe like she was appraising a piece of fine art—or a thoroughbred horse. She stopped inches from me, the scent of expensive tobacco and vintage perfume clinging to her.

​"So," she said, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You're the CEO I've heard so much about. Mr. Hart. I've seen your work."

​"And?" I asked, meeting her gaze.

​"You have the raw materials," she murmured, reaching out to adjust the collar of my grey T-shirt with a lingering touch. "But today, we're going to see if you can handle a real director. Let's see if you're as big as your reputation, shall we?"

​She turned back to Holmes without waiting for a reply. "Get them into hair and makeup. I want skin like glass and eyes like they're starving. We start in twenty minutes."

​I stood there for a second, feeling the heat of her brief touch. If Abigail was the ice, Lana Grande was the seasoned fire. Today was going to be interesting.

Lana turned to address the lighting crew, and the movement highlighted exactly what had made her a legend. Her chest was prominent, the work of high-end surgeons who knew how to create a silhouette that demanded attention.

They were obviously implants—round, firm, and defying gravity—but they suited her perfectly. They weren't just for show; they were a statement of her enduring sexuality, a sharp contrast to the sophisticated, silver-blonde bob and the sharp lines of her face.

​"Don't just stare, Hart," she said over her shoulder, catching me looking. A playful, wicked glint sparked in her eyes. "I paid a lot of money for these to be looked at, but today, I'm the one doing the looking. You're my instrument. Don't forget it."

​I leaned back against a gear crate, watching her work the room. "I've never been anyone's instrument, Lana. I'm the one who plays them."

​She let out a short, throaty laugh that sounded like velvet on gravel. "We'll see about that. A CEO who thinks he's a god... I've broken plenty of those before lunch."

​She walked over to Sasha and Jess, who were watching our exchange with wide, nervous eyes. Lana didn't hesitate; she reached out and ran a hand over Sasha's shoulder, then moved to inspect Jess's makeup. It wasn't sexual—it was clinical, the touch of a master sculptor checking the quality of her clay.

​"You two," Lana commanded, her voice dropping into that authoritative hum. "I want you to forget the camera is there. I want you to look at Mr. Hart like he's the only source of oxygen in a vacuum. If I don't see hunger in your eyes, I'll find someone who can show it to me. Am I clear?"

​"Yes, Ms. Grande," they whispered in unison.

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