The heavy, satisfied sleep was broken not by the city's roar, but by the crisp, salty aroma of sizzling bacon and fried eggs drifting into the master suite. I shifted, my hand instinctively sweeping across the silk sheets for the warmth of the woman I'd conquered last night.

​The space was empty. The sheets were still tangled and cool where she had been lying.

​I sat up, a slow smirk tugging at my lips. Already in the kitchen playing the dutiful wife? I thought. It was a hell of a shift from the suspicious, shouting girl I'd picked up in Queens. The penthouse life was clearly agreeing with her; she was working overtime to prove she was worth the luxury.

​"Wow. That's a first," I muttered, stretching my arms until my muscles popped. "She really is trying her best to stay in the castle."

​I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen glowed with a notification from Holmes. He'd seen my text about Yolanda, and surprisingly, there was no pushback. No "she's too busy," no "the schedule is full." Just a digital thumbs-up and a follow-up message that made my brow furrow.

​He had sent a pinned location—a high-end, discreet address in the Upper West Side.

​[Holmes]: Be there at 9:30 AM sharp. It's an elite AirBnB we use for "private" productions. Don't be late.

​"An AirBnB?" I whispered, staring at the map. "Why the hell aren't we shooting at the studio?"

​A dark thought crossed my mind. In this industry, you had to be careful. I knew Holmes was a businessman, but if he thought he was going to pull some weird, off-camera power move or try anything "extra-curricular" with me, he was going to find out real fast that the Main Man didn't play those games. I'd kill him before I let him disrespect my brand.

​I glanced at the clock: 8:15 AM. Two-bit would be idling the Escalade downstairs in thirty minutes.

​I threw off the covers and headed for the bathroom, the steam from the shower already calling my name. I needed to be sharp. If today was the day I finally got my hands on Yolanda Adams, I needed to be at the top of my game. Scene #10 was the finish line for Level 1, and I was going to cross it with a bang.

I stepped out of the shower and began to dress. As I reached for my watch, Chloe walked into the bedroom holding a plate of food. She was wearing nothing but one of my oversized white button-downs, half-unbuttoned.

​"Breakfast is ready, King," she said, her voice soft and submissive. "Where are you heading so early?"

I looked at her as I buttoned my shirt, catching the way her shoulders slumped. The "homemaker" act had a shelf life, and apparently, it was exactly thirty minutes.

​"I'm heading out to shoot a scene, Chloe," I said, my voice neutral.

​Her expression soured instantly. The soft, submissive "wife" I'd woken up to vanished, replaced by a grumpy, clouded look. She set the tray down on the nightstand with a bit more force than necessary.

​"What's with the face?" I asked, checking my reflection in the mirror. "You grumpy because I'm going to work? Because I'm going to be with other women?"

​She crossed her arms, the oversized white shirt sliding off one shoulder. "I just thought... after last night, you'd actually want to spend the day with me. You know, bond. Create some actual time for us that isn't just you recording yourself with some stranger. Can't you just take a day off? You're the star now, right? Tell them you're busy."

​I turned to her, my eyes cold. She was already forgetting the hierarchy. "The 'star' doesn't get to the top by sitting at home eating eggs, Chloe. This is a business. I told you—don't get it twisted. My work pays for this view."

​Right on cue, my phone vibrated on the marble counter. It was Two-bit.

​"I'm curbside bro. Engine's running," his gravelly voice crackled through the speaker.

​"I gotta go," I said.

​I walked over to her, reaching out to snag a piece of golden-brown toast from the tray. I took a bite, the crunch loud in the tense silence of the room. Before she could protest further, I cupped her chin, leaned in, and gave her a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of butter and possession. It was a reminder of what she was waiting for at home.

​"Keep the bed warm," I muttered against her lips.

​I grabbed my leather jacket and headed for the elevator. By the time the gold-plated doors slid shut, my mind was already shifting gears. Chloe was the past; the AirBnB and Yolanda Adams were the future.

---------

​We pulled up to a stunning brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street in the Upper West Side. It was the kind of place that screamed "old money" and "discretion." As I stepped out, I saw Holmes standing by the top of the stairs, looking at his watch.

​"You're late, Hart," he said, though there was a smirk on his face. "Get inside. Yolanda is already in wardrobe, and she's... let's just say she's in character."

I stepped inside the brownstone, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me. The first person I saw was Lana Grande. She was practically glowing, wearing a tiny, ribbed crop top that did absolutely nothing to hide the bounce of her surgically perfected chest. Every time she moved or took a breath, she made sure those tits shifted seductively, her eyes tracking mine to see if her "visit me at home" offer was gaining any ground in my head.

​"Druski, just the man I wanted to see," she purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "I didn't just come to watch. I put together the perfect narrative for your big number ten. This is going to break the internet."

​She handed me a high-quality storyboard. I glanced down at the sketches—it was a classic "Step-Mother's Forbidden Lesson" setup. The visuals were crisp: the study, the heavy desk, the tension of a son coming home from college and a mother who had been "neglected" by her husband for far too long.

Before I could comment, the sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor drew my attention. Yolanda Adams was walking toward me, and my breath hitched.

​She looked absolutely ravishing. She was dressed in a charcoal-grey pencil skirt that hugged her thick, mature hips perfectly, paired with a white silk blouse that was unbuttoned just enough to hint at the lace bra underneath. She had her hair up in a professional bun, but a few loose strands framed her face, giving her that "undone executive" look.

​She didn't hesitate; she walked right into my space and wrapped her arms around me in a warm, lingering hug. The scent of her expensive, musky perfume filled my lungs, and the feel of her soft, full body pressing against me was electric.

​"Druski," she whispered near my ear, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye. Her gaze was steady, professional, but with a deep undercurrent of genuine excitement. "I've been watching your tapes. After what you did with Lisa and Salma... well, let's just say I've been looking forward to this all week. I'm more than happy to be your partner for this one."

​I felt the familiar twitch in my trousers. Yolanda wasn't just a co-star; she was the boss. And seeing her this eager to get to work made my blood run hot.

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