damneddamsy

[damneddamsy]

My love, thank you ✨️🌻 I read this when I hit a rough patch writing the next few chapters, and let me tell you, I just lit up like the sun!!! 🥺 THANK YOU so much, it means so much to me that people are supporting my feisty little thief and smitten kitten Big Dick Castillo, and following along for the ride! 😘 You are incredible, never forget! 🤍

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you��ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. 

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who���d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

© damneddamsy

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

[damneddamsy]

I am so glad you have enjoyed this, and trust me, nothing makes me happier than seeing your express your love like this - truly this is awesome 🫂🌻 thank you times a million, you're incredible and I can't wait for you to read more!

GOOD GIRL GONE BAD | HARRY CASTILLO PART 2 of 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

-> READ PART 1 HERE. A.N. -> I think I'm going to make this a series because I'm loving my fuckass thief a little too much ;) W.C -> 15k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, humour, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, harry gets amazing head, expensive dinner and under the table action, fast cars and late night drives, age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

TWO DAYS LATER...

Harry Castillo never did find her after that night, and the world, predictably, kept spinning.

That was a given—of course, the man never stood a chance. He hadn't even known her real name, let alone the life she lived between swiping his magnificent emerald ring and finagling for his sky-high penthouse suite.

The thing about rich men—a huge difference between the Hamptons-on-the-weekend rich and the take-the-G5-for-lunch-in-Marrakech rich—is that they get bored very fast. The money dulls their instincts, softens their hunger. So they go looking for novelty, for danger, bootlickers with sharp heels, lips that serviced them.

And that’s when these duds start collecting people, the same way other men collect watches. It’s not malice, necessarily. It’s just the casual entropy of having everything. Eventually, they start poking holes in the world to see what bleeds.

Harry, who had once been deliciously under her (and, yes, she had performed—thank you very much), was now officially behind her. Metaphorically. Spiritually... logistically?

Still, every so often in the last forty-eight hours, when sleeplessness licked at the fringes of her sanity, she’d think about that fantastic night. Him. His cologne. His million-dollar smile, his silky curls, that flex of muscles in his forearms. How he moved like a man who didn’t just fuck—he endured. Sex was a marathon he never lost. She might’ve bitten into a pillow just recalling it.

Now, as she scrubbed her coffee cup in her little walk-up, she mildly wondered why he hadn’t kicked down her door yet. No agents in Kevlar, no tactical ballet of flashlights sweeping her withering IKEA furniture.

Guess his precious emerald ring wasn’t priceless after all. Maybe he’d decided ‘Eve’ was.

Still, spectacular sex didn’t pay the Con Ed bill, and orgasms weren’t legal fees, not even ones that left her boneless. The hustle was a jealous god. Worship it daily or risk getting chewed up and spit back out. There were strictly no vacation days in this line of work.

She wiped her hands on the wet dishtowel and glanced out the window, onto her street. The city, even late afternoon, pulsed with potential scams, possibilities clothed as bad ideas. Nearly time to earn her penance.

Her taxes, of course, were a masterclass in creative fiction. Nowhere on the forms could she write ‘part-time righteous thief,’ even if the city owed her a medal for how cleanly she worked. By day (or whatever counted as ‘respectable daylight’ in her world), she was an actress—aspiring, which is really just code for ‘not yet a celebrity but unfathomably tenacious.’

And she was good, actually better than good. Unlike the legions of gullible hopefuls waiting tables and praying for callbacks, she didn’t just play the role; she became it.

That’s what theft had taught her: how to vanish into a character. A wealthy widow in a silk scarf. A ditzy sweetheart with a purse full of distractions. A lonely wife who despised her rich husband.

See, acting was easy. Being real was the trick.

Now... you might be wondering how she’s never been caught.

Simple answer. There were no larcenies, but borrowed realities. She slipped into them like new dresses, modelled them until they itched, then left them behind without creasing the seams. She understood people better than they understood themselves, and in a city built on a fancy facade, that made her the most honest liar in the room.

Between matinee shows and understudy rehearsals, buried someplace in the margins of a yawning Off-Broadway script where she played ‘The Mistress’ and occasionally ‘Dancer #2,’ she had begun her favourite kind of research: target acquisition.

This one was named Max.

Older, incredibly hot in the way girls liked their unruly men now. Ran a supposedly “disruptive” tech startup that had never once had to crawl through the dirt to breathe. Financed—predictably—by Mommy and Daddy’s hedge fund, equipped with pre-IPO arrogance, and a fake chip on his shoulder. He styled himself as a rebel: leather jacket, scruff at a precisely calculated millimetres, and a beast of a motorcycle. Everything about him screamed curated danger. Which, of course, made him exactly her type—for now.

Tonight, Max was hers.

She wasn't after his heart. Please, she had far more realistic goals: the chunky platinum bracelet and the possibility of a chain tucked beneath his shirt—a custom Cartier, if her Instagram sleuthing and zoom-enhanced screenshots were correct. Et voila, two months' rent, served on a dish. He liked his jewellery like he liked his women: slender, eye-catching, and stolen from someone else's better judgment.

She’d shown up at his hipster bar—the one with floating Edison bulbs and overpriced tequila, where the walls were made of raw brick and vintage vinyl records. It was much too loud, too try-hard for her taste. But it didn’t matter, she didn’t need to like it—she just needed to be seen in it. You know, gullible and pretty, a beaming sunflower among roses. The total ‘good girl’ package.

Max cornered her before she had to pretend to clumsily nurse her drink, took her hand, pressed too many kisses along her knuckles like some bad Bond villain, and crooned promises of a better night elsewhere.

“Preferably somewhere with horsepower,” he whispered to her.

She smiled—wide-eyed, toothy, assumingly earned. “Sounds fun.”

His bike was parked just on the edge of a downtown lot, under murky lighting that gave it a movie-magic feel. It was truly a prowling monster—chrome and matte black, roared like one, clearly built for showing off rather than comfort. Aerodynamics be damned.

He stopped, looked at her, and grinned. That grin—ugh, it came with a subscription to its own perfume.

“Hop on, baby girl,” he said, tugging her gently by the waist, and then—just like that—he lifted her. Hands under her thighs, strong enough to remind her why he was tolerable in the first place. Baby girl, because that was exactly the temperament she was going for tonight.

“Whoa—omigosh, okay,” she laughed, letting him guide her onto the seat.

She threw a leg over to straddle, at her own leisure, flashing just the right amount of white lace beneath her floral skirt, just enough to not seem cheap but stay rent-free in his imagination.

He stepped closer, thumb brushing along her knee. “You ever ridden one of these before?” he asked, leaning in.

“Only ponies at petting zoos,” she said sweetly. “But I always wanted to go... faster.”

He liked that. She could tell by the little shift in his posture, the spark behind his aviators. Max was predictable like that; he liked a good girl saying wicked things.

She tilted her head, letting her hair fall just so, lips parted. “Do I hold on to you, or just pray?”

“Oh, you’re gonna be holding on and praying,” he said, grin widening.

And then came a—HONK.

The burst of sound shattered the moment. She blinked, startled, nearly falling back on the seat. An old Civic lurched past behind them, the driver yelling about “blocking the fuckin’ exit, genius!”

She laughed again, this time without feigning. “Always this romantic?”

Max rolled his eyes, smoothing a hand down her thigh. “For the VIPs.”

“Lucky me,” she murmured, even as her eyes slid discreetly toward the glint of his chain peeking out beneath his collar. Just a little longer, and she’d be the one riding off into the night—with his jewellery in her bag and her name scrubbed clean from his memory by morning.

From her perch on the back of the bike, she leaned forward with ceremonious ease, reaching for the handlebars. Her hips tilted as she did it, bare thighs reflecting the bar's spotlight, skirting riding up a little, ass popping just enough to make a statement: yes, you’re looking—and I know exactly what you’re thinking.

She bit her bottom lip and looked back over her shoulder, coy. “So,” she murmured, fingers curling around the throttle, “do you race for pink slips on this thing?”

Max gave a breathy, wolfish laugh. He moved in, arms folding around her from behind, his chest pressing close to her spine. One hand came to rest on hers atop the handlebar, the other grazing up the bare skin of her back, fingers trailing higher, then lower. Stroking—feeling—bingo.

His breath brushed against her ear. “Why, d'you wanna race against me? I’ll let you win.”

She tilted her head, gave a breathy laugh, and let herself melt back against him just a little. Never all the way. Her game had rules, even if he didn’t know he was playing.

Max got bolder. His other hand slipped lower, gathering the hem of her skirt. Fingertips dragging along her thigh, seeking heat.

But—HONK. HONK. HONK.

A barrage of honks snapped the moment in half. Three sharp, urgent blasts. She couldn’t help it anymore—she burst out laughing, tipping forward against the tank of the bike, shaking her head.

“Is this your version of foreplay?” she teased, pulling her skirt back down with a small tug, as if nothing had happened. “Public inconvenience. Not a fan.”

Max growled low in his throat. “They’re just jealous.”

She gave him a saccharine smile over her shoulder. “Of you, or of me?”

He winked. “Me, of course.”

The fourth honk was belligerent. HOOOOOOONK!

Ouch. Then came the headlights—full beam—washing over them in artificial daylight, crisp, priceless and thoroughly unimpressed. It wasn’t some angry delivery driver anymore. This elegant machine… it was matte black, sleek, elongate, idling behind them like a lioness waiting to pounce.

A Maybach.

She blinked once, twice, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden flood of light. The newest version of the Maybach didn't simply hint at wealth—it was a chauffeur’s dream. Quiet luxury for the chronically privileged.

Max cursed under his breath, shading his eyes like he was confronted by a UFO beam. He glanced over his shoulder, irritated, but still kept one hand possessively on her thigh as if this wasn’t rapidly becoming someone else’s scene.

“Jesus. Just go around, asshole! There's plenty of space!” Max barked at the Maybach, all puffed up with that predictable strain of man-to-man testosterone, chest out like a bantam rooster.

The Maybach, as expected, didn’t budge. It was too refined to engage.

And then, almost politely, the headlights blinked once. A statement. Get the fuck out of the way.

She felt it immediately—that flux in atmosphere, the hair-raising dissonance that told her this wasn’t just a gridlock spat. The stillness of that car held tension. Consideration. This wasn’t some rando being petty, nor was it some impatient Wall Street exec late to a mistress.

This was a message wrapped in two tons of German—maybe—engineering.

And that was when the unease hit. A slow coil in her gut, skin prickling—she didn’t like this at all.

Another night, she’d have flipped the bird and blown a kiss just to stir the pot. But no, she had to remember she was in character. Tonight, she was soft, sugary, a blooming daisy of a girl who wouldn’t know a red flag if it wore a name tag.

“Let’s go for a ride, Max,” she coaxed, curling a finger into his jean pocket. “Forget the guy.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I wanna show this fucker who he messed with.”

Oh, boy. She didn’t even need to check the Maybach again to know that was a bad idea. The worst ideas always started with a man trying to measure his dick through tinted glass.

She reached for the softest note in her vocal library, brushing concern into every syllable. “Now you’re scaring me.”

That actually did it. Men like Max lived to feel strong in the presence of fragility. He turned, gentling to her innocence, rubbing her cheek like she was some porcelain doll.

While pressing a protective kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “I got you. Let’s get out of here.”

He handed her a helmet that reeked of weed, sweat, and barely-laundered masculinity, and slid onto the bike. She scooted behind him, skirt shifting up her thighs, heels tucked close, her arms looping around his waist in an affectionate tangle.

He revved the engine and glanced over his shoulder, grin too cocky. “Ready, baby?”

She giggled on cue, tightening her arms around him. “Ready!”

He snapped his visor down, and then they were off—rocketing through Manhattan like two kids who’d stolen a joyride and didn’t know the ending yet. And she had to admit: not bad for her first time on a motorbike.

She really hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much—the wind in her hair, the lights blurring past as if they were fireflies on speed, the rush of every pothole and sharp turn pushing her against Max’s back—an accident she allowed to look intentional. New York, past dark, always had this unpredictable mysticism. Once the neon bleed from storefronts flickered across her skin, setting the mood, tonight, for a moment, she let herself buy into the fantasy: wide-eyed good girl on the back of a powerful motorbike, arms flung up in joy, laughing into the wind like the lead in some Sundance film with a dream pop soundtrack that critics would call “raw and luminous.”

She hooted once, purely for the drama of it. Let the East River eat its heart out. Besides, fairytales like this always ended in red lights.

Eventually, laughing with her, Max pulled them over on the bridge—Williamsburg or somewhere, she didn’t care—and let the engine hum under them like a resting animal. She slid off first, not without pressing a thank-you kiss to his neck, stretching her legs, smoothing down her skirt. The view was... unexceptional. The city sparkled behind layers of industrial haze, scaffolding, and distant sirens. Honestly, this metropolis functioned better as a grey area.

Max wasn’t looking. He was busy trailing his mouth down her throat, hands already staking claims. He wanted her so bad, it was hilarious.

“How about,” he murmured, lips dragging up her ear, “this weekend, you and I go somewhere fun? Catch some sunshine, lie around...”

She let him spin her around, let her back meet the cold, rusted metal of the railing. One arm curled over his shoulder, a hand gently pushing back his hair in that sweet, absent way men misread as affection.

“Mhm?” she prompted, humouring him.

His fingers found the hem of her skirt, slipped under to trace the expanse of her thigh. “Hawaii.”

She raised a brow, stroked her nose along his lazily. “I was thinking... south of France.”

He snorted, bit her earlobe. “Cute.”

No, she was seriously serious. But that was the thing about these people—they loved a girl with charm, but not too much ambition. Not unless it was sexy, and not unless it served them. Bigoted freaks.

And then—HOOOOOOOONK!

That long, low, obnoxiously entitled sound, once more, ripped through the stillness of the bridge, a gunshot made of money.

Max pulled back, agitated. “What the actual fuck!”

She turned away from the yell, wincing, her heart already beginning to drop.

Because there, idling just yards away, was the same Maybach, sinister as hell. The headlights blinked once, just like before. An unhurried black peak of patience and confidence.

“Don’t,” she said quickly, placing a hand on Max’s chest as he began to step forward. “It’s not worth it. Max, please.”

But the transformation had already happened. He’d gone from laid-back bad boy to territorial bulldog. “Is this fucking guy following us? Is he serious?”

“Max,” she tried again, keeping her voice low, cajoling, “don’t engage. Just—come on, let’s go.”

But the car door opened. The rear door. Oh, shit. Not good.

And out stepped—Harry Castillo.

Definitely not good.

Motherfucker. She meant that to herself, really. Her stomach pivoted a full, elegant tilt. Imagine a ballerina swan-diving off a rooftop—all graceful and doomed.

He didn’t walk out of that Maybach. He emerged—materialised, Armani loafers first, like a curse come due. Like she’d whispered his name into too many mirrors or said it once too long in her head.

He looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him, sitting in that lobby bar, two nights ago: devastatingly tailored, cruelly composed, eyes still infinite, dark curls coifed to imperfection, a man who never had to chase anything in his life.

Except, still, apparently, her.

She had to laugh internally. Really? You didn’t think he’d find you?

The man probably had satellites in space. Facial recognition. Twenty computers running scans by techie nerd slaves. A team of lawyers who could tell her what colour socks she wore to her nanny job.

And now, there he was, looking at her—not like a man scorned, not like a lover lost. All private equities and precision grooming. Standing center-frame, accomodated under his own damn headlights like the lead in a noir thriller. Broad shoulders barely contained in that Zegna suit. Ultimate Roman nose. Knife-cut jaw. The faintest shadow of disdain.

She had to actively fight the instinct to let her eyes drop between his legs. There, her favourite friend was, that mythic thing that had ruined her body for all other men.

Harry’s massive dick, the economic downturn of her emotional stability. You just have to appreciate a pleasure to behold, literally, at any expense.

But she wasn’t scared of Harry Castillo (or his dick, for that matter. Definitely not.) But she was scared of what followed him—men in suits, invisible networks, hushed conversations that ended with ankle monitors or body bags.

Look, she hadn’t stolen just any ring.

That fucking ring.

Emerald, antique, high-pedigree luxury brand, ancestral to the Castillo empire. Retail price? Such a tacky question. Black-market price? High enough to set off alarms from here to Thailand the moment she tried to fence it.

And now it hung around her neck. Half a million dollars on a second-rate chain. Against her skin. Her not-so-lucky charm. She hadn’t even been able to pawn the damn thing. It sang out trouble every time she bent over and felt it swing.

And Harry… well, he wasn’t looking at anything but her.

Which finally reminded her of Max. Right. Him. Still in attendance.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, tension doctoring his voice, his manhood beginning to sense it was no longer the biggest personality on this bridge.

Harry stopped beside the bike, arms unwound at his sides, the illustration of unbothered dominance. He smiled—politely. The way you smile at a child holding a sharp object.

“Are we friends, sweetheart?�� he asked, voice like old bourbon, brows creasing.

Sweetheart. The death knell, and her thighs clenched reflexively. It hadn't just haunted her—it had reigned over her the past few nights. The same voice that had murmured filth into her ear two days ago. The voice that held elevator doors open while promising he’d find her.

And find her, he did.

That morning, in the afterglow of her escape, she took the subway home. A jarring transition—metal bars and flickering fluorescents after marble floors and velvet shadows. The silence was different here from the schmancy hotel. Lonely. Awful.

She had clutched her coat tighter around her, the ring—Harry's ring—tucked deep in the lining, out of sight but burning against her, whipping a second heartbeat.

She told herself not to give in, that she was done playing that role, and she was the one in control. That this wasn’t going to get under her skin.

Ten minutes after changing into homewear, choking down old cereal, she had crumbled into her bed, slid her impatient hand under her shorts, and her fingers were inside her.

Her calves were quivering, her breath hitching in little gasps as she ground against the little circles of her knowledgeable hand, trying to chase the shape of his body from memory. Harry wasn’t there, but he was—in every detail. The heat of his mouth, his hand wrapped around her breasts, the scrumptious way he filled her with that dignified cock of his—slow at first, then rough, snapping his hips up into hers. The way his voice got like a caress over her skin, low drawl and dark worship, every groaned sweetheart and baby was an affirmation.

The first orgasm hit shamefully fast, and she hated the way her body answered to his even when he wasn’t around to make demands.

The second one was slower, needier, drawn out like a confession. She brought herself there—teeth sunk into the corner of her pillow, a low whimper pressed into cotton—imagining the exact way he groaned when she swallowed, tightened around him, how he held her face when he kissed her one last time.

When she finally came, it rolled through her like a storm. Her toes curled and pointed. Her eyes snapped open. Her spine arched and her chest heaved, and she swore she could still feel the ghost of his hands squeezing on her tits.

Afterwards, she lay in the dark, one arm flung over her face, body singing, satisfied and ruined, but her mind didn’t quiet. Her eyes were wet, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Maybe it was the heat of frustration.

And still, her fingers had lingered at the curve of her thigh, debating going back for a third. Because he was the only thing that made her feel like this in a really long time. This desperate, this tempted, this berserk for a man.

And now he was here. In the flesh.

Max, tragically oblivious to nuance—bless him and the cocktail of ketamine confidence and startup scramble sloshing through his veins—tried again.

“You know her, man?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Of course not. The man moved like punctuation: purposely, only when it mattered, and never to explain himself to idiots in leather jackets and bootcut jeans. His gaze flicked toward Max, cold and brief, confirming the source of an unpleasant smell.

He drawled that voice again, “She’s—”

She panicked. Nope. Not happening. That word—whatever it was—was going to ruin everything for her.

She cut in fast. “He’s my dad!”

Silence.

A cosmic silence that might precede a solar eclipse, or a smiting. Her pulse fluttered, but she didn’t let it show.

Harry’s blink was criminally slow. His right eye twitched—he really was gorgeous when he was restraining homicidal rage.

And for a second, she thought maybe she could sell it. Maybe Max would be dumb enough to swallow it whole. Until Harry’s jaw flexed with such epic, generational disappointment that she had to follow up.

She offered, as sweetly as arsenic, “Stepdad. Technically.”

Still nothing from either of the dumbasses. Except the murderous, taught twitch in Harry's jaw that persisted.

She could’ve stopped there and let it simmer. But no, she was on a roll, so she might as well juggle the knives while blindfolded.

She slipped from Max's side, wedge heels clicking lightly on the concrete, and made her way to Harry's—hips swaying like this was her runway, not the walk of shame. (Which, frankly, it was.) She nudged her arm into his, gently, teasing.

“Yeah,” she said brightly, pitching her voice just loud enough for Max to hear. “Been that way for sometime now. I even call him… Papi.”

Harry’s lips parted. “Jesus.”

She beamed up at him, casually chucking his chin. “Look at my Papi. He just loves it.”

Then, just for him, smile endearing, her eyes slicing into his, a plea laced with a threat, conveying a message, ‘Play along or I swear to god, I'll sell the ring to someone who makes NFTs.’

Harry broke, and she felt that little exhale of surrender, her heart quieting. She always knew how to find the seam and pry it open.

“Ye—”

“I think,” she said, cutting him off again, “he just got really worried that I was with a guy who drives a motorcycle. Probably why he followed us. Right?”

Harry’s sigh was biblical. “Right.”

She flashed Max an outlandish smile. “He’s just so protective of me.”

Harry muttered something under his breath—it sounded suspiciously like ‘not from motorcycles, from syphilis.’ But he kept it under control.

Max nodded, clearly recalibrating, trying to navigate whatever Freudian mess he’d just been handed. “Huh. Tight family.”

You have no idea, she thought. Tight like a noose.

Then Harry—with all the calm of a man choosing which blade to use—turned to her, one hand casually resting on the open car door. “Get in the car.”

She raised a brow. “What if I like it here?”

Harry’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Then I’ll put you inside myself, sweetheart. And you will like that.”

Max blinked.

She blinked.

Everyone blinked.

It wasn’t a suggestion. But the way he said it—lazy, low, the vaguest husk in his voice—made it sound like he was inviting her into a hotel bed, not his luxury sedan.

She hesitated, just long enough to feel her own nerves flicker. Every atom of her body screamed don’t. Her spine tensed, her breath caught. Her instincts did what they always did when danger showed up in a bespoke LV suit: calculate.

Because she wasn’t just nervous about Harry. She was nervous about what she was still willing to do for the ring. The stupid, gaudy, exquisite thing, nestled like a vice between her breasts. Dollars and dollars of regret strung around her neck like a dare. It was untouchable, unsellable. But unfinished.

And if there was one thing she did not ever do, it was leave a job incomplete. That was the difference between girls who handled cons and girls who got caught.

So she turned.

Max, dear, dumb Max, was still standing there blinking as if Harry had shaken his snow globe. A golden retriever of a man—tail wagging, unaware of the incoming truck. Poor baby.

She stepped into his space, ran her fingers through his hair, thick and slick with too much product. He grinned, warm, doped up on whatever startup serotonin and weed vape was still sloshing in his bloodstream. She tugged lightly, just enough for the illusion to hold—and to keep him still while she worked.

“Your Papi is crazy,” he whispered.

She pouted. “My Papi gets possessive.”

Then she kissed him. A just-there kiss that was more sleight of hand than affection, a big smokescreen. As her lips grazed his, her eyes slid sideways—past his shoulder, past the fog of cologne and naivete—to find Harry.

His arms crossed, face unreadable, but she could see it—the coiled silence that came before a tsunami. A cool exterior stretched tight over a woodland gone ablaze.

She smiled against Max’s mouth.

And then she opened hers wider, let her tongue slide deeper, brought Max's arm around her waist, pushed out a soft, breathy moan that was pure theatre—every inch of it aimed at Harry, like an arrow dipped in gasoline.

She could feel the heat of his glare sear the air between them, almost hear the crack of his patience splitting clean down the middle. That sexy, murderous calm he wore like his perfect suit. The quiet, intoxicating fury of a man used to control. She wanted to shatter that. Hence.

Poor sweet idiot Max thought that this was his win. When in truth, she was just using his mouth as her mirror, reflecting what she would like Harry to know. No one owned her unless she let them.

So she pushed her lips to Max like a queen bestowing favour. Slid one arm around his neck, the other deftly trailing down, fingers slipping against the back of the chain—click—and the clasp gave. The necklace dropped soundlessly into her palm, and just like that, mission: salvaged.

“I had so much fun with you tonight, Max. Will you call me?” she asked, brushing her lips with his, eyes wide with fake vulnerability, lashes at full-performance flutter.

“Don’t have your number,” he murmured, but—like a party trick—produced a business card from his jeans. Two fingers, smug grin.

He tucked it between her bra and blouse with a wink. The card brushed right over where the ring rested. Perfect. Layered lies, that always got her off.

“Go, baby girl,” he said, “before your dad pulls out a Glock on us.”

She almost lost it all to a snorting laugh. He was just so damn sincere. He honestly thought this was edgy roleplay and not a real-life power struggle with a man who could and maybe would pull a Glock.

He was sweet. And, like most sweet things in her life—disposable.

She turned, chain coiled in her fist like a snake, the heat of Max's lips fading, and walked back toward the Maybach, hips swinging just a little extra, enough to prove she wasn’t scared, and just to dare Harry to make a scene.

Harry, ever the gentleman—or sociopath—opened the door for her.

And as she passed him, his hand landed squarely on her ass.

Not what you’d expect from a stepfather. Unless, of course, you subscribed to very specific corners of the internet smut where shame and power blurred together with a click.

Because this wasn’t a grope. It was a claim.

Calculated, possessive, and arrogant as hell. His fingers squeezed in with the confidence that came from knowing every inch of her—past tense be damned. Smug fucking bastard.

Her spine straightened instinctively. Her breath caught—in that white-hot fuse of adrenaline and indignation. The gall of him. The sheer, effortless nerve. Sliding back into her orbit like he’d always been allowed there, her body was a place he still paid taxes on.

She said nothing, but her lips curved faintly.

Touché, Papi.

She slid into the leather seat, the door thunking shut behind her like the closing of a vault.

Harry moved with that predatory grace—shoulders fluid, jaw sharp with purpose. The chauffeur didn’t need a cue; whether machine or man, the car cruised forward like it knew his mind.

As they rolled past the curb, she glanced back.

Max was still standing there, his hands in his pockets, reeling. His mouth hung open slightly, one combat boot half-scuffed on the pavement like he’d tried to follow, like a man trying to figure out whether he'd just been mugged, ghosted, or seduced. (Newsflash: all three.)

His eyes met hers through the tinted window. She smiled sweetly.

He raised a hand to wave—slowly, hesitantly, like a puppy who didn’t know if he was still welcome. Such a cute little puppy.

She blew him a kiss.

Then turned her head just as he caught it, head forward, game face on, as the Maybach slid into traffic.

Because the ring was around her neck, her spoils of the night in her palm, and Harry—Harry fucking Castillo—was beside her.

If she thought this was over, she was sorely mistaken.

Proving that Harry Castillo was still a man—and, more damningly, still hers in some subterranean, unspoken crevice of himself—he couldn’t stop looking.

Not that he tried. Subtlety had never been his vice of choice.

His gaze, unapologetically male, raked down her legs, bared now without the safety net of stockings. She’d swapped the Louboutins for a pair of espadrille wedges that gave her just enough height to twist the knife. Her dress was floral—floral, for fuck’s sake. A dizzy little number with a cinched waist, soft cotton and a neckline that walked the line between innocent and criminal negligence. Her hair was different, too—soft waves framed her face and shoulders, and a thin, delicate braid spun across the back of her head like she was auditioning to be in a fairytale.

Last time he'd seen her, she'd looked like sex in a red wine glass. Now she was practically Thumbelina in a sundress. He wasn’t fooled, and neither was she.

She knew what she looked like—played it quite successfully, even—and yet somehow, Harry was still the one twitching in his own car.

She could feel the air crackle in the car every time his gaze dipped. The anticipation coiled tenser every time she adjusted the elastic bust or crossed one leg over the other. Not even for his benefit—but Jesus, it was working anyway. That was the thing—she wasn’t trying to seduce him. That ship had sailed, sunk, and was now rotting on the ocean floor with all the other men who’d thought they could handle her.

On a less desperate note, it was her first time in a Maybach. Hopefully, also her last.

It was more of a rolling reliquary for titans chasing immortality through market share and unresolved daddy issues. The leather was too plush, the silence too padded. Everything about it exclaimed power, permanence, and ownership. She wouldn’t lounge in these private-jet-on-wheels seats like some arm candy with Stockholm Syndrome, so she perched instead—like she might bolt at any second or bite you for trying.

At her feet, two chrome-plated champagne flutes sparkled like tiny totems of excess. The mini-fridge hummed softly under the console. And of course, there was a mounted touchscreen display for ‘mood lighting.’ She wondered what ‘mood’ it glowed when someone was being interrogated by an ex-one-night-stand-slash-target.

She stared at all the luxuries for a moment, counting up the invisible zeroes. How many zeroes did it take to turn a car into his bastion?

Harry finally spoke to break the five-minute silence, his voice low, amused, a touch accusatory, but still he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“What’s your winnings on this one?”

He was reclining a little ways from her, and his dark eyes were still somewhere south, too—pretending not to enjoy he way the dress hugged her chest too much, and failing with flair.

She turned just enough to see that. She toyed with a fingernail, let it hover innocently near her lips.

“Nothing major, Papi.”

His brows lifted, just a tick. A man politely pretending to be surprised. He looked away, scoffing under his breath. “You’re allergic to 'nothing.'”

God, he was so painfully predictable. She offered a sugar-slick smile and sang out, “A tiiiny necklace. And... a ring.”

His posture stiffened a fraction. Alert, now. His eyes, the very shade of dark rum and worse decisions, cut to hers. “Collecting trophies now, are we?”

“Maybe.” She tilted her head. “Or planning a garage sale. Depends on the market.”

Harry leaned toward her, eyes hardening like he was ready to shift into another register. “Don’t fuck with me, Eve.”

His gruelling scowl was almost convincing—if her name had actually been Eve. That meant he still didn’t know who she really was. Not her name, not her history—so what was this, then? Some twisted coincidence? A brush with fate? Had he really followed her across town, all smooth in his black Maybach, chasing nothing more than a memory? No plan, no confirmation—just a vague pull and a hunch?

If so, it was almost laughable. Almost romantic, too. But mostly dangerous.

So, she leaned in, too, because it was fun to play. Her voice dropped half a note. “I already did fuck with you.”

Harry exhaled, long and frayed at the edges, and ran a hand down his face like she was a stain he could wipe away.

“Sweetheart,” he muttered, and it landed somewhere between a threat and a bribe, “if you give me that ring, I’ll take you to Fifth Avenue right now. You want two more? A whole fucking hand? A bracelet to go with it? Done. My card and Cartier Building are yours.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, biting her lip to contain amusement. It was almost too easy. Men... just dangle a little sex, a little danger, and they’d throw diamonds at you like Mardi Gras beads.

She allowed herself a small laugh—cruel, delighted. “Are you trying to buy me off with guilt jewellery? A shiny booby prize?”

“I’m trying to stop you from being stupid.”

Her lips thinned into a surgical smile. “If you wanted me rational, Harry, you should’ve fucked an accountant.”

Harry gave a pleased, filthy little hum. “Do you still have it?”

“Who says I do?”

“You do,” he insisted, like it was gravity. “You wore it out of that suite like a goddamn medal.”

She turned back to the window. The city was starting to rise in the distance, blurred under bridge lights. “Maybe I pawned it. Maybe I mailed it to your ex-girlfriend, little miss matchmaker. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a koi pond in Brooklyn.”

He just stared at her, no humour or patience left.

She shifted in her seat, her sundress sliding higher, not for him, but his inhale still snagged. Luxury-wrapped warfare, and she was fully fucking armed.

She was dismantling him, with bare legs and a grin that said, ‘You wanted this. I want it more now.’ And somewhere deep in that beautiful bastard brain of his, Harry knew it.

The Maybach hummed like a well-fed predator through the avenues, insulated from honks and heat. Outside was chaos, inside was gloved luxury, stitched leather, and two people pretending they weren’t seconds from lunging across the seat.

Harry's hand rested like a loose threat on the centre console. Still watching her, cataloguing every inch as if she weren’t already in his bloodstream, whether he liked it or not.

“You know,” he said finally, voice cool, “I’ve handled mergers with less resistance. And, never so deep in stalker territory that they know about my exes.”

She examined her nails, chipped from the subway turnstile. “Well, curiosity never killed anyone. And you know,” she countered, “I’ve handled richer men with worse cars.”

He glanced around the cabin, unimpressed. “That’s not even true.”

“It’s sadly true,” she said, biting back a grin.

He snorted because a real laugh would be too generous. His eyes dragged over her once more.

“That ring,” he said, finally, “wasn’t for sale or for taking.”

She feigned shock, clutching her imaginary pearls. “So possessive. I thought you evolved past that.”

Harry leaned forward, entirely implying a threat. “You don’t even know what it is.”

She met his eyes, head tipped. “I know it’s worth enough to make you beg.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious. And useful.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, and a smile nearly escaped. “Jesus. You’re not even trying to tempt me, and somehow it’s working.”

That earned him a slow, wicked smile. “Good.”

And that was the problem. She wasn’t trying from the start of this. She was just being—aggravating, hungry, radiant—and it was working. She knew it was, she saw it in the way his jaw kept flexing like he wanted to kiss her stupid and strangle her at the same time. He hadn’t touched her since that little performance at the curb, but she could still feel his hand, ghosted and smug across her ass. An assertion. A pushpin.

He cracked a bit of tension in his neck. “You keep that ring, Eve, and you’re in deep shit. I don’t bluff.”

“No, you just hold women against their will in your little jet-car and call them sweetheart like it’s 1942. Very romantic.”

He turned toward her, elbow on the backrest, his voice silken steel. “You’re not even scared.”

“Nope,” she said, flicking her eyes toward him. “I’m starving.”

He blinked at her, thrown for a second.

Then she added, sweet as syrup: “And I’m guessing you’re not dumb enough to threaten me on an empty stomach.”

Harry leaned back, assessing her like an appraiser with a looted painting. “You’re doing a lot of talking for someone exceptionally screwed.”

“Oh, Harry.” She leaned in across the console, chin in her hand, close enough that her breath brushed his jaw. “I’m only proposing a dinner. In exchange for what you want. Seems generous, considering the resale value of your little emotional support ring.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not emotional.”

“Of course not,” she said, settling back. “Just as priceless as your ego.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And need I remind you, this is extortion?”

“No,” she chirped brightly. “That’s dinner with a woman far out of your tax bracket.”

“Sweetheart, you—”

She shrugged one bare shoulder, calm as a cat sunning itself on a windowsill. “Come on. You missed me. Admit it. You just didn’t know where to find me.”

“I did, too, find you,” he shot back.

She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “After I’d finished with Max. Lucky break.”

“Greased Lightning, sure,” he muttered. “Real prize. Had his hand halfway up your skirt, tongue on your tonsils.”

She pointed an accusatory finger. “Slut-shaming me isn’t the persuasive tactic you think it is, mister.”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, ravenous eyes wandering up from the hem of her dress to her legs. “Not shaming. Just saying—you have interesting taste in rebound mechanics.”

“You jealous?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

His silence was golden; she wanted it in her palms.

“I was,” he said finally. He said it like it hurt to admit.

She flashed all her teeth, brilliant and wicked. “Aw, my Papi. Feeling things for me.”

Without warning, Harry leaned across the console—a fluid, avaricious shift that closed the space between them.

A flinch would give her away. Her chin still rested delicately in her hand, fingers curled beneath it like a bored schoolgirl. Her eyes sharpened, her mouth twitched, she didn’t move exactly, but every cell in her was suddenly keyed in.

He dragged a knuckle down the line of her jaw, featherlight—and of course it was that territorial, ravenous touch of his. As though he was checking to see if she still had skin, if it still responded to him. Yes, it did, and she hated that he knew.

“You really let him touch you like that? Right in front of me?” he murmured, fingers down the expanse of her throat, words curling with conversational filth. “You have no idea how easy it'd be to take you somewhere dark, pull those panties aside and remind you who makes you come.”

Her breath caught—a moment of restraint slipping because the sharp, vivid mental picture bloomed uninvited.

He was close enough now for her to smell the faint trace of his cologne—the same bergamot, wood and fresh banknotes—and underneath that, worse: familiarity. She hated that she remembered how he smelled. She hated it more than it still made her soaked in her best pair of panties.

Yet, she didn’t lean away. She didn’t so much as bat an eye when his fingers grazed her collarbone, dipping lower. She let him find the chain—let him think he was in control for a beat too long.

“You really want to see if it’s there?” she asked softly, teasing, a whisper with claws.

He took the bait, all male and smug, lifting the chain from between her breasts like he was unveiling buried treasure.

And there it was.

His precious ring.

That big, fat emerald swung like a pendulum between them—silent, supine, damning. She watched his eyes lock on it, and the flicker of recognition sharpen into a darker emotion. Greed. Frustration. Lust. Who knew—with Harry, the difference was academic.

He stared at it like it was a rib she’d stolen from his body while he slept.

“Ben,” he said, voice a velvet growl, never taking his eyes off her.

“Sir,” the driver answered with CIA-level readiness. As if he wasn’t listening to foreplay masquerading as directions.

“Miss... Eve is feeling famished. Spring Street, please. Sixth Avenue. Thanks.”

“Copy,” Ben muttered, keying his mic on his wrist. Then, under his breath, too low for the intercom or for his passenger's ears: “Yeah, sure. Let’s get her something to eat before she swipes your socks, too.”

Upon his command, the Maybach veered off course. Even at the razor's edge, Harry had it in him to be the well-mannered rich boy he was raised to be.

And, honestly, saviour Ben deserved hazard pay for the things he heard behind tinted glass. He must've thought that these two were sick with tension. She stole his ring, and he changed course for dinner. That was either love or capture-bonding... with a tip included.

She smiled at the road ahead. A sinful thing that unfolded like a plan, because yes, this was exactly why she’d kept the ring. Not for the money, though, it was easily six figures. Not even for the power, not in the obvious way.

But because he wanted it back, and wanting made Harry sloppy.

It made him touch. It made him chase. It made him reckless and sweet and very, very red-blooded, dumb male. Which meant she’d already won. Before the wine or the check arrived at whatever overpriced hole they were headed to.

She was still the one who dictated the terms. And Harry—poor, rage-polished, ring-hungry Harry—was already halfway back on the leash.

She crossed one leg over the other, reclined just a touch deeper into the seat, and gave him that look—You can have me or the ring. But only if you beg.

He still thought he had the upper hand. Wasn’t it just so cute?

Just the same, Big Dick Castillo brought his A-game for dinner.

The restaurant wasn’t just high-end—it was the kind of place that required two weeks’ notice, a powerbroker’s name on the reservation, and a tolerance for quirky food that looked like modern art. The hostess notably buttered him up, simpered away, took his coat, and called him Mr. Castillo.

“Been here before?” Harry asked as they were guided to their booth.

She didn’t answer, only let her eyes sweep the place—white linen tablecloths, waiters gliding past, a floral arrangement taller than her ego.

She wasn’t dressed for this. Too much skin, not enough couture. The jute of her espadrille heels was scuffed, her clutch was vintage in the wrong way, and her dress—while cute—read detrimental in a room full of tasteful dialogue and five-figure watches. She wished she hadn’t given away the flying fuck she’d reserved for Harry.

So instead, she slid into the booth, crossed her legs slowly, and leaned back like fuck it, let them all look. She’d never belonged in rooms like this, but she knew how to survive them.

Two Michelin stars. Or was it three, maybe? The lighting was gloomy, the cutlery artisanal, and the food came served under glass domes, wreathed in mist like a gothic séance. Every plate looked like a photograph from an art film: uni foam over wild nettle jelly, soil-infused mushroom consommé, whale fat ice-cream (yes, that.) There was no fixed menu—just blind trust in the chef, a man in clogs and tattoos who barely acknowledged them.

This was indulgent, out of her league, so of course she pretended to be unimpressed, like it was routine—hair touched up in the restroom, lips glossy again with the applicator of a stolen Chanel lipstick, heels clicking on imported Italian tile, seated next to a man who could pay her rent for the rest of her life and still have cash left to purchase a moiety of New York.

She even sneaked a photo of the dessert course when Harry got up to take a call, because come on. When else did she get plated edible Parmesan air on gold-rimmed porcelain?

Her last meal had been oatmeal with water, for crying out loud. Not milk. Water.

You could always ask why she didn’t just marry rich. She was beautiful enough to hoodwink them, so why not find a bored billionaire, play the long con, inherit the empire, and vanish somewhere scenic—the Amalfi Coast, or whatever place rich widows went to drink too much rosé—and feign rebirth? And sure, she’d considered it more than once. She wasn’t above strategy.

But something in her—call it pride, call it defiance, hunger for independence—refused to take the easy exit. And maybe one day she would. Maybe she’d settle for a gorgeous, uncomplicated Harry Castillo with deep pockets and no prenup, let herself be worshipped into early retirement. Just not yet.

She was still young, still electric, still drop-dead sexy. There was too much potential and too much fun to be had. Why skip to the end when she could win first? Use her beauty and her brains, pull strings, stay one step ahead of men with power.

Now, in the curved booth, a gilded lamplight spotlit above them, sitting beside her—never across, god forbid—was her latest complication.

Of course, Harry sat next to her, because across meant distance. Across meant restraint, and that would imply boundaries. This man didn't know how to spell the word, let alone observe it. He sat close enough that his thigh occasionally bumped hers. His scent was dark, warm, invasive, the same Jean Paul le Castillo, again, and his attention was even worse. Fork in one hand, wine glass in the other, and that goddamn heinous, hungry look in his eyes as he stared at her lips like it owed him answers.

The new ring—a ruby the size of a small nation—winked on his ring finger, gaudy and melodramatic. It clinked against his glass as he reached forward. His shirt sleeve inched up just enough to reveal his Hublot—black steel, custom dial, subtle as a gun to the temple. And paired with that bracelet, Damascus steel, he was cosplaying the final boss of Grand Theft Auto.

Her thighs pressed together. Inexcusable. Her hormones were staging a mutiny.

She’d spent the fundamental part of her life making sex a transaction. A leverage, a blade, for which men paid in obsession. And now, with him, her instincts were starting to betray her. Lust came up uninvited, and that wasn’t part of the plan.

Harry made her forget where the end was, made her want to tear off her own armour just to climb into his lap and beg. Before then, out of the blue—

“So, how many men came before me?”

He didn’t clarify. Lovers? Marks? The poor bastards who’d mistaken her for a doormat?

She took a slow sip of water, letting the silence stretch long enough to tighten the air. One brow ticked upward. “You want a number, or just a vague estimate that’ll challenge your gall? And also, ruin your appetite.”

He smirked, impressed. “I want honesty.”

She tilted her head. “Ooh, that's a new kink.”

“I’m possessive,” he admitted, pretty garish on his part. “Big difference.”

“Mm.” Her smile curved, feline. “Possessive is only sexy when the person saying it isn’t two drinks away from growling.”

“It’s sexy when it comes with dinner like this.” He waved his hand at the table.

She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, her heel dangling just a little. “You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“Why? You already got the ring. It's right in front of you. All polished and accounted for.”

He reached across the table and let his knuckle trace her cheekbone, then followed the angle of her jaw like he was mapping her. Shiftless, patient.

“You used it to bait me into dinner,” he said, a thumb stroking at her glistening lip. “Could’ve handed it over in the car. Hell, you could’ve pawned it, vanished. But you didn’t. So... you want me, too.”

She grinned at that—wide, unapologetic, teeth and trouble. “You’re adorable when you think you’re in charge.”

His gaze sharpened, darkened. But not in anger—he was starved. Amused, too. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, humming. “A better quality of dessert. Maybe something shiny to take home.”

“To wear or to sell?”

She pushed her bottom lip out. “Depends on whether you make me laugh.”

He shook his head, chuckling into his wine glass. “You’re the hysterical one, sweetheart.” He swallowed his sip, humming, “Do you ever think of doing anything else? Something legit?”

She pretended to think, tapping a finger against her chin. “You mean wait tables? Or marrying a hedge fund vampire who forgets my birthday every year but I have to offset with a wealth of blowjobs?”

He looked at her—a quiet examination that wasn’t judgment, as if wondering what it would take for her to stop running.

“I think you’re more priceless and smarter than you let on, or the little games you play.”

She laughed softly at that—a sound that had just the right amount of sadness tucked in the corners. “Yeah, well. The games pay the bills. And at least I get to choose the rules.”

Harry leaned in, an elbow resting on the table, voice a shade lower now—meant just for her. “You know, you don’t have to play a game to have me take you out. I would've abandoned an intergalactic arms deal if you wanted me here tonight.”

She burst with a giggle, and it was cute how much he took pride in making her laugh. She eventually locked eyes with him and said, calm and clean:

“But it’s so much more satisfying when I win first.”

That made him laugh. A proper, wrecked laugh dropped from his throat, and it surprised even him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, still half-winded. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could rob me blind and make me this hard at the same time.”

She bit her lip—as though it weren’t the exact effect she’d planned down to the second. Spoon clinked softly against the plate as she set it down with ceremony, eyes gleaming.

“I wanna see it,” she whispered, scooting closer to him on the leather booth, until her side was flush against his.

“Eve, sweetheart,” he warned.

She smoothed her lips against his jaw, playing a good little girl. “Show me. Please.”

Her fingers found the zipper of his tailored trousers, the expensive ones, that held shape like a secret. And it was amazing—how hard he was, how her palm couldn’t quite span the bold swell beneath, and how he throbbed to her touch.

She dragged her hand down, watching his face tighten—like a crackling electrical wire. His jaw flexed. His gaze darted briefly to the corners of the restaurant, the other elitist millionaires, scanning for anyone who might recognise the man unravelling.

Then he leaned in. A husky, thrumming caution. “If I knew you were going to get like this, I’d have asked for a private room.”

She stuck out her tongue, childish. “No fun.”

He laughed under his breath and traced a big fingertip down her cheek. “Tell me you missed me.”

“I did miss you,” she said like the sweetheart she was, and the best part was—it was true. Truth spoken with the cadence of a lie. Or a dare. “I thought you’d find me sooner. I waited for you.”

“Duty calls.” His voice dipped, like he hated saying it. “I'm sorry, honey. I was out of town yesterday.”

That explained everything and nothing. She was not satisfied.

She didn’t stop either, her hand kept its lazy rhythm over his bulge, like she was idly petting a wild animal. “I couldn’t sleep at night, Harry.”

His fathomless eyes were trained on her mouth. “Why not?”

“You know how much I missed you? How I was touching myself, wishing it was you inside me?” Her voice turned to silk—sinful, edged with heat, weaponised.

He exhaled sharply, words ghosting over her ear. “Prove it.”

She smiled, slow and wicked, like she’d been waiting for that line all night. With one last stroke, she removed her hand, pursuing her fingers up his jaw—lingering just enough to make his breath hitch. Down the line of his neck, across the snow-white shirt that skirted right around his shoulders, over that infuriatingly sculpted bicep, tough forearm, wrist—the original blueprint of sex—until she led his hand beneath her skirt, just enough to tilt the balance of power.

His long, large fingers took charge from there. They swept her panties aside without an afterthought and found her soaked right through and aching. Home turf, indeed.

A single long finger teased upward through her slick folds, the dewy little bead he wanted to tease all night. Her hips twitched, seeking more; she bit down on a moan that would’ve embarrassed her in any other life. But not here, not when she had the upper hand.

“Making such a mess,” he murmured, and started to push right in.

She caught his wrist—gently, firmly—and pulled his hand away. She wasn’t done playing. “Then let me clean up.”

Bringing his fingers to her mouth, ever so slowly, let her lips part just enough to catch one finger and draw it in. Her eyes never left his as she tasted herself on her tongue.

Harry’s nostrils flared. His jaw twitched, a visible glitch in his otherwise polished self-control. She could virtually hear the recalibration transpiring behind his eyes—an expensive machine overheating under pressure.

“You ever heard of taking turns?” he rasped, voice sandpapered and low.

She hummed into his finger with a grin.

Her tongue curled around the length of his finger in lazy, loving worship. She let her teeth graze the bone, just enough to sting, pulled away with a wet, filthy pop—then slid her hand back to the heat pressed against his trousers.

Still gloriously hard. Harder, maybe.

He made a sound. Barely audible, but visceral—her rich boy was about to snap.

“Mm, I missed my friend,” she teased, palm grazing along the thick outline of him, the way you'd check the heft of a stolen gold bar. “We need to take care of you.”

“Not in here,” he gritted, eyes flicking toward the very public preposterous restaurant, as if remembering too late they were still surrounded by pristine cutlery, half-finished wine glasses, and utterly oblivious millionaires.

She leaned in, voice sugarcoated and silk-wrapped. “Why not? Afraid the waitstaff will find out their favourite industrialist menace is getting head under the table?”

“Sweetheart,” he ground out, jaw tight, “you’re going to get us thrown out.”

She gasped, scandalised. “Oh, no. Not banned from a place where the peach coulis costs more than the average rent.” Her fingers traced the outline of him again, sinfully curious. “But it’s cute that you think I care.”

He gripped the table’s edge. “Outside.”

She leaned closer and click—her teeth snapped together in a playful bite.

What followed was a blur—his credit card swiped on the reader, the receipt signed with a flourish so fast it might’ve been a stock ticker. Between curt commands to the valet and a quiet, untamed “stand by for now,” to his head of security, there were brushes, glances, touches: her fingers sinking just beneath his waistband as he tipped the maître d’, his palm skating down her bare back where her dress dipped scandalously low. Every pass of skin-to-skin felt like a dare, an escalation, a lit fuse.

By the time they ducked into the alley behind the block—dimly illumined in cinematic amber—the anticipation between them had pulled taut enough to hum. The distant purr of traffic and the faint hiss of steam from a nearby vent were the accurate background noise to a heist in progress.

Harry didn’t even get the chance to lean to get her lips before she shoved him against the wall—decisive, insolent, the brick groaning against his back. Her eyes sparkled with that delicious edge, knowing she’d rehearsed the choreography in her dreams: a two-day fantasy played out frame by frame.

And he knew exactly what she was saying, without a single word. You’re mine right now.

Her hands slid up around his neck, fingers weaving into the short curls at his nape, nails just sharp enough to sting. She made him hiss through his teeth—and she smiled at that, feral satisfaction flashing across her lips. How could a man like the great Harry Castillo—so composed, so powerful, so painfully in control—still be reduced to deprived flesh under her touch?

“What did you say to me?” she panted. “That you'd drag me somewhere dark, pull my panties aside, and remind me who makes me come?”

His grin crooked sideways, as if it physically hurt to hold back a groan. “Still sounds like a solid plan to me.”

They let the words hang in the air between them, as her hips crushed into his, allowing him to feel the slow roll of her body against his, just so he damn sure remembered. She pulled back to lock eyes with him, and his expression was glowing with wicked amusement.

“Because that got me so wet,” she added, one brow lifting. “Truly. I’m so touched.”

He gave a rough laugh, hands twitching on her body. “Touched? If you keep grinding like that, I will absolutely bless the whole city block.”

She wrinkled her nose, displeased. “That's really gross, baby.”

He wrinkled his nose back at her. “Just get a move on. With you, my witty repartee functions scramble themselves.”

“That's really hot, baby.”

Then those same hands wandered. Down his collarbone, over his chest. She moved with the assurance of someone who’d mapped this terrain before, who knew every button as if it were a checkpoint on her way to spoils.

When she was rewarded with her kiss, it was a signature scrawled in heat—messy, urgent, binding—and branding him under his clothes, where no one could see. Oh, he’d feel it.

Then her fingers were at his belt.

A low, delighted laugh escaped her. Her rhythm was impatient, rhythm-less. Zipper down, cock out. Just as big, flushed dark, curving, and thick as she remembered him. She wrapped her awaiting palm around him, unmistakably reacquainting herself with an old luxury.

God, how she’d missed this. The raw him of it. The racy confidence, the amused shock in his eyes when she got ahead of him. The twitch in his cock, like it recognised her touch better than his.

“Omigod, Harry,” she breathed, eyes darting between his and the absurd girth in her grip. Imagine a sexy, artisanal baguette. If anything, French cuisine has never sounded more decadent.

“How are you still so hard?”

His head thunked back against the bricks, and a choked laugh dragged out of him. “And?”

She giggled, softer this time. “That’s... honestly, a little heroic. Amazing.”

He groaned, the edge in his voice splitting wide open. “I swear to god—I’m going it blow it right in your hand.”

She slowed her stroke, her hand sliding between his jacket and shirt to clamp down on his waist. “Oh no, baby. You don’t get to tap out when I’ve barely started. You’re gonna see the credits after the feature.”

She gripped him tighter, thumb sweeping the crown. His hips jerked—reflexive, needy.

She knew the tells better than most men knew their passwords. The tight clench of his thighs, the way his hips twitched in expectation, that little flicker in his jaw when he was fighting not to fall apart too soon. And then the low, involuntary groan he gave when she added that precise twist at the top.

So she did it again. And again. More intended, more viciously gentle. Until his body was practically quavering under her rhythm.

That’s when he saw it.

The ring.

His ring.

Gleaming like a petite green sin in the dim alley light—bold, unrepentant, perched snug between the ridges of her knuckles. She must’ve slipped it from its chain and onto her finger when he wasn’t looking—when his pants had come down, when his brain had gone sideways. It shone against her skin with all the drama of a closing argument, catching the movement of her hand every time it slid up and down his cock. Brazen. Ridiculous. Glorious.

He stared, eyes gone wide, chest heaving like he’d just run a fucking marathon in velvet loafers. Pure disbelief tempered only by the rising surge of pleasure threatening to knock him flat.

Her decadent grin spread wider. That same tilt she used before she broke into something expensive. Criminal.

“Look how gorgeous your ring looks on my hand, baby,” she purred, constricting her grip just enough to make him feel it. Then one long, mean stroke—merciless as it was smooth—had him grunting like she’d punched the air out of him.

Sugar in her tone, filth in the intent—“Right while I’m holding your cock.”

That almost undid him. It actually did... just not in the way she expected.

His hips bucked involuntarily—hard—one palm slapping against the wall beside them like he ought to brace against her, or the gravity of her power.

And she could feel it—how close he was, how his body betrayed him completely.

“Careful now,” she whispered, breath hot against his throat. “You’re gonna come all over your ring.”

“Fuck,” he hissed. “I need you.”

His palm found her waist first, then higher—greedier—spanning the swell of her breast, fingers slipping beneath the delicate strap of her dress. He touched her like a man unravelling, desperate to memorise her with his hands before he lost himself completely. She didn’t stop him or bother to slow down.

Ladies, listen up. You let him spiral, let him lose the plot. It, therefore, generates all these amazing results. First of all, you feel like a goddamn goddess.

If anything, the heat of his palm rolling over her chest, thumb brushing the peak of her nipple, made her hand tighten at the base of him, a lazy drag of friction that made his breath catch and his teeth bare. Good, she thought. He’d looked so calm at dinner—composed, controlled, smug. It was time she rattled that composure down to the bones.

His mouth landed near her jaw, warm and unravelling, his breath skipping against the sensitive shell of her ear.

“Christ, baby,” he gulped down. “You’ll kill me.”

“Just a little,” she whispered, a threat swathed in lace.

He gripped the back of her neck now—firm, desperate, tethering. But she could feel the tremble run through him, the growing urgency that turned every touch into a grasp, every kiss into a plea.

And when she felt that telltale twitch in her palm—close, so fucking close—she sank to her knees in one fluid, irreverent motion.

“Eve!” He growled.

“Might want to hold on for this,” she murmured, reaching out and dutifully closing his hand around her hair. Her personal hairband.

His head tipped to the wall with a dull thud, and his breath was knocked right out of him.

She took him into her mouth—no tease, no soft open. Just the hot, wet seal of her lips around him, engulfing pressure sliding down with a purpose that made men remember you. Her hand twisted at the base as her tongue flattened along the underside, every flick and hollow of her cheeks perfectly paced, free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently—almost as if she knew his body better than he did. Her hand stroked what she couldn’t take yet (a lot of it), but she was nothing if not determined, easing deeper, working her gasps and gags, her throat fluttering as she swallowed around him.

Then she pulled back just enough to kiss the tip, run her tongue around it in a slow, devastating circle, and whisper, “Look at me.”

When he did, wrecked and glassy-eyed, and nearly lost it when he saw the glint of the emerald—his emerald—catching the amber haze of the streetlight, shining vulgar and perfect as she worked him over with both mouth and hand, while that gem flashed in and out of sight like punctuation to her rhythm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gritted, hands flying into her hair, helpless to the thrusts into her mouth.

And still, she smiled around him with her eyes. Because down here, on her knees, oh-so-submissive, she fucking owned him. For a single second, she was entitled to billions and billions of dollars.

He let go with a broken sound, head tilted back, hands fastened in her hair. His release hit like a convulsion—deep, violent, ragged, unstoppable—and she took it. All of it.

She kept her lips closed around him, swallowed him down like a secret, let him spill hot down her throat, held still through every violent aftershock until he finally stopped pulsing against her tongue. Only then did she let him slide from her mouth, returning a relic to the altar.

As she littered a few kisses to his hipbone, above her, he was heaving. A ruin of breath and bone, one palm braced against the bricks, the other still fisted in her hair—completely, exquisitely unravelled.

Because for all his suits, his smirks, his predator calm, his moneyed arrogance, his big dick, and relentless pursuit—this was the real him. The one leaning against a piss-stained alley wall, jaw slack, pupils blown, chest rising like he’d been resuscitated by her mouth alone. That wide-eyed, blown-open stare—cracked devotion dressed as disbelief.

Ragged. Gutted. Hers.

She sat back on her heels, knees aching, throat raw, but her chin still tipped with defiance. The streetlamp lit her up from the side, catching the gleam of spit at the corner of her bruised lips, the waterline of her eyes, and the vulgar glint of his emerald still perched like a trophy on her finger.

She didn’t wipe her mouth or fix her hair. She wanted him to see it—the wreckage, the proof still painting her skin.

Look what you made me do, her body said. Now look what I did to you.

“To clarify,” she said, breath still ragged, eyes sharp with mischief. “Was that your soul I just sucked out or are you always this dramatic post-nut?”

He barked a laugh, dragging one trembling hand through his sweat-mussed hair, the other still propping him upright. “You are fucking unbelievable,” he panted.

“Mm.” She rose slowly, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulders and dusting her knees. “Takes one to chase one.”

But just as she turned to make her exit with all the flair of a woman who had already won, his hand caught her jaw.

He wasn’t anywhere near done with her.

He pulled her back around for a feral kiss, so strangely intimate, still so insatiate beneath the smug exterior. Tasting himself, tasting them, tongue plunging, moustache tickling, chasing whatever high was lost into her throat once more.

His other hand plunged low and hiked her thigh up around his hip in one swift motion, dragging her flush against him, pinning her, crowding her into the wall. She gasped at the feel of him again, already half-hard and thoughtless, thrusting up into the soaked heat of her panties, all the way through the flimsy lace and cotton barriers.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her gasping open mouth, “Let me return the favour, sweetheart. I'm a stickler for settling debts.”

“You're hard again?” she giggled, disbelieving. Her hand snuck back to confirm the evidence. “It's been two seconds.”

He grinned, teeth flashing. “It’s the new suit. Gets me going. You like?”

“Jesus, Harry,” she muttered, impressed. “This is either compulsive or Olympic. Have you been microdosing Viagra?”

“I’m just really, really motivated when I see you.”

She gave him a slow stroke through the fabric, lips parted in faux wonder. “Oh, I noticed. Your amazing dick has the recovery rate of a Marvel superhero.”

That husky, ruined laugh of his rang smoke signals all the way to her down there.

She will not deny it: she wanted to let him fuck her. She had been patient was a really long time (read, really two days.) That was practically monastic discipline.

She wanted to be slammed into that wall, chest down, hands crushed in the small of her back, and torn apart. She wanted him to slide into her fast, unrelenting, to fill her in one breathless, punishing thrust and ruin all the good work she’d done painting herself as unfuckwithable. She knew just how soaked she was, how badly her body wanted to cave in and make it impossible for him to forget her.

Instead, she pulled back far enough to break away from him. Her hands stayed on him whilst his desperate lips mouthed up her jaw and ears—one over his feverish heart, the other tenderly cradling his jaw.

Seemingly, fucking around and finding out included taking the win with her. So, she grinned, bright and goddamn invincible.

“Easy, big guy,” she murmured, dragging a lithe finger down his nose and lips. “You blow your load again, what’s left for the encore?”

He stared at her like she was both his best miracle and worst menace.

Then she dropped her leg, smoothed the hem of her dress, and leaned in one last time—her mouth teasing at the shell of his ear—and kissing the coarse arc of his cheek.

“Now, you owe me a ride.”

She hadn’t meant “ride” in the literal sense. But, of course, her recently sucked off, hedge-fund god had taken it that way.

Now here she was, waiting on a curb like a stranded groupie, knees hugged to her chest, fingers picking absently correcting her reapplied gloss, watching him pace twenty feet away, swirling through Important Business like he ran the New York Stock Exchange and the moon phases at the same time. Corporate acrobatics, last-minute deals, numbers, names, mergers.

Harry Castillo was the storm with no centre indeed. Elegant, effusive chaos.

She studied him, inventorying the little habits, just for herself to overthink later.

The way he loosened his collar half an inch, the fabric of his dress shirt tugging tight across his shoulder blades. The way he tilted his phone between his shoulder and ear to glance at his watch, never missing a beat in the conversation, another phone cradling market tickers and colour-coded blocks that meant nothing to her but had his full attention. The clipped, fricative syllables he used when someone tried to talk over him. The furrow of his brows. The press of his thumb and forefinger into his temple, as if the numbers both gave him migraines and fed his soul.

She wasn't supposed to notice this much, or even care. He was a depleted target.

After all, for her bravado, her games and schemes, she witnessed it in him: the sheer momentum of him. The time and tension. The experience that streaked his hair a little, crinkled at his eyes. He was the exemplar of hard work, empire-building and sleepless nights.

It was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen in any gentleman.

Yet, he made her feel small. Smaller than the filthy alley, the incredible sex, and the swagger had made her feel. It was that old, low-grade hum of self-loathing which unfurled in quiet moments when her five-dollar acrylics started to chip and bleed, and her bank account re-enacted a crime scene.

She was what she was. High school dropout, actress by ambition, hustler by necessity. Her résumé was an unconsolidated array of lies, fake eyelashes, and second jobs that paid in tips and IOUs. She didn’t articulate ‘Bloomberg,’ didn’t know what ‘price reflecting risk’ meant, and had never owned anything sparklier than a gold-plated nameplate necklace she hocked at sixteen.

She looked down at it now—his emerald ring glinting like she belonged under it's cocky gleam. Laughable, really. She twisted it round slowly, scrutinising the way it caught the streetlight as it threw new tints of the spectrum right into her undeserving eyes.

A low, motorised purr broke through her spiral.

She glanced up, confused at first, like the street itself had growled.

Something was coming. A fast, smooth statement. Sleek, angular, low-slung, orange—a tropical fruit had a baby with a warning sign. A McLaren, maybe? As far as her fluency in Car and Driver went, she could tell that thing had arguments about acceleration. Seriously, it belonged on a racetrack, not a city street. It was impractical, unreasonable, and utterly excessive—just like Harry.

As the car slid to a stop at the curb, she watched one of the suited security detail break formation and approach it while a man in gloves stepped out and performed a silent, expensive transaction with a key fob. And she—still on the curb, blinking—realised that she had been excluded from this entirely.

Oh, she wasn't part of this mean machine.

She was luggage. Really hot luggage in a pretty dress.

“It’s a platform play, but we can bolt on 2–3 tuck-ins within 18 months.” Harry was still speaking into his phone, utterly unfazed by the gravity-defying spaceship that had just landed in front of them. He was simply striding toward it like it was a goddamn Toyota.

Her stare ping-ponged between him, the security guy, the McLaren, and back to Harry. Soon, a slow surge of realisation struck her.

This was for her.

This was what happened when she joked about owing her a ride after blowing his mind (and him) in an alleyway. For one stupefied, unguarded second, she believed it—she might actually be fucked.

“We'll get this in front of IC and revert. Thanks, Mark.” A crisp click ended Harry's call, and the phones vanished into his jacket, so he turned his full attention to her.

He offered his hand, palm up, fingers splayed—infuriatingly gentlemanly. And the grin that spread across his face was downright criminal, that it should’ve come with a warning label.

“I believe I owe you a ride,” he rumbled.

She took one look at the orange beast purring by the curb and immediately shot up to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth to control a shrill squeal.

“Harry,” she breathed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart.”

“I should’ve given you head the first time we met.”

He snorted. “Oh, I remember. But you needed dental insurance before taking on the full... package?”

Every ounce of self-respect fled her system.

“I was joking!” she gasped, eyes locked on the car. “I mean, I’d give you your ring back—but you didn’t have to get me a sports car! This is insane. This is—”

She clapped her hands once, spun on her heel, convulsing, fanning a hand at her face. “—so goddamn sexy I might cry. Look at her! She has curves! She’s shiny! She’s so my type!”

Harry watched, entirely too amused and pleased with his own theatrics. His shoulders started to shake with deep, husky laughter.

“I hate to spoil your greedy little soul, but I just wanted a nightcap.” He tapped the hood of the car. “It was gathering dust, I figured you would appreciate—”

“I appreciate, I really, really appreciate.” She grinned, bouncing a little in place, pitch rising with every word. “Oh, we are breaking so many traffic laws tonight. We’re gonna crash this thing straight into an uppity country club.”

She bounced toward the passenger side like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to yank open the door—

“Other side.”

She halted mid-motion, narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

He raised the key fob near his head, pushed a button—and the car croaked an obedient electronic chirp as the driver’s side door lifted vertically, like a butterfly wing.

“You’re driving us tonight,” he informed.

She stared at him, attempting to render his words to her reality. She really must've blown off the one little screw that held his common sense together.

Her heart slammed against her ribs with a cocktail of adrenaline, arousal, and unbidden panic. And with it came the reveal of: “Harry. I haven’t driven anything in years.”

“Good,” he said, strolling about to the passenger side, leather shoes scuffing. “You’ve got experience.”

She scoffed. “What... and if I kill us?”

He shrugged with that aggravating impassivity. “For what I’m worth, they’d better build a memorial—not leave me smeared on the freeway.”

The key was dropped into her hand, and she looked down at it, then at the car—her reflection warped across its polished surface.

For a moment, it began flickering behind her eyes—that horrified, disbelieving piece of her that still didn’t think she deserved to touch a machine this exquisite, let alone drive it. A thief, a fake—what business did she have behind the wheel of a seven-figure car?

Despite that, she smiled. Well, that was not her now. She was made of wicked chaos, pink Chanel gloss, and full-figured hunger.

“Well, buckle up,” she said, ducking and gliding behind the wheel, basically stepping into her final form. “If we die, I’m haunting you with blue balls in the afterlife.”

He laughed, following her in. “Duly noted, sweetheart.”

And the door hissed shut, sealing her in.

One thing you needed to know about this city—laid out like a glittering, fatigued whore at her feet—was that even the rats had a hustle.

So before you judged her for jumping at the wheel of a hypercar she didn’t own, playing the coquette in knockoffs, maybe ask yourself this: what would you do, if a million-dollar engine thrummed at your fingertips and the man beside you looked at you like a sex god personified?

“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t give these nobodies no sympathy,” SZA whispered through the surround speakers, truth bleeding from her voice like philosophies.

She mouthed along to the words, head bobbing between the headrest, legs up on the dash.

She’d meant to steal one little big ring, and a few hours of air conditioning and affection. But somehow, she’d ended up here—idling by Riverside in a car that purred with decadent control, less an animal’s snarl, more a savvy grin. A flick of her foot on the pedal had set it forward like a breath—no lurch, no grunt. Just a seamless glide, the motion of a motor made to conquer without show.

New York City arrayed as circuitry in front of them—vast, shining, veined with red brake lights and screw-ups. They had chased the fringes of midnight toward a lookout she hadn’t been to in years, one of those places you only returned to when you had something to prove. Not anymore, the McLaren did it for her.

Her fingers traced the stitched grooves of the steering wheel, supple black leather, and the centre console illuminated the space like the cockpit of a fighter jet: chrome, carbon fibre, touchscreens glowing like digital seduction. Even the whole cabin smelled like ozone, leather and aerospace engineering. Every inch of it whispered, you don’t belong here.

Yeah, she didn’t. Her fingernails still had dirt under them. Her shoes were vintage consignment pretending to be Gucci. Her confidence, like most things in this city, was counterfeit—but expensive-looking.

And goddamn, did she look good pretending.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. The black sedan behind them hadn’t moved out of formation since the restaurant. No hazard lights, no overt tailing. Harry’s version of subtlety: a ghost that reeked of payroll.

Then her ex-target's voice cut through the hum of the engine.

“So,” he said, so offhandedly it almost sounded bored—if not for the fact that he was watching her like a man circling a flame. “Cartier or Harry Winston before closing time? I did promise you a handful of rings.”

She glanced over at him, lips quirking.

This man. This ludicrous, outrageous man. He had no idea the effect he had on her. Or maybe he did—and that was half the danger.

Here she was, fresh off scamming him into a disgustingly expensive dinner, jacking his family heirloom right under his nose, and now she was joyriding his million-dollar toy while he reclined in the passenger seat like some amused villain who’d already won.

She snorted, not bothering to hide the laugh. “I just need to say this out loud for the universe: I am using the absolute hell out of you.”

Harry leaned his head back, one arm slung behind her seat, the other lazily adjusting the cuff of his blazer. “If anything,” he said, “I’m disappointed you’re not using me more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t enough?”

“Hardly. If I were in your little shoes,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her strappy knockoffs, “we'd already be popping a bottle of Dom on a jet, halfway to Geneva right now.”

Her laugh cracked out before she could stop it. “Wow. Talk dirty to me, Papi.”

Grinning that tongue-in-cheek smile of his, he reached for her feet, pulling them up into his lap without asking. Scud dusted his sleek custom trousers, but he only focused on tracing lazy circles along her calf—intimate, absentminded, entitled, so domestic.

He toyed with the buckle of her shoe, lifting it with an index finger. “Speaking of, we need to get you a new pair. Maybe a dozen. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Jimmy Choos,” she said, going along with it.

“Done.”

“And while you’re at it, maybe a penthouse on the east side?”

“Take mine.” Then added, “Conditionally.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Still trying to bankroll what you can’t own.”

He kissed the inside of her ankle, exactly where she’d dabbed perfume to mask the shoe funk. “Still stealing what you secretly want to keep.”

Her heart thudded—almost annoyed at the betrayal. That little jump, that involuntary jolt at his voice, his closeness. As if her body hadn’t gotten the memo that she was supposed to be in control.

She let her head tip lazily toward him, eyes half-lidded. “You really want to be used by me?”

He leaned in, that sinuous way he did everything, as though gravity didn’t apply to him quite the same. “Only you.”

God knows she'd heard every variation of flattery laced in a threat—but that wrecked, gruff tone of his crushed under her ribs she didn’t care to name.

She held his gaze for a second too long, the moment coiling tight between them, breath warming the space where danger meets desire. She could taste it. This thing between them. It was scorched sweet.

He tilted his head, that lazy confidence coiled behind his jaw like a spring. “You’re the only one who uses me right, sweetheart. You do it selfish. And it works.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, because it was. But more so because it was true. In the non-tragic fucked-up way that made her heart twitch in a place she didn’t like to acknowledge.

“Is it?” he leaned in, letting his knuckles graze the inside of her thigh. “Because it sounded a hell of a lot like a compliment to me.”

She tilted her head with that dangerous little smirk, which usually preceded theft or sex.

“Tell me what you think I want from you,” she said, the implication lingering like steam off an expensive glass.

He didn't miss a beat; he met her gaze, dead-on. “Comfort. Sex. Money. Exactly in that order.”

Well. That was blunt. But she mostly got used to the sting.

It wasn’t a wrong guess, but it wasn’t the whole picture, either. That was the problem with men like Harry; they saw the silhouette and thought they interpreted the sculpture.

She projected that image—Eve, a loose, cocky, precocious thief in a pretty dress. It was the only currency that worked in most rooms. But… a part of her wanted to be seen through it, not as it. Charming fun. Clever girl. Desirable for more than how easily she slipped a watch off a man’s hand or a moan from his throat.

She inhaled through her nose, lips parting like a question left unsaid. “You really think that’s all I am?”

“I think you’ve figured out how to get what you want,” he said, his hand slipping casually down to the arch of her ankle. “And I respect the hell out of it.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t the yes she’d been half-daring him to say, either.

She looked away, a flick of her lashes down, forming a curtain between them. The lights of the city glimmered past the windshield, multicoloured, a little blurred. She didn’t even realise she’d gone quiet until—

His fingers clicked in front of her face. She blinked, coming back to herself, and turned just in time to catch his smirk.

“Earth to Eve?”

She sat up a little straighter, drawing her legs out over his lap in an easy stretch, avoiding a pang that was still ringing somewhere in her ribs. Her heel grazed the far car door, the other foot resting right where he wanted her. She could work with that.

She smiled—bright, artificial, wicked. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Back to our suite,” she lied, sugar-tipped, curling his hand between her bare knees. She guided it higher until his fingers found the hem of her dress and slipped beneath, “First, I want to know something.”

Thin lace. Warm skin. Low hum of history.

His palm cupped her, long fingers pressing against the soaked scrap of fabric as if he wasn’t already fluent in the language of her thighs. And still, she caught it—that stutter in his breath, the falter in his cool. Good. Let him lose his balance a little. She liked him like that.

“Does this question have to do with you coming on my hands?” he rasped.

She laughed, full-throated and bright, head tilted back like she'd just heard a good joke. “Don’t you want your ring back?”

He blinked, stunned, stupidly handsome. But before he could fathom a reply, she caught his hand in both of hers and pressed the car’s key fob into his palm. Then, with a magician’s flair—wrist tilted just so, fingers guiding the moment like sleight-of-hand, let the reveal land—there it was.

The emerald, back on his ring finger like it had never left. Gleaming.

“We’re even,” she said casually, all silk and smoke, like she hadn’t rehearsed that little flourish hours ago.

He gave a disbelieving laugh, a sound of him still catching up, halfway between fury and foreplay. She thrived with that sound on him—surprise laced with surrender.

“And this?” He gestured between them, a vague sweep of his hand as if it incorporated the entire cyclone.

“A draw, maybe,” she sang out. Then—after a beat—“Unless you want to raise the stakes.”

But his eyes flicked to hers—amusement glinting in the depths of them.

“You know,” he drawled, slow as molasses and twice as rich, “I promised myself I wouldn’t let you walk away tonight. I even…”

He undid his blazer button with a flick of his thumb, rolled the sleeve back, shirt cuff—pressed, white, expensive. Bare wrist, no watch.

The custom Hublot was missing. Only the steel bracelet jangled noiselessly, missing its pair.

Her smile bloomed—teeth and mischief. Pure delight with a cherry on top.

He looked at his wrist again, as if it might’ve reappeared, then at her. Half-outraged (you little shit), half-astonished (I really want to fuck you), and completely turned on. Her man.

“Way ahead of you, honey,” she whispered. Winking, but not bothering to show the prize. That wasn’t the point. She never flashed what she’d already claimed.

Theft was foreplay, and proof was irrelevant. And didn’t it feel good being her?

And the fact that somewhere between the appetiser and the edge of his self-control, he couldn’t stop chasing her even as she’d slipped through his fingers and walked off with both the crown and the kingdom.

In that moment, she felt like a force of nature. Beautiful, smug and completely untouchable.

And yet... she knew how this would go. How she’d go home eventually, peel off her heels, strip the night away, and set the Hublot down on her dresser like a trophy, her evidence of reality, even though it would never match anything she owned—too masculine, too boorish, too expensive.

And she’d lie awake, wondering if Harry was laughing right now, alone in his too-big bed, in a penthouse that echoed with emptiness. Or perhaps giving security some nondescript bullshit line like, “Don’t chase her. I'll find her soon.”

Now, she languidly drew her legs back into the footwell, all part of the final act. One last fluid exit, stage left. She reached for her satchel that she'd slotted somewhere by the console.

The butterfly door hissed open with a smooth hydraulic sigh, too much preposterous sex appeal. But before she could duck out, Harry’s warm, possessive hand caught her wrist.

“Give me something in return,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. Like if she didn’t, he’d unravel.

She turned, one brow lifting with theatrical grace—that signature look—you don’t know who you’re playing with, do you?

“I gave you something mind-blowing an hour ago,” she muttered, chin tilting.

He smirked, but didn’t let go. “Something of yours, sweetheart.” His gaze dropped to where her purse was on her lap, then climbed again, a lazy drag that felt like fingertips down her spine.

“I’m a materialist, too. You know that.”

That made her laugh, laced with irony only women like her could master—mostly weapon, all charm.

What was he, Prince Charming? Did he want a glass slipper, a trace of perfume, a lock of hair? Did he expect her to leave behind some totem of surrender, some girlish trace he could pine over, so he could come chasing after her with keen, awaiting arms and an incurable erection?

Oh, this poor man. Wrong fairytale.

His lopsided smile twitched, as if he were biting the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check, which also made her hesitate for half a second.

Just long enough for a thought to flicker through her. Unserious. Wildly inappropriate. Which, of course, meant it was perfect.

She shifted in her seat with catlike precision, eyes holding his, lifting her hips just enough to hook her thumbs beneath the waistband of her panties—white lace, delicate, and soaked through in the patternings that would make anyone blush. They slid down in an inching, methodical glide—past her soft thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles—until she held them between two fingers. A peace offering. A punchline. A poem in cursive.

But oh, Harry saw. His pupils expanded. His jaw ticked. There was the faintest inhale—so minor you could miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

And then she twirled them once, dainty and devilish, before looping the lace over the rearview mirror, letting them hang there like some heretical pair of fuzzy fucking dice.

“Fits right in your pocket,” she said with a girlish grin. “Low-upkeep. No batteries required.”

“I was hoping for your number,” Harry murmured, voice dragging a beat slower now, eyes still on the lace dangling from the mirror. “But I’ll have to look into your file for that. Might gild this.”

“Or sniff it like a sick fuck, I won't judge,” she replied, grinning as her fingers skimmed his jaw, affectionate enough to confuse.

Then she leaned in, cupped his jaw, and embossed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Absolute mockery to his devastation. She didn’t pull back right away; her lips hovered near his ear, voice dropping a fraction.

“You said file,” she murmured, the piece clicking into place. “That means you’ve been digging.”

His grin didn’t twitch. “You gave me a fake name, stole from me, then disappeared. What wronged man wouldn’t?”

Of fucking course.

That name. The one she’d given him in a silk-wrapped lie, born over fine liquor and misdirection. Eve—first woman, first sin, first scam. She’d let him keep it mostly because it worked, fit her like one of his tailored suits: sharp, pricey, vaguely challenging.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t stupid. Two days were plenty of time for a man like him to trace her name, her past, even her blood type if he really wanted. She knew the kind of resources he had, which meant either he’d been telling the truth—he had been out of town—or he’d been playing a longer game. And if he was playing, she needed to know the rules.

When she pulled back just enough to study his face, his eyes held hers with an agonising grace.

“Mm,” she mused. “And what’d you find?”

“I’m not a man who gives away his sources.”

She bit her lip. “But you’ve read it.”

His hand flexed on the leathered console, as if he were cogitating some undecipherable truth in his wide palm. “Skimmed,” he admitted. “Certain... hidden highlights.”

That made her laugh. “Did it come with a caution label?”

“Countless,” he said mordantly. “In red, underlined.”

She giggled, a little proud. “Bet you liked that so much it got you hard.”

He looked at her for a long, unreadable second. “You made sure of that.”

She smirked. “So, what else do you know?”

He let his miles-deep eyes trace her as though he were approximating her against intel he had in his desk somewhere. Fact versus sensation. Biography versus influence.

Finally, he said, “Enough to want more.”

“Of me?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Of the truth,” he said simply.

The way he said it got her wavering, which was no easy feat from someone like him. There was no flirtation or ploy involved. Harry was... interested. Still playing the game—but this time, one she hadn’t mapped out entirely.

So she flashed him a smile—bright, effortless, razor-edged. “Good luck with that,” she said breezily. “I charge by the minute.”

Then that smirk ghosted onto his face again—annoyingly familiar, dangerously fond. “I could pick up the tab for the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

Fuck, she wasn't kidding when she said that made her wet to her toes.

She was thinking through it all now. About files, how much he knew, about why the idea of being read like a dossier made her feel more exposed than when she’d dropped her panties for him.

He knew enough to chase, not enough to catch. Until then, that was the only leverage she had left on him.

“Thanks for your time, Mr Castillo,” she added, and that was the sting, of course it was—a jab at the custom Hublot she’d stolen straight off his wrist mid-handjob. She’d pocketed his time, and now she was thanking him for it. Full circle.

She slid out of the car, the hem of her dress flirting with indecency, heels tapping against the pavement, ass bared to the breeze like the night had to feel her too, and the wind responded—chasing her like it wanted to finish what they’d started.

She didn’t look back until she was halfway across the lot, because you know, lesson learned: drama demands distance.

Then she turned—just her head.

Harry was standing outside the car now, one hand braced against the hood like he needed it to stay upright. His thumb stroked at his smirking lower lip like he was trying to remember what just happened—and whether he wanted it to happen again. Shirt collar askew, hair messy from her hands, sweat matted, chest heaving, ring back on his finger—

He looked like debauchery on pause. A wealthy man wondering if, possibly, he’d just met the devil and preferred it to all the angels that roamed.

She gave him a smug, little fingers-only wave. Fucking couture.

The exit mask mattered. The smoking, final walk away in heels someone else paid for, hips swinging like a metronome wound up on spite and superiority.

Another dumbass bites the dust.

You need to know that, at the end of the day, Eve didn’t just chew on any apple. She carved it into slices, served it on stolen silver, and made sure God was watching.

Her bittersweet punishment was history.

Because temptation lingered, smiling when it burned, knowing where you kept your heart vaulted, and it definitely never forgot who bit first.

© damneddamsy

scam ideas for part 3? I'm thinking of the club and a bigshot entrepreneur 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads (you are my one and only), @woodxtock (my baby girllll, my whole life), @divine-timings , @jodiswiftle (BAY-BEH!), @bensonispunk @brittmb115 , @for-a-longlongtime (honey, thank you so much for the rants), @pedritotito , @desuidesu , @bluelightwrites , @isa942572 , @mallingcalling-blog , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @itstokyo-cos , @holholliday , @i-workwithpens , @any-corrie , @yourallaround-simp , @directfromreynaldo , @tezooks , @yungsuesi-blog , @czessianna , @aleariixx , @noisynightmarepoetry , @th3mrskory , @monamedeiros12 , @oliveksmoked , @gothcsz , @itstheanxietyforme , @lowrisemiller } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you for your support! 🌻🦋

[damneddamsy]

GOOD GIRL GONE BAD | HARRY CASTILLO PART 2 of 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

-> READ PART 1 HERE. A.N. -> I think I'm going to make this a series because I'm loving my fuckass thief a little too much ;) W.C -> 15k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, humour, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, harry gets amazing head, expensive dinner and under the table action, fast cars and late night drives, age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

TWO DAYS LATER...

Harry Castillo never did find her after that night, and the world, predictably, kept spinning.

That was a given—of course, the man never stood a chance. He hadn't even known her real name, let alone the life she lived between swiping his magnificent emerald ring and finagling for his sky-high penthouse suite.

The thing about rich men—a huge difference between the Hamptons-on-the-weekend rich and the take-the-G5-for-lunch-in-Marrakech rich—is that they get bored very fast. The money dulls their instincts, softens their hunger. So they go looking for novelty, for danger, bootlickers with sharp heels, lips that serviced them.

And that’s when these duds start collecting people, the same way other men collect watches. It’s not malice, necessarily. It’s just the casual entropy of having everything. Eventually, they start poking holes in the world to see what bleeds.

Harry, who had once been deliciously under her (and, yes, she had performed—thank you very much), was now officially behind her. Metaphorically. Spiritually... logistically?

Still, every so often in the last forty-eight hours, when sleeplessness licked at the fringes of her sanity, she’d think about that fantastic night. Him. His cologne. His million-dollar smile, his silky curls, that flex of muscles in his forearms. How he moved like a man who didn’t just fuck—he endured. Sex was a marathon he never lost. She might’ve bitten into a pillow just recalling it.

Now, as she scrubbed her coffee cup in her little walk-up, she mildly wondered why he hadn’t kicked down her door yet. No agents in Kevlar, no tactical ballet of flashlights sweeping her withering IKEA furniture.

Guess his precious emerald ring wasn’t priceless after all. Maybe he’d decided ‘Eve’ was.

Still, spectacular sex didn’t pay the Con Ed bill, and orgasms weren’t legal fees, not even ones that left her boneless. The hustle was a jealous god. Worship it daily or risk getting chewed up and spit back out. There were strictly no vacation days in this line of work.

She wiped her hands on the wet dishtowel and glanced out the window, onto her street. The city, even late afternoon, pulsed with potential scams, possibilities clothed as bad ideas. Nearly time to earn her penance.

Her taxes, of course, were a masterclass in creative fiction. Nowhere on the forms could she write ‘part-time righteous thief,’ even if the city owed her a medal for how cleanly she worked. By day (or whatever counted as ‘respectable daylight’ in her world), she was an actress—aspiring, which is really just code for ‘not yet a celebrity but unfathomably tenacious.’

And she was good, actually better than good. Unlike the legions of gullible hopefuls waiting tables and praying for callbacks, she didn’t just play the role; she became it.

That’s what theft had taught her: how to vanish into a character. A wealthy widow in a silk scarf. A ditzy sweetheart with a purse full of distractions. A lonely wife who despised her rich husband.

See, acting was easy. Being real was the trick.

Now... you might be wondering how she’s never been caught.

Simple answer. There were no larcenies, but borrowed realities. She slipped into them like new dresses, modelled them until they itched, then left them behind without creasing the seams. She understood people better than they understood themselves, and in a city built on a fancy facade, that made her the most honest liar in the room.

Between matinee shows and understudy rehearsals, buried someplace in the margins of a yawning Off-Broadway script where she played ‘The Mistress’ and occasionally ‘Dancer #2,’ she had begun her favourite kind of research: target acquisition.

This one was named Max.

Older, incredibly hot in the way girls liked their unruly men now. Ran a supposedly “disruptive” tech startup that had never once had to crawl through the dirt to breathe. Financed—predictably—by Mommy and Daddy’s hedge fund, equipped with pre-IPO arrogance, and a fake chip on his shoulder. He styled himself as a rebel: leather jacket, scruff at a precisely calculated millimetres, and a beast of a motorcycle. Everything about him screamed curated danger. Which, of course, made him exactly her type—for now.

Tonight, Max was hers.

She wasn't after his heart. Please, she had far more realistic goals: the chunky platinum bracelet and the possibility of a chain tucked beneath his shirt—a custom Cartier, if her Instagram sleuthing and zoom-enhanced screenshots were correct. Et voila, two months' rent, served on a dish. He liked his jewellery like he liked his women: slender, eye-catching, and stolen from someone else's better judgment.

She’d shown up at his hipster bar—the one with floating Edison bulbs and overpriced tequila, where the walls were made of raw brick and vintage vinyl records. It was much too loud, too try-hard for her taste. But it didn’t matter, she didn’t need to like it—she just needed to be seen in it. You know, gullible and pretty, a beaming sunflower among roses. The total ‘good girl’ package.

Max cornered her before she had to pretend to clumsily nurse her drink, took her hand, pressed too many kisses along her knuckles like some bad Bond villain, and crooned promises of a better night elsewhere.

“Preferably somewhere with horsepower,” he whispered to her.

She smiled—wide-eyed, toothy, assumingly earned. “Sounds fun.”

His bike was parked just on the edge of a downtown lot, under murky lighting that gave it a movie-magic feel. It was truly a prowling monster—chrome and matte black, roared like one, clearly built for showing off rather than comfort. Aerodynamics be damned.

He stopped, looked at her, and grinned. That grin—ugh, it came with a subscription to its own perfume.

“Hop on, baby girl,” he said, tugging her gently by the waist, and then—just like that—he lifted her. Hands under her thighs, strong enough to remind her why he was tolerable in the first place. Baby girl, because that was exactly the temperament she was going for tonight.

“Whoa—omigosh, okay,” she laughed, letting him guide her onto the seat.

She threw a leg over to straddle, at her own leisure, flashing just the right amount of white lace beneath her floral skirt, just enough to not seem cheap but stay rent-free in his imagination.

He stepped closer, thumb brushing along her knee. “You ever ridden one of these before?” he asked, leaning in.

“Only ponies at petting zoos,” she said sweetly. “But I always wanted to go... faster.”

He liked that. She could tell by the little shift in his posture, the spark behind his aviators. Max was predictable like that; he liked a good girl saying wicked things.

She tilted her head, letting her hair fall just so, lips parted. “Do I hold on to you, or just pray?”

“Oh, you’re gonna be holding on and praying,” he said, grin widening.

And then came a—HONK.

The burst of sound shattered the moment. She blinked, startled, nearly falling back on the seat. An old Civic lurched past behind them, the driver yelling about “blocking the fuckin’ exit, genius!”

She laughed again, this time without feigning. “Always this romantic?”

Max rolled his eyes, smoothing a hand down her thigh. “For the VIPs.”

“Lucky me,” she murmured, even as her eyes slid discreetly toward the glint of his chain peeking out beneath his collar. Just a little longer, and she’d be the one riding off into the night—with his jewellery in her bag and her name scrubbed clean from his memory by morning.

From her perch on the back of the bike, she leaned forward with ceremonious ease, reaching for the handlebars. Her hips tilted as she did it, bare thighs reflecting the bar's spotlight, skirting riding up a little, ass popping just enough to make a statement: yes, you’re looking—and I know exactly what you’re thinking.

She bit her bottom lip and looked back over her shoulder, coy. “So,” she murmured, fingers curling around the throttle, “do you race for pink slips on this thing?”

Max gave a breathy, wolfish laugh. He moved in, arms folding around her from behind, his chest pressing close to her spine. One hand came to rest on hers atop the handlebar, the other grazing up the bare skin of her back, fingers trailing higher, then lower. Stroking—feeling—bingo.

His breath brushed against her ear. “Why, d'you wanna race against me? I’ll let you win.”

She tilted her head, gave a breathy laugh, and let herself melt back against him just a little. Never all the way. Her game had rules, even if he didn’t know he was playing.

Max got bolder. His other hand slipped lower, gathering the hem of her skirt. Fingertips dragging along her thigh, seeking heat.

But—HONK. HONK. HONK.

A barrage of honks snapped the moment in half. Three sharp, urgent blasts. She couldn’t help it anymore—she burst out laughing, tipping forward against the tank of the bike, shaking her head.

“Is this your version of foreplay?” she teased, pulling her skirt back down with a small tug, as if nothing had happened. “Public inconvenience. Not a fan.”

Max growled low in his throat. “They’re just jealous.”

She gave him a saccharine smile over her shoulder. “Of you, or of me?”

He winked. “Me, of course.”

The fourth honk was belligerent. HOOOOOOONK!

Ouch. Then came the headlights—full beam—washing over them in artificial daylight, crisp, priceless and thoroughly unimpressed. It wasn’t some angry delivery driver anymore. This elegant machine… it was matte black, sleek, elongate, idling behind them like a lioness waiting to pounce.

A Maybach.

She blinked once, twice, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden flood of light. The newest version of the Maybach didn't simply hint at wealth—it was a chauffeur’s dream. Quiet luxury for the chronically privileged.

Max cursed under his breath, shading his eyes like he was confronted by a UFO beam. He glanced over his shoulder, irritated, but still kept one hand possessively on her thigh as if this wasn’t rapidly becoming someone else’s scene.

“Jesus. Just go around, asshole! There's plenty of space!” Max barked at the Maybach, all puffed up with that predictable strain of man-to-man testosterone, chest out like a bantam rooster.

The Maybach, as expected, didn’t budge. It was too refined to engage.

And then, almost politely, the headlights blinked once. A statement. Get the fuck out of the way.

She felt it immediately—that flux in atmosphere, the hair-raising dissonance that told her this wasn’t just a gridlock spat. The stillness of that car held tension. Consideration. This wasn’t some rando being petty, nor was it some impatient Wall Street exec late to a mistress.

This was a message wrapped in two tons of German—maybe—engineering.

And that was when the unease hit. A slow coil in her gut, skin prickling—she didn’t like this at all.

Another night, she’d have flipped the bird and blown a kiss just to stir the pot. But no, she had to remember she was in character. Tonight, she was soft, sugary, a blooming daisy of a girl who wouldn’t know a red flag if it wore a name tag.

“Let’s go for a ride, Max,” she coaxed, curling a finger into his jean pocket. “Forget the guy.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I wanna show this fucker who he messed with.”

Oh, boy. She didn’t even need to check the Maybach again to know that was a bad idea. The worst ideas always started with a man trying to measure his dick through tinted glass.

She reached for the softest note in her vocal library, brushing concern into every syllable. “Now you’re scaring me.”

That actually did it. Men like Max lived to feel strong in the presence of fragility. He turned, gentling to her innocence, rubbing her cheek like she was some porcelain doll.

While pressing a protective kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “I got you. Let’s get out of here.”

He handed her a helmet that reeked of weed, sweat, and barely-laundered masculinity, and slid onto the bike. She scooted behind him, skirt shifting up her thighs, heels tucked close, her arms looping around his waist in an affectionate tangle.

He revved the engine and glanced over his shoulder, grin too cocky. “Ready, baby?”

She giggled on cue, tightening her arms around him. “Ready!”

He snapped his visor down, and then they were off—rocketing through Manhattan like two kids who’d stolen a joyride and didn’t know the ending yet. And she had to admit: not bad for her first time on a motorbike.

She really hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much—the wind in her hair, the lights blurring past as if they were fireflies on speed, the rush of every pothole and sharp turn pushing her against Max’s back—an accident she allowed to look intentional. New York, past dark, always had this unpredictable mysticism. Once the neon bleed from storefronts flickered across her skin, setting the mood, tonight, for a moment, she let herself buy into the fantasy: wide-eyed good girl on the back of a powerful motorbike, arms flung up in joy, laughing into the wind like the lead in some Sundance film with a dream pop soundtrack that critics would call “raw and luminous.”

She hooted once, purely for the drama of it. Let the East River eat its heart out. Besides, fairytales like this always ended in red lights.

Eventually, laughing with her, Max pulled them over on the bridge—Williamsburg or somewhere, she didn’t care—and let the engine hum under them like a resting animal. She slid off first, not without pressing a thank-you kiss to his neck, stretching her legs, smoothing down her skirt. The view was... unexceptional. The city sparkled behind layers of industrial haze, scaffolding, and distant sirens. Honestly, this metropolis functioned better as a grey area.

Max wasn’t looking. He was busy trailing his mouth down her throat, hands already staking claims. He wanted her so bad, it was hilarious.

“How about,” he murmured, lips dragging up her ear, “this weekend, you and I go somewhere fun? Catch some sunshine, lie around...”

She let him spin her around, let her back meet the cold, rusted metal of the railing. One arm curled over his shoulder, a hand gently pushing back his hair in that sweet, absent way men misread as affection.

“Mhm?” she prompted, humouring him.

His fingers found the hem of her skirt, slipped under to trace the expanse of her thigh. “Hawaii.”

She raised a brow, stroked her nose along his lazily. “I was thinking... south of France.”

He snorted, bit her earlobe. “Cute.”

No, she was seriously serious. But that was the thing about these people—they loved a girl with charm, but not too much ambition. Not unless it was sexy, and not unless it served them. Bigoted freaks.

And then—HOOOOOOOONK!

That long, low, obnoxiously entitled sound, once more, ripped through the stillness of the bridge, a gunshot made of money.

Max pulled back, agitated. “What the actual fuck!”

She turned away from the yell, wincing, her heart already beginning to drop.

Because there, idling just yards away, was the same Maybach, sinister as hell. The headlights blinked once, just like before. An unhurried black peak of patience and confidence.

“Don’t,” she said quickly, placing a hand on Max’s chest as he began to step forward. “It’s not worth it. Max, please.”

But the transformation had already happened. He’d gone from laid-back bad boy to territorial bulldog. “Is this fucking guy following us? Is he serious?”

“Max,” she tried again, keeping her voice low, cajoling, “don’t engage. Just—come on, let’s go.”

But the car door opened. The rear door. Oh, shit. Not good.

And out stepped—Harry Castillo.

Definitely not good.

Motherfucker. She meant that to herself, really. Her stomach pivoted a full, elegant tilt. Imagine a ballerina swan-diving off a rooftop—all graceful and doomed.

He didn’t walk out of that Maybach. He emerged—materialised, Armani loafers first, like a curse come due. Like she’d whispered his name into too many mirrors or said it once too long in her head.

He looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him, sitting in that lobby bar, two nights ago: devastatingly tailored, cruelly composed, eyes still infinite, dark curls coifed to imperfection, a man who never had to chase anything in his life.

Except, still, apparently, her.

She had to laugh internally. Really? You didn’t think he’d find you?

The man probably had satellites in space. Facial recognition. Twenty computers running scans by techie nerd slaves. A team of lawyers who could tell her what colour socks she wore to her nanny job.

And now, there he was, looking at her—not like a man scorned, not like a lover lost. All private equities and precision grooming. Standing center-frame, accomodated under his own damn headlights like the lead in a noir thriller. Broad shoulders barely contained in that Zegna suit. Ultimate Roman nose. Knife-cut jaw. The faintest shadow of disdain.

She had to actively fight the instinct to let her eyes drop between his legs. There, her favourite friend was, that mythic thing that had ruined her body for all other men.

Harry’s massive dick, the economic downturn of her emotional stability. You just have to appreciate a pleasure to behold, literally, at any expense.

But she wasn’t scared of Harry Castillo (or his dick, for that matter. Definitely not.) But she was scared of what followed him—men in suits, invisible networks, hushed conversations that ended with ankle monitors or body bags.

Look, she hadn’t stolen just any ring.

That fucking ring.

Emerald, antique, high-pedigree luxury brand, ancestral to the Castillo empire. Retail price? Such a tacky question. Black-market price? High enough to set off alarms from here to Thailand the moment she tried to fence it.

And now it hung around her neck. Half a million dollars on a second-rate chain. Against her skin. Her not-so-lucky charm. She hadn’t even been able to pawn the damn thing. It sang out trouble every time she bent over and felt it swing.

And Harry… well, he wasn’t looking at anything but her.

Which finally reminded her of Max. Right. Him. Still in attendance.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, tension doctoring his voice, his manhood beginning to sense it was no longer the biggest personality on this bridge.

Harry stopped beside the bike, arms unwound at his sides, the illustration of unbothered dominance. He smiled—politely. The way you smile at a child holding a sharp object.

“Are we friends, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like old bourbon, brows creasing.

Sweetheart. The death knell, and her thighs clenched reflexively. It hadn't just haunted her—it had reigned over her the past few nights. The same voice that had murmured filth into her ear two days ago. The voice that held elevator doors open while promising he’d find her.

And find her, he did.

That morning, in the afterglow of her escape, she took the subway home. A jarring transition—metal bars and flickering fluorescents after marble floors and velvet shadows. The silence was different here from the schmancy hotel. Lonely. Awful.

She had clutched her coat tighter around her, the ring—Harry's ring—tucked deep in the lining, out of sight but burning against her, whipping a second heartbeat.

She told herself not to give in, that she was done playing that role, and she was the one in control. That this wasn’t going to get under her skin.

Ten minutes after changing into homewear, choking down old cereal, she had crumbled into her bed, slid her impatient hand under her shorts, and her fingers were inside her.

Her calves were quivering, her breath hitching in little gasps as she ground against the little circles of her knowledgeable hand, trying to chase the shape of his body from memory. Harry wasn’t there, but he was—in every detail. The heat of his mouth, his hand wrapped around her breasts, the scrumptious way he filled her with that dignified cock of his—slow at first, then rough, snapping his hips up into hers. The way his voice got like a caress over her skin, low drawl and dark worship, every groaned sweetheart and baby was an affirmation.

The first orgasm hit shamefully fast, and she hated the way her body answered to his even when he wasn’t around to make demands.

The second one was slower, needier, drawn out like a confession. She brought herself there—teeth sunk into the corner of her pillow, a low whimper pressed into cotton—imagining the exact way he groaned when she swallowed, tightened around him, how he held her face when he kissed her one last time.

When she finally came, it rolled through her like a storm. Her toes curled and pointed. Her eyes snapped open. Her spine arched and her chest heaved, and she swore she could still feel the ghost of his hands squeezing on her tits.

Afterwards, she lay in the dark, one arm flung over her face, body singing, satisfied and ruined, but her mind didn’t quiet. Her eyes were wet, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Maybe it was the heat of frustration.

And still, her fingers had lingered at the curve of her thigh, debating going back for a third. Because he was the only thing that made her feel like this in a really long time. This desperate, this tempted, this berserk for a man.

And now he was here. In the flesh.

Max, tragically oblivious to nuance—bless him and the cocktail of ketamine confidence and startup scramble sloshing through his veins—tried again.

“You know her, man?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Of course not. The man moved like punctuation: purposely, only when it mattered, and never to explain himself to idiots in leather jackets and bootcut jeans. His gaze flicked toward Max, cold and brief, confirming the source of an unpleasant smell.

He drawled that voice again, “She’s—”

She panicked. Nope. Not happening. That word—whatever it was—was going to ruin everything for her.

She cut in fast. “He’s my dad!”

Silence.

A cosmic silence that might precede a solar eclipse, or a smiting. Her pulse fluttered, but she didn’t let it show.

Harry’s blink was criminally slow. His right eye twitched—he really was gorgeous when he was restraining homicidal rage.

And for a second, she thought maybe she could sell it. Maybe Max would be dumb enough to swallow it whole. Until Harry’s jaw flexed with such epic, generational disappointment that she had to follow up.

She offered, as sweetly as arsenic, “Stepdad. Technically.”

Still nothing from either of the dumbasses. Except the murderous, taught twitch in Harry's jaw that persisted.

She could’ve stopped there and let it simmer. But no, she was on a roll, so she might as well juggle the knives while blindfolded.

She slipped from Max's side, wedge heels clicking lightly on the concrete, and made her way to Harry's—hips swaying like this was her runway, not the walk of shame. (Which, frankly, it was.) She nudged her arm into his, gently, teasing.

“Yeah,” she said brightly, pitching her voice just loud enough for Max to hear. “Been that way for sometime now. I even call him… Papi.”

Harry’s lips parted. “Jesus.”

She beamed up at him, casually chucking his chin. “Look at my Papi. He just loves it.”

Then, just for him, smile endearing, her eyes slicing into his, a plea laced with a threat, conveying a message, ‘Play along or I swear to god, I'll sell the ring to someone who makes NFTs.’

Harry broke, and she felt that little exhale of surrender, her heart quieting. She always knew how to find the seam and pry it open.

“Ye—”

“I think,” she said, cutting him off again, “he just got really worried that I was with a guy who drives a motorcycle. Probably why he followed us. Right?��

Harry’s sigh was biblical. “Right.”

She flashed Max an outlandish smile. “He’s just so protective of me.”

Harry muttered something under his breath—it sounded suspiciously like ‘not from motorcycles, from syphilis.’ But he kept it under control.

Max nodded, clearly recalibrating, trying to navigate whatever Freudian mess he’d just been handed. “Huh. Tight family.”

You have no idea, she thought. Tight like a noose.

Then Harry—with all the calm of a man choosing which blade to use—turned to her, one hand casually resting on the open car door. “Get in the car.”

She raised a brow. “What if I like it here?”

Harry’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Then I’ll put you inside myself, sweetheart. And you will like that.”

Max blinked.

She blinked.

Everyone blinked.

It wasn’t a suggestion. But the way he said it—lazy, low, the vaguest husk in his voice—made it sound like he was inviting her into a hotel bed, not his luxury sedan.

She hesitated, just long enough to feel her own nerves flicker. Every atom of her body screamed don’t. Her spine tensed, her breath caught. Her instincts did what they always did when danger showed up in a bespoke LV suit: calculate.

Because she wasn’t just nervous about Harry. She was nervous about what she was still willing to do for the ring. The stupid, gaudy, exquisite thing, nestled like a vice between her breasts. Dollars and dollars of regret strung around her neck like a dare. It was untouchable, unsellable. But unfinished.

And if there was one thing she did not ever do, it was leave a job incomplete. That was the difference between girls who handled cons and girls who got caught.

So she turned.

Max, dear, dumb Max, was still standing there blinking as if Harry had shaken his snow globe. A golden retriever of a man—tail wagging, unaware of the incoming truck. Poor baby.

She stepped into his space, ran her fingers through his hair, thick and slick with too much product. He grinned, warm, doped up on whatever startup serotonin and weed vape was still sloshing in his bloodstream. She tugged lightly, just enough for the illusion to hold—and to keep him still while she worked.

“Your Papi is crazy,” he whispered.

She pouted. “My Papi gets possessive.”

Then she kissed him. A just-there kiss that was more sleight of hand than affection, a big smokescreen. As her lips grazed his, her eyes slid sideways—past his shoulder, past the fog of cologne and naivete—to find Harry.

His arms crossed, face unreadable, but she could see it—the coiled silence that came before a tsunami. A cool exterior stretched tight over a woodland gone ablaze.

She smiled against Max’s mouth.

And then she opened hers wider, let her tongue slide deeper, brought Max's arm around her waist, pushed out a soft, breathy moan that was pure theatre—every inch of it aimed at Harry, like an arrow dipped in gasoline.

She could feel the heat of his glare sear the air between them, almost hear the crack of his patience splitting clean down the middle. That sexy, murderous calm he wore like his perfect suit. The quiet, intoxicating fury of a man used to control. She wanted to shatter that. Hence.

Poor sweet idiot Max thought that this was his win. When in truth, she was just using his mouth as her mirror, reflecting what she would like Harry to know. No one owned her unless she let them.

So she pushed her lips to Max like a queen bestowing favour. Slid one arm around his neck, the other deftly trailing down, fingers slipping against the back of the chain—click—and the clasp gave. The necklace dropped soundlessly into her palm, and just like that, mission: salvaged.

“I had so much fun with you tonight, Max. Will you call me?” she asked, brushing her lips with his, eyes wide with fake vulnerability, lashes at full-performance flutter.

“Don’t have your number,” he murmured, but—like a party trick—produced a business card from his jeans. Two fingers, smug grin.

He tucked it between her bra and blouse with a wink. The card brushed right over where the ring rested. Perfect. Layered lies, that always got her off.

“Go, baby girl,” he said, “before your dad pulls out a Glock on us.”

She almost lost it all to a snorting laugh. He was just so damn sincere. He honestly thought this was edgy roleplay and not a real-life power struggle with a man who could and maybe would pull a Glock.

He was sweet. And, like most sweet things in her life—disposable.

She turned, chain coiled in her fist like a snake, the heat of Max's lips fading, and walked back toward the Maybach, hips swinging just a little extra, enough to prove she wasn’t scared, and just to dare Harry to make a scene.

Harry, ever the gentleman—or sociopath—opened the door for her.

And as she passed him, his hand landed squarely on her ass.

Not what you’d expect from a stepfather. Unless, of course, you subscribed to very specific corners of the internet smut where shame and power blurred together with a click.

Because this wasn’t a grope. It was a claim.

Calculated, possessive, and arrogant as hell. His fingers squeezed in with the confidence that came from knowing every inch of her—past tense be damned. Smug fucking bastard.

Her spine straightened instinctively. Her breath caught—in that white-hot fuse of adrenaline and indignation. The gall of him. The sheer, effortless nerve. Sliding back into her orbit like he’d always been allowed there, her body was a place he still paid taxes on.

She said nothing, but her lips curved faintly.

Touché, Papi.

She slid into the leather seat, the door thunking shut behind her like the closing of a vault.

Harry moved with that predatory grace—shoulders fluid, jaw sharp with purpose. The chauffeur didn’t need a cue; whether machine or man, the car cruised forward like it knew his mind.

As they rolled past the curb, she glanced back.

Max was still standing there, his hands in his pockets, reeling. His mouth hung open slightly, one combat boot half-scuffed on the pavement like he’d tried to follow, like a man trying to figure out whether he'd just been mugged, ghosted, or seduced. (Newsflash: all three.)

His eyes met hers through the tinted window. She smiled sweetly.

He raised a hand to wave—slowly, hesitantly, like a puppy who didn’t know if he was still welcome. Such a cute little puppy.

She blew him a kiss.

Then turned her head just as he caught it, head forward, game face on, as the Maybach slid into traffic.

Because the ring was around her neck, her spoils of the night in her palm, and Harry—Harry fucking Castillo—was beside her.

If she thought this was over, she was sorely mistaken.

Proving that Harry Castillo was still a man—and, more damningly, still hers in some subterranean, unspoken crevice of himself—he couldn’t stop looking.

Not that he tried. Subtlety had never been his vice of choice.

His gaze, unapologetically male, raked down her legs, bared now without the safety net of stockings. She’d swapped the Louboutins for a pair of espadrille wedges that gave her just enough height to twist the knife. Her dress was floral—floral, for fuck’s sake. A dizzy little number with a cinched waist, soft cotton and a neckline that walked the line between innocent and criminal negligence. Her hair was different, too—soft waves framed her face and shoulders, and a thin, delicate braid spun across the back of her head like she was auditioning to be in a fairytale.

Last time he'd seen her, she'd looked like sex in a red wine glass. Now she was practically Thumbelina in a sundress. He wasn’t fooled, and neither was she.

She knew what she looked like—played it quite successfully, even—and yet somehow, Harry was still the one twitching in his own car.

She could feel the air crackle in the car every time his gaze dipped. The anticipation coiled tenser every time she adjusted the elastic bust or crossed one leg over the other. Not even for his benefit—but Jesus, it was working anyway. That was the thing—she wasn’t trying to seduce him. That ship had sailed, sunk, and was now rotting on the ocean floor with all the other men who’d thought they could handle her.

On a less desperate note, it was her first time in a Maybach. Hopefully, also her last.

It was more of a rolling reliquary for titans chasing immortality through market share and unresolved daddy issues. The leather was too plush, the silence too padded. Everything about it exclaimed power, permanence, and ownership. She wouldn’t lounge in these private-jet-on-wheels seats like some arm candy with Stockholm Syndrome, so she perched instead—like she might bolt at any second or bite you for trying.

At her feet, two chrome-plated champagne flutes sparkled like tiny totems of excess. The mini-fridge hummed softly under the console. And of course, there was a mounted touchscreen display for ‘mood lighting.’ She wondered what ‘mood’ it glowed when someone was being interrogated by an ex-one-night-stand-slash-target.

She stared at all the luxuries for a moment, counting up the invisible zeroes. How many zeroes did it take to turn a car into his bastion?

Harry finally spoke to break the five-minute silence, his voice low, amused, a touch accusatory, but still he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“What’s your winnings on this one?”

He was reclining a little ways from her, and his dark eyes were still somewhere south, too—pretending not to enjoy he way the dress hugged her chest too much, and failing with flair.

She turned just enough to see that. She toyed with a fingernail, let it hover innocently near her lips.

“Nothing major, Papi.”

His brows lifted, just a tick. A man politely pretending to be surprised. He looked away, scoffing under his breath. “You’re allergic to 'nothing.'”

God, he was so painfully predictable. She offered a sugar-slick smile and sang out, “A tiiiny necklace. And... a ring.”

His posture stiffened a fraction. Alert, now. His eyes, the very shade of dark rum and worse decisions, cut to hers. “Collecting trophies now, are we?”

“Maybe.” She tilted her head. “Or planning a garage sale. Depends on the market.”

Harry leaned toward her, eyes hardening like he was ready to shift into another register. “Don’t fuck with me, Eve.”

His gruelling scowl was almost convincing—if her name had actually been Eve. That meant he still didn’t know who she really was. Not her name, not her history—so what was this, then? Some twisted coincidence? A brush with fate? Had he really followed her across town, all smooth in his black Maybach, chasing nothing more than a memory? No plan, no confirmation—just a vague pull and a hunch?

If so, it was almost laughable. Almost romantic, too. But mostly dangerous.

So, she leaned in, too, because it was fun to play. Her voice dropped half a note. “I already did fuck with you.”

Harry exhaled, long and frayed at the edges, and ran a hand down his face like she was a stain he could wipe away.

“Sweetheart,” he muttered, and it landed somewhere between a threat and a bribe, “if you give me that ring, I’ll take you to Fifth Avenue right now. You want two more? A whole fucking hand? A bracelet to go with it? Done. My card and Cartier Building are yours.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, biting her lip to contain amusement. It was almost too easy. Men... just dangle a little sex, a little danger, and they’d throw diamonds at you like Mardi Gras beads.

She allowed herself a small laugh—cruel, delighted. “Are you trying to buy me off with guilt jewellery? A shiny booby prize?”

“I’m trying to stop you from being stupid.”

Her lips thinned into a surgical smile. “If you wanted me rational, Harry, you should’ve fucked an accountant.”

Harry gave a pleased, filthy little hum. “Do you still have it?”

“Who says I do?”

“You do,” he insisted, like it was gravity. “You wore it out of that suite like a goddamn medal.”

She turned back to the window. The city was starting to rise in the distance, blurred under bridge lights. “Maybe I pawned it. Maybe I mailed it to your ex-girlfriend, little miss matchmaker. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a koi pond in Brooklyn.”

He just stared at her, no humour or patience left.

She shifted in her seat, her sundress sliding higher, not for him, but his inhale still snagged. Luxury-wrapped warfare, and she was fully fucking armed.

She was dismantling him, with bare legs and a grin that said, ‘You wanted this. I want it more now.’ And somewhere deep in that beautiful bastard brain of his, Harry knew it.

The Maybach hummed like a well-fed predator through the avenues, insulated from honks and heat. Outside was chaos, inside was gloved luxury, stitched leather, and two people pretending they weren’t seconds from lunging across the seat.

Harry's hand rested like a loose threat on the centre console. Still watching her, cataloguing every inch as if she weren’t already in his bloodstream, whether he liked it or not.

“You know,” he said finally, voice cool, “I’ve handled mergers with less resistance. And, never so deep in stalker territory that they know about my exes.”

She examined her nails, chipped from the subway turnstile. “Well, curiosity never killed anyone. And you know,” she countered, “I’ve handled richer men with worse cars.”

He glanced around the cabin, unimpressed. “That’s not even true.”

“It’s sadly true,” she said, biting back a grin.

He snorted because a real laugh would be too generous. His eyes dragged over her once more.

“That ring,” he said, finally, “wasn’t for sale or for taking.”

She feigned shock, clutching her imaginary pearls. “So possessive. I thought you evolved past that.”

Harry leaned forward, entirely implying a threat. “You don’t even know what it is.”

She met his eyes, head tipped. “I know it’s worth enough to make you beg.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious. And useful.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, and a smile nearly escaped. “Jesus. You’re not even trying to tempt me, and somehow it’s working.”

That earned him a slow, wicked smile. “Good.”

And that was the problem. She wasn’t trying from the start of this. She was just being—aggravating, hungry, radiant—and it was working. She knew it was, she saw it in the way his jaw kept flexing like he wanted to kiss her stupid and strangle her at the same time. He hadn’t touched her since that little performance at the curb, but she could still feel his hand, ghosted and smug across her ass. An assertion. A pushpin.

He cracked a bit of tension in his neck. “You keep that ring, Eve, and you’re in deep shit. I don’t bluff.”

“No, you just hold women against their will in your little jet-car and call them sweetheart like it’s 1942. Very romantic.”

He turned toward her, elbow on the backrest, his voice silken steel. “You’re not even scared.”

“Nope,” she said, flicking her eyes toward him. “I’m starving.”

He blinked at her, thrown for a second.

Then she added, sweet as syrup: “And I’m guessing you’re not dumb enough to threaten me on an empty stomach.”

Harry leaned back, assessing her like an appraiser with a looted painting. “You’re doing a lot of talking for someone exceptionally screwed.”

“Oh, Harry.” She leaned in across the console, chin in her hand, close enough that her breath brushed his jaw. “I’m only proposing a dinner. In exchange for what you want. Seems generous, considering the resale value of your little emotional support ring.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not emotional.”

“Of course not,” she said, settling back. “Just as priceless as your ego.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And need I remind you, this is extortion?”

“No,” she chirped brightly. “That’s dinner with a woman far out of your tax bracket.”

“Sweetheart, you—”

She shrugged one bare shoulder, calm as a cat sunning itself on a windowsill. “Come on. You missed me. Admit it. You just didn’t know where to find me.”

“I did, too, find you,” he shot back.

She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “After I’d finished with Max. Lucky break.”

“Greased Lightning, sure,” he muttered. “Real prize. Had his hand halfway up your skirt, tongue on your tonsils.”

She pointed an accusatory finger. “Slut-shaming me isn’t the persuasive tactic you think it is, mister.”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, ravenous eyes wandering up from the hem of her dress to her legs. “Not shaming. Just saying—you have interesting taste in rebound mechanics.”

“You jealous?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

His silence was golden; she wanted it in her palms.

“I was,” he said finally. He said it like it hurt to admit.

She flashed all her teeth, brilliant and wicked. “Aw, my Papi. Feeling things for me.”

Without warning, Harry leaned across the console—a fluid, avaricious shift that closed the space between them.

A flinch would give her away. Her chin still rested delicately in her hand, fingers curled beneath it like a bored schoolgirl. Her eyes sharpened, her mouth twitched, she didn’t move exactly, but every cell in her was suddenly keyed in.

He dragged a knuckle down the line of her jaw, featherlight—and of course it was that territorial, ravenous touch of his. As though he was checking to see if she still had skin, if it still responded to him. Yes, it did, and she hated that he knew.

“You really let him touch you like that? Right in front of me?” he murmured, fingers down the expanse of her throat, words curling with conversational filth. “You have no idea how easy it'd be to take you somewhere dark, pull those panties aside and remind you who makes you come.”

Her breath caught—a moment of restraint slipping because the sharp, vivid mental picture bloomed uninvited.

He was close enough now for her to smell the faint trace of his cologne—the same bergamot, wood and fresh banknotes—and underneath that, worse: familiarity. She hated that she remembered how he smelled. She hated it more than it still made her soaked in her best pair of panties.

Yet, she didn’t lean away. She didn’t so much as bat an eye when his fingers grazed her collarbone, dipping lower. She let him find the chain—let him think he was in control for a beat too long.

“You really want to see if it’s there?” she asked softly, teasing, a whisper with claws.

He took the bait, all male and smug, lifting the chain from between her breasts like he was unveiling buried treasure.

And there it was.

His precious ring.

That big, fat emerald swung like a pendulum between them—silent, supine, damning. She watched his eyes lock on it, and the flicker of recognition sharpen into a darker emotion. Greed. Frustration. Lust. Who knew—with Harry, the difference was academic.

He stared at it like it was a rib she’d stolen from his body while he slept.

“Ben,” he said, voice a velvet growl, never taking his eyes off her.

“Sir,” the driver answered with CIA-level readiness. As if he wasn’t listening to foreplay masquerading as directions.

“Miss... Eve is feeling famished. Spring Street, please. Sixth Avenue. Thanks.”

“Copy,” Ben muttered, keying his mic on his wrist. Then, under his breath, too low for the intercom or for his passenger's ears: “Yeah, sure. Let’s get her something to eat before she swipes your socks, too.”

Upon his command, the Maybach veered off course. Even at the razor's edge, Harry had it in him to be the well-mannered rich boy he was raised to be.

And, honestly, saviour Ben deserved hazard pay for the things he heard behind tinted glass. He must've thought that these two were sick with tension. She stole his ring, and he changed course for dinner. That was either love or capture-bonding... with a tip included.

She smiled at the road ahead. A sinful thing that unfolded like a plan, because yes, this was exactly why she’d kept the ring. Not for the money, though, it was easily six figures. Not even for the power, not in the obvious way.

But because he wanted it back, and wanting made Harry sloppy.

It made him touch. It made him chase. It made him reckless and sweet and very, very red-blooded, dumb male. Which meant she’d already won. Before the wine or the check arrived at whatever overpriced hole they were headed to.

She was still the one who dictated the terms. And Harry—poor, rage-polished, ring-hungry Harry—was already halfway back on the leash.

She crossed one leg over the other, reclined just a touch deeper into the seat, and gave him that look—You can have me or the ring. But only if you beg.

He still thought he had the upper hand. Wasn’t it just so cute?

Just the same, Big Dick Castillo brought his A-game for dinner.

The restaurant wasn’t just high-end—it was the kind of place that required two weeks’ notice, a powerbroker’s name on the reservation, and a tolerance for quirky food that looked like modern art. The hostess notably buttered him up, simpered away, took his coat, and called him Mr. Castillo.

“Been here before?” Harry asked as they were guided to their booth.

She didn’t answer, only let her eyes sweep the place—white linen tablecloths, waiters gliding past, a floral arrangement taller than her ego.

She wasn’t dressed for this. Too much skin, not enough couture. The jute of her espadrille heels was scuffed, her clutch was vintage in the wrong way, and her dress—while cute—read detrimental in a room full of tasteful dialogue and five-figure watches. She wished she hadn’t given away the flying fuck she’d reserved for Harry.

So instead, she slid into the booth, crossed her legs slowly, and leaned back like fuck it, let them all look. She’d never belonged in rooms like this, but she knew how to survive them.

Two Michelin stars. Or was it three, maybe? The lighting was gloomy, the cutlery artisanal, and the food came served under glass domes, wreathed in mist like a gothic séance. Every plate looked like a photograph from an art film: uni foam over wild nettle jelly, soil-infused mushroom consommé, whale fat ice-cream (yes, that.) There was no fixed menu—just blind trust in the chef, a man in clogs and tattoos who barely acknowledged them.

This was indulgent, out of her league, so of course she pretended to be unimpressed, like it was routine���hair touched up in the restroom, lips glossy again with the applicator of a stolen Chanel lipstick, heels clicking on imported Italian tile, seated next to a man who could pay her rent for the rest of her life and still have cash left to purchase a moiety of New York.

She even sneaked a photo of the dessert course when Harry got up to take a call, because come on. When else did she get plated edible Parmesan air on gold-rimmed porcelain?

Her last meal had been oatmeal with water, for crying out loud. Not milk. Water.

You could always ask why she didn’t just marry rich. She was beautiful enough to hoodwink them, so why not find a bored billionaire, play the long con, inherit the empire, and vanish somewhere scenic—the Amalfi Coast, or whatever place rich widows went to drink too much rosé—and feign rebirth? And sure, she’d considered it more than once. She wasn’t above strategy.

But something in her—call it pride, call it defiance, hunger for independence—refused to take the easy exit. And maybe one day she would. Maybe she’d settle for a gorgeous, uncomplicated Harry Castillo with deep pockets and no prenup, let herself be worshipped into early retirement. Just not yet.

She was still young, still electric, still drop-dead sexy. There was too much potential and too much fun to be had. Why skip to the end when she could win first? Use her beauty and her brains, pull strings, stay one step ahead of men with power.

Now, in the curved booth, a gilded lamplight spotlit above them, sitting beside her—never across, god forbid—was her latest complication.

Of course, Harry sat next to her, because across meant distance. Across meant restraint, and that would imply boundaries. This man didn't know how to spell the word, let alone observe it. He sat close enough that his thigh occasionally bumped hers. His scent was dark, warm, invasive, the same Jean Paul le Castillo, again, and his attention was even worse. Fork in one hand, wine glass in the other, and that goddamn heinous, hungry look in his eyes as he stared at her lips like it owed him answers.

The new ring—a ruby the size of a small nation—winked on his ring finger, gaudy and melodramatic. It clinked against his glass as he reached forward. His shirt sleeve inched up just enough to reveal his Hublot—black steel, custom dial, subtle as a gun to the temple. And paired with that bracelet, Damascus steel, he was cosplaying the final boss of Grand Theft Auto.

Her thighs pressed together. Inexcusable. Her hormones were staging a mutiny.

She’d spent the fundamental part of her life making sex a transaction. A leverage, a blade, for which men paid in obsession. And now, with him, her instincts were starting to betray her. Lust came up uninvited, and that wasn’t part of the plan.

Harry made her forget where the end was, made her want to tear off her own armour just to climb into his lap and beg. Before then, out of the blue—

“So, how many men came before me?”

He didn’t clarify. Lovers? Marks? The poor bastards who’d mistaken her for a doormat?

She took a slow sip of water, letting the silence stretch long enough to tighten the air. One brow ticked upward. “You want a number, or just a vague estimate that’ll challenge your gall? And also, ruin your appetite.”

He smirked, impressed. “I want honesty.”

She tilted her head. “Ooh, that's a new kink.”

“I’m possessive,” he admitted, pretty garish on his part. “Big difference.”

“Mm.” Her smile curved, feline. “Possessive is only sexy when the person saying it isn’t two drinks away from growling.”

“It’s sexy when it comes with dinner like this.” He waved his hand at the table.

She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, her heel dangling just a little. “You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“Why? You already got the ring. It's right in front of you. All polished and accounted for.”

He reached across the table and let his knuckle trace her cheekbone, then followed the angle of her jaw like he was mapping her. Shiftless, patient.

“You used it to bait me into dinner,” he said, a thumb stroking at her glistening lip. “Could’ve handed it over in the car. Hell, you could’ve pawned it, vanished. But you didn’t. So... you want me, too.”

She grinned at that—wide, unapologetic, teeth and trouble. “You’re adorable when you think you’re in charge.”

His gaze sharpened, darkened. But not in anger—he was starved. Amused, too. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, humming. “A better quality of dessert. Maybe something shiny to take home.”

“To wear or to sell?”

She pushed her bottom lip out. “Depends on whether you make me laugh.”

He shook his head, chuckling into his wine glass. “You’re the hysterical one, sweetheart.” He swallowed his sip, humming, “Do you ever think of doing anything else? Something legit?”

She pretended to think, tapping a finger against her chin. “You mean wait tables? Or marrying a hedge fund vampire who forgets my birthday every year but I have to offset with a wealth of blowjobs?”

He looked at her—a quiet examination that wasn’t judgment, as if wondering what it would take for her to stop running.

“I think you’re more priceless and smarter than you let on, or the little games you play.”

She laughed softly at that—a sound that had just the right amount of sadness tucked in the corners. “Yeah, well. The games pay the bills. And at least I get to choose the rules.”

Harry leaned in, an elbow resting on the table, voice a shade lower now—meant just for her. “You know, you don’t have to play a game to have me take you out. I would've abandoned an intergalactic arms deal if you wanted me here tonight.”

She burst with a giggle, and it was cute how much he took pride in making her laugh. She eventually locked eyes with him and said, calm and clean:

“But it’s so much more satisfying when I win first.”

That made him laugh. A proper, wrecked laugh dropped from his throat, and it surprised even him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, still half-winded. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could rob me blind and make me this hard at the same time.”

She bit her lip—as though it weren’t the exact effect she’d planned down to the second. Spoon clinked softly against the plate as she set it down with ceremony, eyes gleaming.

“I wanna see it,” she whispered, scooting closer to him on the leather booth, until her side was flush against his.

“Eve, sweetheart,” he warned.

She smoothed her lips against his jaw, playing a good little girl. “Show me. Please.”

Her fingers found the zipper of his tailored trousers, the expensive ones, that held shape like a secret. And it was amazing—how hard he was, how her palm couldn’t quite span the bold swell beneath, and how he throbbed to her touch.

She dragged her hand down, watching his face tighten—like a crackling electrical wire. His jaw flexed. His gaze darted briefly to the corners of the restaurant, the other elitist millionaires, scanning for anyone who might recognise the man unravelling.

Then he leaned in. A husky, thrumming caution. “If I knew you were going to get like this, I’d have asked for a private room.”

She stuck out her tongue, childish. “No fun.”

He laughed under his breath and traced a big fingertip down her cheek. “Tell me you missed me.”

“I did miss you,” she said like the sweetheart she was, and the best part was—it was true. Truth spoken with the cadence of a lie. Or a dare. “I thought you’d find me sooner. I waited for you.”

“Duty calls.” His voice dipped, like he hated saying it. “I'm sorry, honey. I was out of town yesterday.”

That explained everything and nothing. She was not satisfied.

She didn’t stop either, her hand kept its lazy rhythm over his bulge, like she was idly petting a wild animal. “I couldn’t sleep at night, Harry.”

His fathomless eyes were trained on her mouth. “Why not?”

“You know how much I missed you? How I was touching myself, wishing it was you inside me?” Her voice turned to silk—sinful, edged with heat, weaponised.

He exhaled sharply, words ghosting over her ear. “Prove it.”

She smiled, slow and wicked, like she’d been waiting for that line all night. With one last stroke, she removed her hand, pursuing her fingers up his jaw—lingering just enough to make his breath hitch. Down the line of his neck, across the snow-white shirt that skirted right around his shoulders, over that infuriatingly sculpted bicep, tough forearm, wrist—the original blueprint of sex—until she led his hand beneath her skirt, just enough to tilt the balance of power.

His long, large fingers took charge from there. They swept her panties aside without an afterthought and found her soaked right through and aching. Home turf, indeed.

A single long finger teased upward through her slick folds, the dewy little bead he wanted to tease all night. Her hips twitched, seeking more; she bit down on a moan that would’ve embarrassed her in any other life. But not here, not when she had the upper hand.

“Making such a mess,” he murmured, and started to push right in.

She caught his wrist—gently, firmly—and pulled his hand away. She wasn’t done playing. “Then let me clean up.”

Bringing his fingers to her mouth, ever so slowly, let her lips part just enough to catch one finger and draw it in. Her eyes never left his as she tasted herself on her tongue.

Harry’s nostrils flared. His jaw twitched, a visible glitch in his otherwise polished self-control. She could virtually hear the recalibration transpiring behind his eyes—an expensive machine overheating under pressure.

“You ever heard of taking turns?” he rasped, voice sandpapered and low.

She hummed into his finger with a grin.

Her tongue curled around the length of his finger in lazy, loving worship. She let her teeth graze the bone, just enough to sting, pulled away with a wet, filthy pop—then slid her hand back to the heat pressed against his trousers.

Still gloriously hard. Harder, maybe.

He made a sound. Barely audible, but visceral—her rich boy was about to snap.

“Mm, I missed my friend,” she teased, palm grazing along the thick outline of him, the way you'd check the heft of a stolen gold bar. “We need to take care of you.”

“Not in here,” he gritted, eyes flicking toward the very public preposterous restaurant, as if remembering too late they were still surrounded by pristine cutlery, half-finished wine glasses, and utterly oblivious millionaires.

She leaned in, voice sugarcoated and silk-wrapped. “Why not? Afraid the waitstaff will find out their favourite industrialist menace is getting head under the table?”

“Sweetheart,” he ground out, jaw tight, “you’re going to get us thrown out.”

She gasped, scandalised. “Oh, no. Not banned from a place where the peach coulis costs more than the average rent.” Her fingers traced the outline of him again, sinfully curious. “But it’s cute that you think I care.”

He gripped the table’s edge. “Outside.”

She leaned closer and click—her teeth snapped together in a playful bite.

What followed was a blur—his credit card swiped on the reader, the receipt signed with a flourish so fast it might’ve been a stock ticker. Between curt commands to the valet and a quiet, untamed “stand by for now,” to his head of security, there were brushes, glances, touches: her fingers sinking just beneath his waistband as he tipped the maître d’, his palm skating down her bare back where her dress dipped scandalously low. Every pass of skin-to-skin felt like a dare, an escalation, a lit fuse.

By the time they ducked into the alley behind the block—dimly illumined in cinematic amber—the anticipation between them had pulled taut enough to hum. The distant purr of traffic and the faint hiss of steam from a nearby vent were the accurate background noise to a heist in progress.

Harry didn’t even get the chance to lean to get her lips before she shoved him against the wall—decisive, insolent, the brick groaning against his back. Her eyes sparkled with that delicious edge, knowing she’d rehearsed the choreography in her dreams: a two-day fantasy played out frame by frame.

And he knew exactly what she was saying, without a single word. You’re mine right now.

Her hands slid up around his neck, fingers weaving into the short curls at his nape, nails just sharp enough to sting. She made him hiss through his teeth—and she smiled at that, feral satisfaction flashing across her lips. How could a man like the great Harry Castillo—so composed, so powerful, so painfully in control—still be reduced to deprived flesh under her touch?

“What did you say to me?” she panted. “That you'd drag me somewhere dark, pull my panties aside, and remind me who makes me come?”

His grin crooked sideways, as if it physically hurt to hold back a groan. “Still sounds like a solid plan to me.”

They let the words hang in the air between them, as her hips crushed into his, allowing him to feel the slow roll of her body against his, just so he damn sure remembered. She pulled back to lock eyes with him, and his expression was glowing with wicked amusement.

“Because that got me so wet,” she added, one brow lifting. “Truly. I’m so touched.”

He gave a rough laugh, hands twitching on her body. “Touched? If you keep grinding like that, I will absolutely bless the whole city block.”

She wrinkled her nose, displeased. “That's really gross, baby.”

He wrinkled his nose back at her. “Just get a move on. With you, my witty repartee functions scramble themselves.”

“That's really hot, baby.”

Then those same hands wandered. Down his collarbone, over his chest. She moved with the assurance of someone who’d mapped this terrain before, who knew every button as if it were a checkpoint on her way to spoils.

When she was rewarded with her kiss, it was a signature scrawled in heat—messy, urgent, binding—and branding him under his clothes, where no one could see. Oh, he’d feel it.

Then her fingers were at his belt.

A low, delighted laugh escaped her. Her rhythm was impatient, rhythm-less. Zipper down, cock out. Just as big, flushed dark, curving, and thick as she remembered him. She wrapped her awaiting palm around him, unmistakably reacquainting herself with an old luxury.

God, how she’d missed this. The raw him of it. The racy confidence, the amused shock in his eyes when she got ahead of him. The twitch in his cock, like it recognised her touch better than his.

“Omigod, Harry,” she breathed, eyes darting between his and the absurd girth in her grip. Imagine a sexy, artisanal baguette. If anything, French cuisine has never sounded more decadent.

“How are you still so hard?”

His head thunked back against the bricks, and a choked laugh dragged out of him. “And?”

She giggled, softer this time. “That’s... honestly, a little heroic. Amazing.”

He groaned, the edge in his voice splitting wide open. “I swear to god—I’m going it blow it right in your hand.”

She slowed her stroke, her hand sliding between his jacket and shirt to clamp down on his waist. “Oh no, baby. You don’t get to tap out when I’ve barely started. You’re gonna see the credits after the feature.”

She gripped him tighter, thumb sweeping the crown. His hips jerked—reflexive, needy.

She knew the tells better than most men knew their passwords. The tight clench of his thighs, the way his hips twitched in expectation, that little flicker in his jaw when he was fighting not to fall apart too soon. And then the low, involuntary groan he gave when she added that precise twist at the top.

So she did it again. And again. More intended, more viciously gentle. Until his body was practically quavering under her rhythm.

That’s when he saw it.

The ring.

His ring.

Gleaming like a petite green sin in the dim alley light—bold, unrepentant, perched snug between the ridges of her knuckles. She must’ve slipped it from its chain and onto her finger when he wasn’t looking—when his pants had come down, when his brain had gone sideways. It shone against her skin with all the drama of a closing argument, catching the movement of her hand every time it slid up and down his cock. Brazen. Ridiculous. Glorious.

He stared, eyes gone wide, chest heaving like he’d just run a fucking marathon in velvet loafers. Pure disbelief tempered only by the rising surge of pleasure threatening to knock him flat.

Her decadent grin spread wider. That same tilt she used before she broke into something expensive. Criminal.

“Look how gorgeous your ring looks on my hand, baby,” she purred, constricting her grip just enough to make him feel it. Then one long, mean stroke—merciless as it was smooth—had him grunting like she’d punched the air out of him.

Sugar in her tone, filth in the intent—“Right while I’m holding your cock.”

That almost undid him. It actually did... just not in the way she expected.

His hips bucked involuntarily—hard—one palm slapping against the wall beside them like he ought to brace against her, or the gravity of her power.

And she could feel it—how close he was, how his body betrayed him completely.

“Careful now,” she whispered, breath hot against his throat. “You’re gonna come all over your ring.”

“Fuck,” he hissed. “I need you.”

His palm found her waist first, then higher—greedier—spanning the swell of her breast, fingers slipping beneath the delicate strap of her dress. He touched her like a man unravelling, desperate to memorise her with his hands before he lost himself completely. She didn’t stop him or bother to slow down.

Ladies, listen up. You let him spiral, let him lose the plot. It, therefore, generates all these amazing results. First of all, you feel like a goddamn goddess.

If anything, the heat of his palm rolling over her chest, thumb brushing the peak of her nipple, made her hand tighten at the base of him, a lazy drag of friction that made his breath catch and his teeth bare. Good, she thought. He’d looked so calm at dinner—composed, controlled, smug. It was time she rattled that composure down to the bones.

His mouth landed near her jaw, warm and unravelling, his breath skipping against the sensitive shell of her ear.

“Christ, baby,” he gulped down. “You’ll kill me.”

“Just a little,” she whispered, a threat swathed in lace.

He gripped the back of her neck now—firm, desperate, tethering. But she could feel the tremble run through him, the growing urgency that turned every touch into a grasp, every kiss into a plea.

And when she felt that telltale twitch in her palm—close, so fucking close—she sank to her knees in one fluid, irreverent motion.

“Eve!” He growled.

“Might want to hold on for this,” she murmured, reaching out and dutifully closing his hand around her hair. Her personal hairband.

His head tipped to the wall with a dull thud, and his breath was knocked right out of him.

She took him into her mouth—no tease, no soft open. Just the hot, wet seal of her lips around him, engulfing pressure sliding down with a purpose that made men remember you. Her hand twisted at the base as her tongue flattened along the underside, every flick and hollow of her cheeks perfectly paced, free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently—almost as if she knew his body better than he did. Her hand stroked what she couldn’t take yet (a lot of it), but she was nothing if not determined, easing deeper, working her gasps and gags, her throat fluttering as she swallowed around him.

Then she pulled back just enough to kiss the tip, run her tongue around it in a slow, devastating circle, and whisper, “Look at me.”

When he did, wrecked and glassy-eyed, and nearly lost it when he saw the glint of the emerald—his emerald—catching the amber haze of the streetlight, shining vulgar and perfect as she worked him over with both mouth and hand, while that gem flashed in and out of sight like punctuation to her rhythm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gritted, hands flying into her hair, helpless to the thrusts into her mouth.

And still, she smiled around him with her eyes. Because down here, on her knees, oh-so-submissive, she fucking owned him. For a single second, she was entitled to billions and billions of dollars.

He let go with a broken sound, head tilted back, hands fastened in her hair. His release hit like a convulsion—deep, violent, ragged, unstoppable—and she took it. All of it.

She kept her lips closed around him, swallowed him down like a secret, let him spill hot down her throat, held still through every violent aftershock until he finally stopped pulsing against her tongue. Only then did she let him slide from her mouth, returning a relic to the altar.

As she littered a few kisses to his hipbone, above her, he was heaving. A ruin of breath and bone, one palm braced against the bricks, the other still fisted in her hair—completely, exquisitely unravelled.

Because for all his suits, his smirks, his predator calm, his moneyed arrogance, his big dick, and relentless pursuit—this was the real him. The one leaning against a piss-stained alley wall, jaw slack, pupils blown, chest rising like he’d been resuscitated by her mouth alone. That wide-eyed, blown-open stare—cracked devotion dressed as disbelief.

Ragged. Gutted. Hers.

She sat back on her heels, knees aching, throat raw, but her chin still tipped with defiance. The streetlamp lit her up from the side, catching the gleam of spit at the corner of her bruised lips, the waterline of her eyes, and the vulgar glint of his emerald still perched like a trophy on her finger.

She didn’t wipe her mouth or fix her hair. She wanted him to see it—the wreckage, the proof still painting her skin.

Look what you made me do, her body said. Now look what I did to you.

“To clarify,” she said, breath still ragged, eyes sharp with mischief. “Was that your soul I just sucked out or are you always this dramatic post-nut?”

He barked a laugh, dragging one trembling hand through his sweat-mussed hair, the other still propping him upright. “You are fucking unbelievable,” he panted.

“Mm.” She rose slowly, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulders and dusting her knees. “Takes one to chase one.”

But just as she turned to make her exit with all the flair of a woman who had already won, his hand caught her jaw.

He wasn’t anywhere near done with her.

He pulled her back around for a feral kiss, so strangely intimate, still so insatiate beneath the smug exterior. Tasting himself, tasting them, tongue plunging, moustache tickling, chasing whatever high was lost into her throat once more.

His other hand plunged low and hiked her thigh up around his hip in one swift motion, dragging her flush against him, pinning her, crowding her into the wall. She gasped at the feel of him again, already half-hard and thoughtless, thrusting up into the soaked heat of her panties, all the way through the flimsy lace and cotton barriers.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her gasping open mouth, “Let me return the favour, sweetheart. I'm a stickler for settling debts.”

“You're hard again?” she giggled, disbelieving. Her hand snuck back to confirm the evidence. “It's been two seconds.”

He grinned, teeth flashing. “It’s the new suit. Gets me going. You like?”

“Jesus, Harry,” she muttered, impressed. “This is either compulsive or Olympic. Have you been microdosing Viagra?”

“I’m just really, really motivated when I see you.”

She gave him a slow stroke through the fabric, lips parted in faux wonder. “Oh, I noticed. Your amazing dick has the recovery rate of a Marvel superhero.”

That husky, ruined laugh of his rang smoke signals all the way to her down there.

She will not deny it: she wanted to let him fuck her. She had been patient was a really long time (read, really two days.) That was practically monastic discipline.

She wanted to be slammed into that wall, chest down, hands crushed in the small of her back, and torn apart. She wanted him to slide into her fast, unrelenting, to fill her in one breathless, punishing thrust and ruin all the good work she’d done painting herself as unfuckwithable. She knew just how soaked she was, how badly her body wanted to cave in and make it impossible for him to forget her.

Instead, she pulled back far enough to break away from him. Her hands stayed on him whilst his desperate lips mouthed up her jaw and ears—one over his feverish heart, the other tenderly cradling his jaw.

Seemingly, fucking around and finding out included taking the win with her. So, she grinned, bright and goddamn invincible.

“Easy, big guy,” she murmured, dragging a lithe finger down his nose and lips. “You blow your load again, what’s left for the encore?”

He stared at her like she was both his best miracle and worst menace.

Then she dropped her leg, smoothed the hem of her dress, and leaned in one last time—her mouth teasing at the shell of his ear—and kissing the coarse arc of his cheek.

“Now, you owe me a ride.”

She hadn’t meant “ride” in the literal sense. But, of course, her recently sucked off, hedge-fund god had taken it that way.

Now here she was, waiting on a curb like a stranded groupie, knees hugged to her chest, fingers picking absently correcting her reapplied gloss, watching him pace twenty feet away, swirling through Important Business like he ran the New York Stock Exchange and the moon phases at the same time. Corporate acrobatics, last-minute deals, numbers, names, mergers.

Harry Castillo was the storm with no centre indeed. Elegant, effusive chaos.

She studied him, inventorying the little habits, just for herself to overthink later.

The way he loosened his collar half an inch, the fabric of his dress shirt tugging tight across his shoulder blades. The way he tilted his phone between his shoulder and ear to glance at his watch, never missing a beat in the conversation, another phone cradling market tickers and colour-coded blocks that meant nothing to her but had his full attention. The clipped, fricative syllables he used when someone tried to talk over him. The furrow of his brows. The press of his thumb and forefinger into his temple, as if the numbers both gave him migraines and fed his soul.

She wasn't supposed to notice this much, or even care. He was a depleted target.

After all, for her bravado, her games and schemes, she witnessed it in him: the sheer momentum of him. The time and tension. The experience that streaked his hair a little, crinkled at his eyes. He was the exemplar of hard work, empire-building and sleepless nights.

It was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen in any gentleman.

Yet, he made her feel small. Smaller than the filthy alley, the incredible sex, and the swagger had made her feel. It was that old, low-grade hum of self-loathing which unfurled in quiet moments when her five-dollar acrylics started to chip and bleed, and her bank account re-enacted a crime scene.

She was what she was. High school dropout, actress by ambition, hustler by necessity. Her résumé was an unconsolidated array of lies, fake eyelashes, and second jobs that paid in tips and IOUs. She didn’t articulate ‘Bloomberg,’ didn’t know what ‘price reflecting risk’ meant, and had never owned anything sparklier than a gold-plated nameplate necklace she hocked at sixteen.

She looked down at it now—his emerald ring glinting like she belonged under it's cocky gleam. Laughable, really. She twisted it round slowly, scrutinising the way it caught the streetlight as it threw new tints of the spectrum right into her undeserving eyes.

A low, motorised purr broke through her spiral.

She glanced up, confused at first, like the street itself had growled.

Something was coming. A fast, smooth statement. Sleek, angular, low-slung, orange—a tropical fruit had a baby with a warning sign. A McLaren, maybe? As far as her fluency in Car and Driver went, she could tell that thing had arguments about acceleration. Seriously, it belonged on a racetrack, not a city street. It was impractical, unreasonable, and utterly excessive—just like Harry.

As the car slid to a stop at the curb, she watched one of the suited security detail break formation and approach it while a man in gloves stepped out and performed a silent, expensive transaction with a key fob. And she—still on the curb, blinking—realised that she had been excluded from this entirely.

Oh, she wasn't part of this mean machine.

She was luggage. Really hot luggage in a pretty dress.

“It’s a platform play, but we can bolt on 2–3 tuck-ins within 18 months.” Harry was still speaking into his phone, utterly unfazed by the gravity-defying spaceship that had just landed in front of them. He was simply striding toward it like it was a goddamn Toyota.

Her stare ping-ponged between him, the security guy, the McLaren, and back to Harry. Soon, a slow surge of realisation struck her.

This was for her.

This was what happened when she joked about owing her a ride after blowing his mind (and him) in an alleyway. For one stupefied, unguarded second, she believed it—she might actually be fucked.

“We'll get this in front of IC and revert. Thanks, Mark.” A crisp click ended Harry's call, and the phones vanished into his jacket, so he turned his full attention to her.

He offered his hand, palm up, fingers splayed—infuriatingly gentlemanly. And the grin that spread across his face was downright criminal, that it should’ve come with a warning label.

“I believe I owe you a ride,” he rumbled.

She took one look at the orange beast purring by the curb and immediately shot up to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth to control a shrill squeal.

“Harry,” she breathed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart.”

“I should’ve given you head the first time we met.”

He snorted. “Oh, I remember. But you needed dental insurance before taking on the full... package?”

Every ounce of self-respect fled her system.

“I was joking!” she gasped, eyes locked on the car. “I mean, I’d give you your ring back—but you didn’t have to get me a sports car! This is insane. This is—”

She clapped her hands once, spun on her heel, convulsing, fanning a hand at her face. “—so goddamn sexy I might cry. Look at her! She has curves! She’s shiny! She’s so my type!”

Harry watched, entirely too amused and pleased with his own theatrics. His shoulders started to shake with deep, husky laughter.

“I hate to spoil your greedy little soul, but I just wanted a nightcap.” He tapped the hood of the car. “It was gathering dust, I figured you would appreciate—”

“I appreciate, I really, really appreciate.” She grinned, bouncing a little in place, pitch rising with every word. “Oh, we are breaking so many traffic laws tonight. We’re gonna crash this thing straight into an uppity country club.”

She bounced toward the passenger side like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to yank open the door—

“Other side.”

She halted mid-motion, narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

He raised the key fob near his head, pushed a button—and the car croaked an obedient electronic chirp as the driver’s side door lifted vertically, like a butterfly wing.

“You’re driving us tonight,” he informed.

She stared at him, attempting to render his words to her reality. She really must've blown off the one little screw that held his common sense together.

Her heart slammed against her ribs with a cocktail of adrenaline, arousal, and unbidden panic. And with it came the reveal of: “Harry. I haven’t driven anything in years.”

“Good,” he said, strolling about to the passenger side, leather shoes scuffing. “You’ve got experience.”

She scoffed. “What... and if I kill us?”

He shrugged with that aggravating impassivity. “For what I’m worth, they’d better build a memorial—not leave me smeared on the freeway.”

The key was dropped into her hand, and she looked down at it, then at the car—her reflection warped across its polished surface.

For a moment, it began flickering behind her eyes—that horrified, disbelieving piece of her that still didn’t think she deserved to touch a machine this exquisite, let alone drive it. A thief, a fake—what business did she have behind the wheel of a seven-figure car?

Despite that, she smiled. Well, that was not her now. She was made of wicked chaos, pink Chanel gloss, and full-figured hunger.

“Well, buckle up,” she said, ducking and gliding behind the wheel, basically stepping into her final form. “If we die, I’m haunting you with blue balls in the afterlife.”

He laughed, following her in. “Duly noted, sweetheart.”

And the door hissed shut, sealing her in.

One thing you needed to know about this city—laid out like a glittering, fatigued whore at her feet—was that even the rats had a hustle.

So before you judged her for jumping at the wheel of a hypercar she didn’t own, playing the coquette in knockoffs, maybe ask yourself this: what would you do, if a million-dollar engine thrummed at your fingertips and the man beside you looked at you like a sex god personified?

“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t give these nobodies no sympathy,” SZA whispered through the surround speakers, truth bleeding from her voice like philosophies.

She mouthed along to the words, head bobbing between the headrest, legs up on the dash.

She’d meant to steal one little big ring, and a few hours of air conditioning and affection. But somehow, she’d ended up here—idling by Riverside in a car that purred with decadent control, less an animal’s snarl, more a savvy grin. A flick of her foot on the pedal had set it forward like a breath—no lurch, no grunt. Just a seamless glide, the motion of a motor made to conquer without show.

New York City arrayed as circuitry in front of them—vast, shining, veined with red brake lights and screw-ups. They had chased the fringes of midnight toward a lookout she hadn’t been to in years, one of those places you only returned to when you had something to prove. Not anymore, the McLaren did it for her.

Her fingers traced the stitched grooves of the steering wheel, supple black leather, and the centre console illuminated the space like the cockpit of a fighter jet: chrome, carbon fibre, touchscreens glowing like digital seduction. Even the whole cabin smelled like ozone, leather and aerospace engineering. Every inch of it whispered, you don’t belong here.

Yeah, she didn’t. Her fingernails still had dirt under them. Her shoes were vintage consignment pretending to be Gucci. Her confidence, like most things in this city, was counterfeit—but expensive-looking.

And goddamn, did she look good pretending.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. The black sedan behind them hadn’t moved out of formation since the restaurant. No hazard lights, no overt tailing. Harry’s version of subtlety: a ghost that reeked of payroll.

Then her ex-target's voice cut through the hum of the engine.

“So,” he said, so offhandedly it almost sounded bored—if not for the fact that he was watching her like a man circling a flame. “Cartier or Harry Winston before closing time? I did promise you a handful of rings.”

She glanced over at him, lips quirking.

This man. This ludicrous, outrageous man. He had no idea the effect he had on her. Or maybe he did—and that was half the danger.

Here she was, fresh off scamming him into a disgustingly expensive dinner, jacking his family heirloom right under his nose, and now she was joyriding his million-dollar toy while he reclined in the passenger seat like some amused villain who’d already won.

She snorted, not bothering to hide the laugh. “I just need to say this out loud for the universe: I am using the absolute hell out of you.”

Harry leaned his head back, one arm slung behind her seat, the other lazily adjusting the cuff of his blazer. “If anything,” he said, “I’m disappointed you’re not using me more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t enough?”

“Hardly. If I were in your little shoes,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her strappy knockoffs, “we'd already be popping a bottle of Dom on a jet, halfway to Geneva right now.”

Her laugh cracked out before she could stop it. “Wow. Talk dirty to me, Papi.”

Grinning that tongue-in-cheek smile of his, he reached for her feet, pulling them up into his lap without asking. Scud dusted his sleek custom trousers, but he only focused on tracing lazy circles along her calf—intimate, absentminded, entitled, so domestic.

He toyed with the buckle of her shoe, lifting it with an index finger. “Speaking of, we need to get you a new pair. Maybe a dozen. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Jimmy Choos,” she said, going along with it.

“Done.”

“And while you’re at it, maybe a penthouse on the east side?”

“Take mine.” Then added, “Conditionally.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Still trying to bankroll what you can’t own.”

He kissed the inside of her ankle, exactly where she’d dabbed perfume to mask the shoe funk. “Still stealing what you secretly want to keep.”

Her heart thudded—almost annoyed at the betrayal. That little jump, that involuntary jolt at his voice, his closeness. As if her body hadn’t gotten the memo that she was supposed to be in control.

She let her head tip lazily toward him, eyes half-lidded. “You really want to be used by me?”

He leaned in, that sinuous way he did everything, as though gravity didn’t apply to him quite the same. “Only you.”

God knows she'd heard every variation of flattery laced in a threat—but that wrecked, gruff tone of his crushed under her ribs she didn’t care to name.

She held his gaze for a second too long, the moment coiling tight between them, breath warming the space where danger meets desire. She could taste it. This thing between them. It was scorched sweet.

He tilted his head, that lazy confidence coiled behind his jaw like a spring. “You’re the only one who uses me right, sweetheart. You do it selfish. And it works.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, because it was. But more so because it was true. In the non-tragic fucked-up way that made her heart twitch in a place she didn’t like to acknowledge.

“Is it?” he leaned in, letting his knuckles graze the inside of her thigh. “Because it sounded a hell of a lot like a compliment to me.”

She tilted her head with that dangerous little smirk, which usually preceded theft or sex.

“Tell me what you think I want from you,” she said, the implication lingering like steam off an expensive glass.

He didn't miss a beat; he met her gaze, dead-on. “Comfort. Sex. Money. Exactly in that order.”

Well. That was blunt. But she mostly got used to the sting.

It wasn’t a wrong guess, but it wasn’t the whole picture, either. That was the problem with men like Harry; they saw the silhouette and thought they interpreted the sculpture.

She projected that image—Eve, a loose, cocky, precocious thief in a pretty dress. It was the only currency that worked in most rooms. But… a part of her wanted to be seen through it, not as it. Charming fun. Clever girl. Desirable for more than how easily she slipped a watch off a man’s hand or a moan from his throat.

She inhaled through her nose, lips parting like a question left unsaid. “You really think that’s all I am?”

“I think you’ve figured out how to get what you want,” he said, his hand slipping casually down to the arch of her ankle. “And I respect the hell out of it.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t the yes she’d been half-daring him to say, either.

She looked away, a flick of her lashes down, forming a curtain between them. The lights of the city glimmered past the windshield, multicoloured, a little blurred. She didn’t even realise she’d gone quiet until—

His fingers clicked in front of her face. She blinked, coming back to herself, and turned just in time to catch his smirk.

“Earth to Eve?”

She sat up a little straighter, drawing her legs out over his lap in an easy stretch, avoiding a pang that was still ringing somewhere in her ribs. Her heel grazed the far car door, the other foot resting right where he wanted her. She could work with that.

She smiled—bright, artificial, wicked. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Back to our suite,” she lied, sugar-tipped, curling his hand between her bare knees. She guided it higher until his fingers found the hem of her dress and slipped beneath, “First, I want to know something.”

Thin lace. Warm skin. Low hum of history.

His palm cupped her, long fingers pressing against the soaked scrap of fabric as if he wasn’t already fluent in the language of her thighs. And still, she caught it—that stutter in his breath, the falter in his cool. Good. Let him lose his balance a little. She liked him like that.

“Does this question have to do with you coming on my hands?” he rasped.

She laughed, full-throated and bright, head tilted back like she'd just heard a good joke. “Don’t you want your ring back?”

He blinked, stunned, stupidly handsome. But before he could fathom a reply, she caught his hand in both of hers and pressed the car’s key fob into his palm. Then, with a magician’s flair—wrist tilted just so, fingers guiding the moment like sleight-of-hand, let the reveal land—there it was.

The emerald, back on his ring finger like it had never left. Gleaming.

“We’re even,” she said casually, all silk and smoke, like she hadn’t rehearsed that little flourish hours ago.

He gave a disbelieving laugh, a sound of him still catching up, halfway between fury and foreplay. She thrived with that sound on him—surprise laced with surrender.

“And this?” He gestured between them, a vague sweep of his hand as if it incorporated the entire cyclone.

“A draw, maybe,” she sang out. Then—after a beat—“Unless you want to raise the stakes.”

But his eyes flicked to hers—amusement glinting in the depths of them.

“You know,” he drawled, slow as molasses and twice as rich, “I promised myself I wouldn’t let you walk away tonight. I even…”

He undid his blazer button with a flick of his thumb, rolled the sleeve back, shirt cuff—pressed, white, expensive. Bare wrist, no watch.

The custom Hublot was missing. Only the steel bracelet jangled noiselessly, missing its pair.

Her smile bloomed—teeth and mischief. Pure delight with a cherry on top.

He looked at his wrist again, as if it might’ve reappeared, then at her. Half-outraged (you little shit), half-astonished (I really want to fuck you), and completely turned on. Her man.

“Way ahead of you, honey,” she whispered. Winking, but not bothering to show the prize. That wasn’t the point. She never flashed what she’d already claimed.

Theft was foreplay, and proof was irrelevant. And didn’t it feel good being her?

And the fact that somewhere between the appetiser and the edge of his self-control, he couldn’t stop chasing her even as she’d slipped through his fingers and walked off with both the crown and the kingdom.

In that moment, she felt like a force of nature. Beautiful, smug and completely untouchable.

And yet... she knew how this would go. How she’d go home eventually, peel off her heels, strip the night away, and set the Hublot down on her dresser like a trophy, her evidence of reality, even though it would never match anything she owned—too masculine, too boorish, too expensive.

And she’d lie awake, wondering if Harry was laughing right now, alone in his too-big bed, in a penthouse that echoed with emptiness. Or perhaps giving security some nondescript bullshit line like, “Don’t chase her. I'll find her soon.”

Now, she languidly drew her legs back into the footwell, all part of the final act. One last fluid exit, stage left. She reached for her satchel that she'd slotted somewhere by the console.

The butterfly door hissed open with a smooth hydraulic sigh, too much preposterous sex appeal. But before she could duck out, Harry’s warm, possessive hand caught her wrist.

“Give me something in return,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. Like if she didn’t, he’d unravel.

She turned, one brow lifting with theatrical grace—that signature look—you don’t know who you’re playing with, do you?

“I gave you something mind-blowing an hour ago,” she muttered, chin tilting.

He smirked, but didn’t let go. “Something of yours, sweetheart.” His gaze dropped to where her purse was on her lap, then climbed again, a lazy drag that felt like fingertips down her spine.

“I’m a materialist, too. You know that.”

That made her laugh, laced with irony only women like her could master—mostly weapon, all charm.

What was he, Prince Charming? Did he want a glass slipper, a trace of perfume, a lock of hair? Did he expect her to leave behind some totem of surrender, some girlish trace he could pine over, so he could come chasing after her with keen, awaiting arms and an incurable erection?

Oh, this poor man. Wrong fairytale.

His lopsided smile twitched, as if he were biting the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check, which also made her hesitate for half a second.

Just long enough for a thought to flicker through her. Unserious. Wildly inappropriate. Which, of course, meant it was perfect.

She shifted in her seat with catlike precision, eyes holding his, lifting her hips just enough to hook her thumbs beneath the waistband of her panties—white lace, delicate, and soaked through in the patternings that would make anyone blush. They slid down in an inching, methodical glide—past her soft thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles—until she held them between two fingers. A peace offering. A punchline. A poem in cursive.

But oh, Harry saw. His pupils expanded. His jaw ticked. There was the faintest inhale—so minor you could miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

And then she twirled them once, dainty and devilish, before looping the lace over the rearview mirror, letting them hang there like some heretical pair of fuzzy fucking dice.

“Fits right in your pocket,” she said with a girlish grin. “Low-upkeep. No batteries required.”

“I was hoping for your number,” Harry murmured, voice dragging a beat slower now, eyes still on the lace dangling from the mirror. “But I’ll have to look into your file for that. Might gild this.”

“Or sniff it like a sick fuck, I won't judge,” she replied, grinning as her fingers skimmed his jaw, affectionate enough to confuse.

Then she leaned in, cupped his jaw, and embossed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Absolute mockery to his devastation. She didn’t pull back right away; her lips hovered near his ear, voice dropping a fraction.

“You said file,” she murmured, the piece clicking into place. “That means you’ve been digging.”

His grin didn’t twitch. “You gave me a fake name, stole from me, then disappeared. What wronged man wouldn’t?”

Of fucking course.

That name. The one she’d given him in a silk-wrapped lie, born over fine liquor and misdirection. Eve—first woman, first sin, first scam. She’d let him keep it mostly because it worked, fit her like one of his tailored suits: sharp, pricey, vaguely challenging.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t stupid. Two days were plenty of time for a man like him to trace her name, her past, even her blood type if he really wanted. She knew the kind of resources he had, which meant either he’d been telling the truth—he had been out of town—or he’d been playing a longer game. And if he was playing, she needed to know the rules.

When she pulled back just enough to study his face, his eyes held hers with an agonising grace.

“Mm,” she mused. “And what’d you find?”

“I’m not a man who gives away his sources.”

She bit her lip. “But you’ve read it.”

His hand flexed on the leathered console, as if he were cogitating some undecipherable truth in his wide palm. “Skimmed,” he admitted. “Certain... hidden highlights.”

That made her laugh. “Did it come with a caution label?”

“Countless,” he said mordantly. “In red, underlined.”

She giggled, a little proud. “Bet you liked that so much it got you hard.”

He looked at her for a long, unreadable second. “You made sure of that.”

She smirked. “So, what else do you know?”

He let his miles-deep eyes trace her as though he were approximating her against intel he had in his desk somewhere. Fact versus sensation. Biography versus influence.

Finally, he said, “Enough to want more.”

“Of me?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Of the truth,” he said simply.

The way he said it got her wavering, which was no easy feat from someone like him. There was no flirtation or ploy involved. Harry was... interested. Still playing the game—but this time, one she hadn’t mapped out entirely.

So she flashed him a smile—bright, effortless, razor-edged. “Good luck with that,” she said breezily. “I charge by the minute.”

Then that smirk ghosted onto his face again—annoyingly familiar, dangerously fond. “I could pick up the tab for the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

Fuck, she wasn't kidding when she said that made her wet to her toes.

She was thinking through it all now. About files, how much he knew, about why the idea of being read like a dossier made her feel more exposed than when she’d dropped her panties for him.

He knew enough to chase, not enough to catch. Until then, that was the only leverage she had left on him.

“Thanks for your time, Mr Castillo,” she added, and that was the sting, of course it was—a jab at the custom Hublot she’d stolen straight off his wrist mid-handjob. She’d pocketed his time, and now she was thanking him for it. Full circle.

She slid out of the car, the hem of her dress flirting with indecency, heels tapping against the pavement, ass bared to the breeze like the night had to feel her too, and the wind responded—chasing her like it wanted to finish what they’d started.

She didn’t look back until she was halfway across the lot, because you know, lesson learned: drama demands distance.

Then she turned—just her head.

Harry was standing outside the car now, one hand braced against the hood like he needed it to stay upright. His thumb stroked at his smirking lower lip like he was trying to remember what just happened—and whether he wanted it to happen again. Shirt collar askew, hair messy from her hands, sweat matted, chest heaving, ring back on his finger—

He looked like debauchery on pause. A wealthy man wondering if, possibly, he’d just met the devil and preferred it to all the angels that roamed.

She gave him a smug, little fingers-only wave. Fucking couture.

The exit mask mattered. The smoking, final walk away in heels someone else paid for, hips swinging like a metronome wound up on spite and superiority.

Another dumbass bites the dust.

You need to know that, at the end of the day, Eve didn’t just chew on any apple. She carved it into slices, served it on stolen silver, and made sure God was watching.

Her bittersweet punishment was history.

Because temptation lingered, smiling when it burned, knowing where you kept your heart vaulted, and it definitely never forgot who bit first.

© damneddamsy

scam ideas for part 3? I'm thinking of the club and a bigshot entrepreneur 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads (you are my one and only), @woodxtock (my baby girllll, my whole life), @divine-timings , @jodiswiftle (BAY-BEH!), @bensonispunk @brittmb115 , @for-a-longlongtime (honey, thank you so much for the rants), @pedritotito , @desuidesu , @bluelightwrites , @isa942572 , @mallingcalling-blog , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @itstokyo-cos , @holholliday , @i-workwithpens , @any-corrie , @yourallaround-simp , @directfromreynaldo , @tezooks , @yungsuesi-blog , @czessianna , @aleariixx , @noisynightmarepoetry , @th3mrskory , @monamedeiros12 , @oliveksmoked , @gothcsz , @itstheanxietyforme , @lowrisemiller } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you for your support! 🌻🦋

[damneddamsy]

vanity fair

holy shit 😍😍😍

[damneddamsy]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 MASTERLIST RATING Explicit (18+ only) PAIRING Harry Castillo x Female Reader (nicknamed ‘Eve’) FORMAT & SETTING Third Person POV & Post-Materialists AU WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER approx. 10k+ STATUS Ongoing

SUMMARY One honourable thief. One smitten billionaire. One stolen emerald ring. One simple con. And one very inconvenient attraction. She’s made a life out of stealing from men like Harry Castillo—influential, arrogant, freshly tailored to fuck and wealthy enough to believe they control the game. But when a diamond heist turns into a filthy rendezvous in a penthouse suite, her night gets complicated fast. See, Harry might’ve come undone under her, but he’s not done playing with her. Now, her biggest crapshoot isn’t the con… it’s falling for the man she’s robbing blind. Harry Castillo, powerbroker, fellow materialist, and her latest target, knows exactly what she looks like when she’s ravaging him, precisely how adept she is at lifting family heirlooms, and thus starts off one illegal beginning to a cat-and-mouse match soaked in sex, extortion, and gloated with more money than sense. Love, lies, larceny—all before sunrise. The state of play: he chases, she runs, they deceive. And someone always comes out on top (and sometimes that's quite literal.) Easy peasy, right?

INDEX

DEAR DESPERADO

GOOD GIRL GONE BAD

LOVE ON THE BRAIN

LOST IN PARADISE

to be determined...

TAGS ROMCOM, billionaire!harry castillo x thief!reader, how materialist should've treated Harry, one Pedro boy conned per chapter, New York being New York, laugh-out-loud humour, quips, banter, powerplay, biblical references, reader is a sexy, bad bitch, harry is disgustingly rich with a big dick that's what, questionable age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics.

CONTENT WARNINGS smut from the get go woohoo (p in v, oral - female and male recieving, and everything in between), explicit language, discussions on poverty, sexism, social prejudice, glass ceiling, toxic masculinity, abuse of power, substance abuse, materialism.

TAGLIST 🫶 { @oolongreads , @woodxtock . @divine-timings , @jodiswiftle , @bensonispunk @brittmb115 , @for-a-longlongtime , @pedritotito , @desuidesu , @bluelightwrites , @isa942572 , @mallingcalling-blog , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @itstokyo-cos , @holholliday , @i-workwithpens , @any-corrie , @yourallaround-simp , @directfromreynaldo , @tezooks , @yungsuesi-blog , @czessianna , @aleariixx , @noisynightmarepoetry , @th3mrskory , @monamedeiros12 , @oliveksmoked , @gothcsz , @itstheanxietyforme , @lowrisemiller } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you for your support! 🌻🦋

[damneddamsy]

GOOD GIRL GONE BAD | HARRY CASTILLO PART 2 of 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

-> READ PART 1 HERE. A.N. -> I think I'm going to make this a series because I'm loving my fuckass thief a little too much ;) W.C -> 15k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, humour, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, harry gets amazing head, expensive dinner and under the table action, fast cars and late night drives, age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

TWO DAYS LATER...

Harry Castillo never did find her after that night, and the world, predictably, kept spinning.

That was a given—of course, the man never stood a chance. He hadn't even known her real name, let alone the life she lived between swiping his magnificent emerald ring and finagling for his sky-high penthouse suite.

The thing about rich men—a huge difference between the Hamptons-on-the-weekend rich and the take-the-G5-for-lunch-in-Marrakech rich—is that they get bored very fast. The money dulls their instincts, softens their hunger. So they go looking for novelty, for danger, bootlickers with sharp heels, lips that serviced them.

And that’s when these duds start collecting people, the same way other men collect watches. It’s not malice, necessarily. It’s just the casual entropy of having everything. Eventually, they start poking holes in the world to see what bleeds.

Harry, who had once been deliciously under her (and, yes, she had performed—thank you very much), was now officially behind her. Metaphorically. Spiritually... logistically?

Still, every so often in the last forty-eight hours, when sleeplessness licked at the fringes of her sanity, she’d think about that fantastic night. Him. His cologne. His million-dollar smile, his silky curls, that flex of muscles in his forearms. How he moved like a man who didn’t just fuck—he endured. Sex was a marathon he never lost. She might’ve bitten into a pillow just recalling it.

Now, as she scrubbed her coffee cup in her little walk-up, she mildly wondered why he hadn’t kicked down her door yet. No agents in Kevlar, no tactical ballet of flashlights sweeping her withering IKEA furniture.

Guess his precious emerald ring wasn’t priceless after all. Maybe he’d decided ‘Eve’ was.

Still, spectacular sex didn’t pay the Con Ed bill, and orgasms weren’t legal fees, not even ones that left her boneless. The hustle was a jealous god. Worship it daily or risk getting chewed up and spit back out. There were strictly no vacation days in this line of work.

She wiped her hands on the wet dishtowel and glanced out the window, onto her street. The city, even late afternoon, pulsed with potential scams, possibilities clothed as bad ideas. Nearly time to earn her penance.

Her taxes, of course, were a masterclass in creative fiction. Nowhere on the forms could she write ‘part-time righteous thief,’ even if the city owed her a medal for how cleanly she worked. By day (or whatever counted as ‘respectable daylight’ in her world), she was an actress—aspiring, which is really just code for ‘not yet a celebrity but unfathomably tenacious.’

And she was good, actually better than good. Unlike the legions of gullible hopefuls waiting tables and praying for callbacks, she didn’t just play the role; she became it.

That’s what theft had taught her: how to vanish into a character. A wealthy widow in a silk scarf. A ditzy sweetheart with a purse full of distractions. A lonely wife who despised her rich husband.

See, acting was easy. Being real was the trick.

Now... you might be wondering how she’s never been caught.

Simple answer. There were no larcenies, but borrowed realities. She slipped into them like new dresses, modelled them until they itched, then left them behind without creasing the seams. She understood people better than they understood themselves, and in a city built on a fancy facade, that made her the most honest liar in the room.

Between matinee shows and understudy rehearsals, buried someplace in the margins of a yawning Off-Broadway script where she played ‘The Mistress’ and occasionally ‘Dancer #2,’ she had begun her favourite kind of research: target acquisition.

This one was named Max.

Older, incredibly hot in the way girls liked their unruly men now. Ran a supposedly “disruptive” tech startup that had never once had to crawl through the dirt to breathe. Financed—predictably—by Mommy and Daddy’s hedge fund, equipped with pre-IPO arrogance, and a fake chip on his shoulder. He styled himself as a rebel: leather jacket, scruff at a precisely calculated millimetres, and a beast of a motorcycle. Everything about him screamed curated danger. Which, of course, made him exactly her type—for now.

Tonight, Max was hers.

She wasn't after his heart. Please, she had far more realistic goals: the chunky platinum bracelet and the possibility of a chain tucked beneath his shirt—a custom Cartier, if her Instagram sleuthing and zoom-enhanced screenshots were correct. Et voila, two months' rent, served on a dish. He liked his jewellery like he liked his women: slender, eye-catching, and stolen from someone else's better judgment.

She’d shown up at his hipster bar—the one with floating Edison bulbs and overpriced tequila, where the walls were made of raw brick and vintage vinyl records. It was much too loud, too try-hard for her taste. But it didn’t matter, she didn’t need to like it—she just needed to be seen in it. You know, gullible and pretty, a beaming sunflower among roses. The total ‘good girl’ package.

Max cornered her before she had to pretend to clumsily nurse her drink, took her hand, pressed too many kisses along her knuckles like some bad Bond villain, and crooned promises of a better night elsewhere.

“Preferably somewhere with horsepower,” he whispered to her.

She smiled—wide-eyed, toothy, assumingly earned. “Sounds fun.”

His bike was parked just on the edge of a downtown lot, under murky lighting that gave it a movie-magic feel. It was truly a prowling monster—chrome and matte black, roared like one, clearly built for showing off rather than comfort. Aerodynamics be damned.

He stopped, looked at her, and grinned. That grin—ugh, it came with a subscription to its own perfume.

“Hop on, baby girl,” he said, tugging her gently by the waist, and then—just like that—he lifted her. Hands under her thighs, strong enough to remind her why he was tolerable in the first place. Baby girl, because that was exactly the temperament she was going for tonight.

“Whoa—omigosh, okay,” she laughed, letting him guide her onto the seat.

She threw a leg over to straddle, at her own leisure, flashing just the right amount of white lace beneath her floral skirt, just enough to not seem cheap but stay rent-free in his imagination.

He stepped closer, thumb brushing along her knee. “You ever ridden one of these before?” he asked, leaning in.

“Only ponies at petting zoos,” she said sweetly. “But I always wanted to go... faster.”

He liked that. She could tell by the little shift in his posture, the spark behind his aviators. Max was predictable like that; he liked a good girl saying wicked things.

She tilted her head, letting her hair fall just so, lips parted. “Do I hold on to you, or just pray?”

“Oh, you’re gonna be holding on and praying,” he said, grin widening.

And then came a—HONK.

The burst of sound shattered the moment. She blinked, startled, nearly falling back on the seat. An old Civic lurched past behind them, the driver yelling about “blocking the fuckin’ exit, genius!”

She laughed again, this time without feigning. “Always this romantic?”

Max rolled his eyes, smoothing a hand down her thigh. “For the VIPs.”

“Lucky me,” she murmured, even as her eyes slid discreetly toward the glint of his chain peeking out beneath his collar. Just a little longer, and she’d be the one riding off into the night—with his jewellery in her bag and her name scrubbed clean from his memory by morning.

From her perch on the back of the bike, she leaned forward with ceremonious ease, reaching for the handlebars. Her hips tilted as she did it, bare thighs reflecting the bar's spotlight, skirting riding up a little, ass popping just enough to make a statement: yes, you’re looking—and I know exactly what you’re thinking.

She bit her bottom lip and looked back over her shoulder, coy. “So,” she murmured, fingers curling around the throttle, “do you race for pink slips on this thing?”

Max gave a breathy, wolfish laugh. He moved in, arms folding around her from behind, his chest pressing close to her spine. One hand came to rest on hers atop the handlebar, the other grazing up the bare skin of her back, fingers trailing higher, then lower. Stroking—feeling—bingo.

His breath brushed against her ear. “Why, d'you wanna race against me? I’ll let you win.”

She tilted her head, gave a breathy laugh, and let herself melt back against him just a little. Never all the way. Her game had rules, even if he didn’t know he was playing.

Max got bolder. His other hand slipped lower, gathering the hem of her skirt. Fingertips dragging along her thigh, seeking heat.

But—HONK. HONK. HONK.

A barrage of honks snapped the moment in half. Three sharp, urgent blasts. She couldn’t help it anymore—she burst out laughing, tipping forward against the tank of the bike, shaking her head.

“Is this your version of foreplay?” she teased, pulling her skirt back down with a small tug, as if nothing had happened. “Public inconvenience. Not a fan.”

Max growled low in his throat. “They’re just jealous.”

She gave him a saccharine smile over her shoulder. “Of you, or of me?”

He winked. “Me, of course.”

The fourth honk was belligerent. HOOOOOOONK!

Ouch. Then came the headlights—full beam—washing over them in artificial daylight, crisp, priceless and thoroughly unimpressed. It wasn’t some angry delivery driver anymore. This elegant machine… it was matte black, sleek, elongate, idling behind them like a lioness waiting to pounce.

A Maybach.

She blinked once, twice, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden flood of light. The newest version of the Maybach didn't simply hint at wealth—it was a chauffeur’s dream. Quiet luxury for the chronically privileged.

Max cursed under his breath, shading his eyes like he was confronted by a UFO beam. He glanced over his shoulder, irritated, but still kept one hand possessively on her thigh as if this wasn’t rapidly becoming someone else’s scene.

“Jesus. Just go around, asshole! There's plenty of space!” Max barked at the Maybach, all puffed up with that predictable strain of man-to-man testosterone, chest out like a bantam rooster.

The Maybach, as expected, didn’t budge. It was too refined to engage.

And then, almost politely, the headlights blinked once. A statement. Get the fuck out of the way.

She felt it immediately—that flux in atmosphere, the hair-raising dissonance that told her this wasn’t just a gridlock spat. The stillness of that car held tension. Consideration. This wasn’t some rando being petty, nor was it some impatient Wall Street exec late to a mistress.

This was a message wrapped in two tons of German—maybe—engineering.

And that was when the unease hit. A slow coil in her gut, skin prickling—she didn’t like this at all.

Another night, she’d have flipped the bird and blown a kiss just to stir the pot. But no, she had to remember she was in character. Tonight, she was soft, sugary, a blooming daisy of a girl who wouldn’t know a red flag if it wore a name tag.

“Let’s go for a ride, Max,” she coaxed, curling a finger into his jean pocket. “Forget the guy.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I wanna show this fucker who he messed with.”

Oh, boy. She didn’t even need to check the Maybach again to know that was a bad idea. The worst ideas always started with a man trying to measure his dick through tinted glass.

She reached for the softest note in her vocal library, brushing concern into every syllable. “Now you’re scaring me.”

That actually did it. Men like Max lived to feel strong in the presence of fragility. He turned, gentling to her innocence, rubbing her cheek like she was some porcelain doll.

While pressing a protective kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “I got you. Let’s get out of here.”

He handed her a helmet that reeked of weed, sweat, and barely-laundered masculinity, and slid onto the bike. She scooted behind him, skirt shifting up her thighs, heels tucked close, her arms looping around his waist in an affectionate tangle.

He revved the engine and glanced over his shoulder, grin too cocky. “Ready, baby?”

She giggled on cue, tightening her arms around him. “Ready!”

He snapped his visor down, and then they were off—rocketing through Manhattan like two kids who’d stolen a joyride and didn’t know the ending yet. And she had to admit: not bad for her first time on a motorbike.

She really hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much—the wind in her hair, the lights blurring past as if they were fireflies on speed, the rush of every pothole and sharp turn pushing her against Max’s back—an accident she allowed to look intentional. New York, past dark, always had this unpredictable mysticism. Once the neon bleed from storefronts flickered across her skin, setting the mood, tonight, for a moment, she let herself buy into the fantasy: wide-eyed good girl on the back of a powerful motorbike, arms flung up in joy, laughing into the wind like the lead in some Sundance film with a dream pop soundtrack that critics would call “raw and luminous.”

She hooted once, purely for the drama of it. Let the East River eat its heart out. Besides, fairytales like this always ended in red lights.

Eventually, laughing with her, Max pulled them over on the bridge—Williamsburg or somewhere, she didn’t care—and let the engine hum under them like a resting animal. She slid off first, not without pressing a thank-you kiss to his neck, stretching her legs, smoothing down her skirt. The view was... unexceptional. The city sparkled behind layers of industrial haze, scaffolding, and distant sirens. Honestly, this metropolis functioned better as a grey area.

Max wasn’t looking. He was busy trailing his mouth down her throat, hands already staking claims. He wanted her so bad, it was hilarious.

“How about,” he murmured, lips dragging up her ear, “this weekend, you and I go somewhere fun? Catch some sunshine, lie around...”

She let him spin her around, let her back meet the cold, rusted metal of the railing. One arm curled over his shoulder, a hand gently pushing back his hair in that sweet, absent way men misread as affection.

“Mhm?” she prompted, humouring him.

His fingers found the hem of her skirt, slipped under to trace the expanse of her thigh. “Hawaii.”

She raised a brow, stroked her nose along his lazily. “I was thinking... south of France.”

He snorted, bit her earlobe. “Cute.”

No, she was seriously serious. But that was the thing about these people—they loved a girl with charm, but not too much ambition. Not unless it was sexy, and not unless it served them. Bigoted freaks.

And then—HOOOOOOOONK!

That long, low, obnoxiously entitled sound, once more, ripped through the stillness of the bridge, a gunshot made of money.

Max pulled back, agitated. “What the actual fuck!”

She turned away from the yell, wincing, her heart already beginning to drop.

Because there, idling just yards away, was the same Maybach, sinister as hell. The headlights blinked once, just like before. An unhurried black peak of patience and confidence.

“Don’t,” she said quickly, placing a hand on Max’s chest as he began to step forward. “It’s not worth it. Max, please.”

But the transformation had already happened. He’d gone from laid-back bad boy to territorial bulldog. “Is this fucking guy following us? Is he serious?”

“Max,” she tried again, keeping her voice low, cajoling, “don’t engage. Just—come on, let’s go.”

But the car door opened. The rear door. Oh, shit. Not good.

And out stepped—Harry Castillo.

Definitely not good.

Motherfucker. She meant that to herself, really. Her stomach pivoted a full, elegant tilt. Imagine a ballerina swan-diving off a rooftop—all graceful and doomed.

He didn’t walk out of that Maybach. He emerged—materialised, Armani loafers first, like a curse come due. Like she’d whispered his name into too many mirrors or said it once too long in her head.

He looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him, sitting in that lobby bar, two nights ago: devastatingly tailored, cruelly composed, eyes still infinite, dark curls coifed to imperfection, a man who never had to chase anything in his life.

Except, still, apparently, her.

She had to laugh internally. Really? You didn’t think he’d find you?

The man probably had satellites in space. Facial recognition. Twenty computers running scans by techie nerd slaves. A team of lawyers who could tell her what colour socks she wore to her nanny job.

And now, there he was, looking at her—not like a man scorned, not like a lover lost. All private equities and precision grooming. Standing center-frame, accomodated under his own damn headlights like the lead in a noir thriller. Broad shoulders barely contained in that Zegna suit. Ultimate Roman nose. Knife-cut jaw. The faintest shadow of disdain.

She had to actively fight the instinct to let her eyes drop between his legs. There, her favourite friend was, that mythic thing that had ruined her body for all other men.

Harry’s massive dick, the economic downturn of her emotional stability. You just have to appreciate a pleasure to behold, literally, at any expense.

But she wasn’t scared of Harry Castillo (or his dick, for that matter. Definitely not.) But she was scared of what followed him—men in suits, invisible networks, hushed conversations that ended with ankle monitors or body bags.

Look, she hadn’t stolen just any ring.

That fucking ring.

Emerald, antique, high-pedigree luxury brand, ancestral to the Castillo empire. Retail price? Such a tacky question. Black-market price? High enough to set off alarms from here to Thailand the moment she tried to fence it.

And now it hung around her neck. Half a million dollars on a second-rate chain. Against her skin. Her not-so-lucky charm. She hadn’t even been able to pawn the damn thing. It sang out trouble every time she bent over and felt it swing.

And Harry… well, he wasn’t looking at anything but her.

Which finally reminded her of Max. Right. Him. Still in attendance.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, tension doctoring his voice, his manhood beginning to sense it was no longer the biggest personality on this bridge.

Harry stopped beside the bike, arms unwound at his sides, the illustration of unbothered dominance. He smiled—politely. The way you smile at a child holding a sharp object.

“Are we friends, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like old bourbon, brows creasing.

Sweetheart. The death knell, and her thighs clenched reflexively. It hadn't just haunted her—it had reigned over her the past few nights. The same voice that had murmured filth into her ear two days ago. The voice that held elevator doors open while promising he’d find her.

And find her, he did.

That morning, in the afterglow of her escape, she took the subway home. A jarring transition—metal bars and flickering fluorescents after marble floors and velvet shadows. The silence was different here from the schmancy hotel. Lonely. Awful.

She had clutched her coat tighter around her, the ring—Harry's ring—tucked deep in the lining, out of sight but burning against her, whipping a second heartbeat.

She told herself not to give in, that she was done playing that role, and she was the one in control. That this wasn’t going to get under her skin.

Ten minutes after changing into homewear, choking down old cereal, she had crumbled into her bed, slid her impatient hand under her shorts, and her fingers were inside her.

Her calves were quivering, her breath hitching in little gasps as she ground against the little circles of her knowledgeable hand, trying to chase the shape of his body from memory. Harry wasn’t there, but he was—in every detail. The heat of his mouth, his hand wrapped around her breasts, the scrumptious way he filled her with that dignified cock of his—slow at first, then rough, snapping his hips up into hers. The way his voice got like a caress over her skin, low drawl and dark worship, every groaned sweetheart and baby was an affirmation.

The first orgasm hit shamefully fast, and she hated the way her body answered to his even when he wasn’t around to make demands.

The second one was slower, needier, drawn out like a confession. She brought herself there—teeth sunk into the corner of her pillow, a low whimper pressed into cotton—imagining the exact way he groaned when she swallowed, tightened around him, how he held her face when he kissed her one last time.

When she finally came, it rolled through her like a storm. Her toes curled and pointed. Her eyes snapped open. Her spine arched and her chest heaved, and she swore she could still feel the ghost of his hands squeezing on her tits.

Afterwards, she lay in the dark, one arm flung over her face, body singing, satisfied and ruined, but her mind didn’t quiet. Her eyes were wet, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Maybe it was the heat of frustration.

And still, her fingers had lingered at the curve of her thigh, debating going back for a third. Because he was the only thing that made her feel like this in a really long time. This desperate, this tempted, this berserk for a man.

And now he was here. In the flesh.

Max, tragically oblivious to nuance—bless him and the cocktail of ketamine confidence and startup scramble sloshing through his veins—tried again.

“You know her, man?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Of course not. The man moved like punctuation: purposely, only when it mattered, and never to explain himself to idiots in leather jackets and bootcut jeans. His gaze flicked toward Max, cold and brief, confirming the source of an unpleasant smell.

He drawled that voice again, “She’s—”

She panicked. Nope. Not happening. That word—whatever it was—was going to ruin everything for her.

She cut in fast. “He’s my dad!”

Silence.

A cosmic silence that might precede a solar eclipse, or a smiting. Her pulse fluttered, but she didn’t let it show.

Harry’s blink was criminally slow. His right eye twitched—he really was gorgeous when he was restraining homicidal rage.

And for a second, she thought maybe she could sell it. Maybe Max would be dumb enough to swallow it whole. Until Harry’s jaw flexed with such epic, generational disappointment that she had to follow up.

She offered, as sweetly as arsenic, “Stepdad. Technically.”

Still nothing from either of the dumbasses. Except the murderous, taught twitch in Harry's jaw that persisted.

She could’ve stopped there and let it simmer. But no, she was on a roll, so she might as well juggle the knives while blindfolded.

She slipped from Max's side, wedge heels clicking lightly on the concrete, and made her way to Harry's—hips swaying like this was her runway, not the walk of shame. (Which, frankly, it was.) She nudged her arm into his, gently, teasing.

“Yeah,” she said brightly, pitching her voice just loud enough for Max to hear. “Been that way for sometime now. I even call him… Papi.”

Harry’s lips parted. “Jesus.”

She beamed up at him, casually chucking his chin. “Look at my Papi. He just loves it.”

Then, just for him, smile endearing, her eyes slicing into his, a plea laced with a threat, conveying a message, ‘Play along or I swear to god, I'll sell the ring to someone who makes NFTs.’

Harry broke, and she felt that little exhale of surrender, her heart quieting. She always knew how to find the seam and pry it open.

“Ye—”

“I think,” she said, cutting him off again, “he just got really worried that I was with a guy who drives a motorcycle. Probably why he followed us. Right?”

Harry’s sigh was biblical. “Right.”

She flashed Max an outlandish smile. “He’s just so protective of me.”

Harry muttered something under his breath—it sounded suspiciously like ‘not from motorcycles, from syphilis.’ But he kept it under control.

Max nodded, clearly recalibrating, trying to navigate whatever Freudian mess he’d just been handed. “Huh. Tight family.”

You have no idea, she thought. Tight like a noose.

Then Harry—with all the calm of a man choosing which blade to use—turned to her, one hand casually resting on the open car door. “Get in the car.”

She raised a brow. “What if I like it here?”

Harry’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Then I’ll put you inside myself, sweetheart. And you will like that.”

Max blinked.

She blinked.

Everyone blinked.

It wasn’t a suggestion. But the way he said it—lazy, low, the vaguest husk in his voice—made it sound like he was inviting her into a hotel bed, not his luxury sedan.

She hesitated, just long enough to feel her own nerves flicker. Every atom of her body screamed don’t. Her spine tensed, her breath caught. Her instincts did what they always did when danger showed up in a bespoke LV suit: calculate.

Because she wasn’t just nervous about Harry. She was nervous about what she was still willing to do for the ring. The stupid, gaudy, exquisite thing, nestled like a vice between her breasts. Dollars and dollars of regret strung around her neck like a dare. It was untouchable, unsellable. But unfinished.

And if there was one thing she did not ever do, it was leave a job incomplete. That was the difference between girls who handled cons and girls who got caught.

So she turned.

Max, dear, dumb Max, was still standing there blinking as if Harry had shaken his snow globe. A golden retriever of a man—tail wagging, unaware of the incoming truck. Poor baby.

She stepped into his space, ran her fingers through his hair, thick and slick with too much product. He grinned, warm, doped up on whatever startup serotonin and weed vape was still sloshing in his bloodstream. She tugged lightly, just enough for the illusion to hold—and to keep him still while she worked.

“Your Papi is crazy,” he whispered.

She pouted. “My Papi gets possessive.”

Then she kissed him. A just-there kiss that was more sleight of hand than affection, a big smokescreen. As her lips grazed his, her eyes slid sideways—past his shoulder, past the fog of cologne and naivete—to find Harry.

His arms crossed, face unreadable, but she could see it—the coiled silence that came before a tsunami. A cool exterior stretched tight over a woodland gone ablaze.

She smiled against Max’s mouth.

And then she opened hers wider, let her tongue slide deeper, brought Max's arm around her waist, pushed out a soft, breathy moan that was pure theatre—every inch of it aimed at Harry, like an arrow dipped in gasoline.

She could feel the heat of his glare sear the air between them, almost hear the crack of his patience splitting clean down the middle. That sexy, murderous calm he wore like his perfect suit. The quiet, intoxicating fury of a man used to control. She wanted to shatter that. Hence.

Poor sweet idiot Max thought that this was his win. When in truth, she was just using his mouth as her mirror, reflecting what she would like Harry to know. No one owned her unless she let them.

So she pushed her lips to Max like a queen bestowing favour. Slid one arm around his neck, the other deftly trailing down, fingers slipping against the back of the chain—click—and the clasp gave. The necklace dropped soundlessly into her palm, and just like that, mission: salvaged.

“I had so much fun with you tonight, Max. Will you call me?” she asked, brushing her lips with his, eyes wide with fake vulnerability, lashes at full-performance flutter.

“Don’t have your number,” he murmured, but—like a party trick—produced a business card from his jeans. Two fingers, smug grin.

He tucked it between her bra and blouse with a wink. The card brushed right over where the ring rested. Perfect. Layered lies, that always got her off.

“Go, baby girl,” he said, “before your dad pulls out a Glock on us.”

She almost lost it all to a snorting laugh. He was just so damn sincere. He honestly thought this was edgy roleplay and not a real-life power struggle with a man who could and maybe would pull a Glock.

He was sweet. And, like most sweet things in her life—disposable.

She turned, chain coiled in her fist like a snake, the heat of Max's lips fading, and walked back toward the Maybach, hips swinging just a little extra, enough to prove she wasn’t scared, and just to dare Harry to make a scene.

Harry, ever the gentleman—or sociopath—opened the door for her.

And as she passed him, his hand landed squarely on her ass.

Not what you’d expect from a stepfather. Unless, of course, you subscribed to very specific corners of the internet smut where shame and power blurred together with a click.

Because this wasn’t a grope. It was a claim.

Calculated, possessive, and arrogant as hell. His fingers squeezed in with the confidence that came from knowing every inch of her—past tense be damned. Smug fucking bastard.

Her spine straightened instinctively. Her breath caught—in that white-hot fuse of adrenaline and indignation. The gall of him. The sheer, effortless nerve. Sliding back into her orbit like he’d always been allowed there, her body was a place he still paid taxes on.

She said nothing, but her lips curved faintly.

Touché, Papi.

She slid into the leather seat, the door thunking shut behind her like the closing of a vault.

Harry moved with that predatory grace—shoulders fluid, jaw sharp with purpose. The chauffeur didn’t need a cue; whether machine or man, the car cruised forward like it knew his mind.

As they rolled past the curb, she glanced back.

Max was still standing there, his hands in his pockets, reeling. His mouth hung open slightly, one combat boot half-scuffed on the pavement like he’d tried to follow, like a man trying to figure out whether he'd just been mugged, ghosted, or seduced. (Newsflash: all three.)

His eyes met hers through the tinted window. She smiled sweetly.

He raised a hand to wave—slowly, hesitantly, like a puppy who didn’t know if he was still welcome. Such a cute little puppy.

She blew him a kiss.

Then turned her head just as he caught it, head forward, game face on, as the Maybach slid into traffic.

Because the ring was around her neck, her spoils of the night in her palm, and Harry—Harry fucking Castillo—was beside her.

If she thought this was over, she was sorely mistaken.

Proving that Harry Castillo was still a man—and, more damningly, still hers in some subterranean, unspoken crevice of himself—he couldn’t stop looking.

Not that he tried. Subtlety had never been his vice of choice.

His gaze, unapologetically male, raked down her legs, bared now without the safety net of stockings. She’d swapped the Louboutins for a pair of espadrille wedges that gave her just enough height to twist the knife. Her dress was floral—floral, for fuck’s sake. A dizzy little number with a cinched waist, soft cotton and a neckline that walked the line between innocent and criminal negligence. Her hair was different, too—soft waves framed her face and shoulders, and a thin, delicate braid spun across the back of her head like she was auditioning to be in a fairytale.

Last time he'd seen her, she'd looked like sex in a red wine glass. Now she was practically Thumbelina in a sundress. He wasn’t fooled, and neither was she.

She knew what she looked like—played it quite successfully, even—and yet somehow, Harry was still the one twitching in his own car.

She could feel the air crackle in the car every time his gaze dipped. The anticipation coiled tenser every time she adjusted the elastic bust or crossed one leg over the other. Not even for his benefit—but Jesus, it was working anyway. That was the thing—she wasn’t trying to seduce him. That ship had sailed, sunk, and was now rotting on the ocean floor with all the other men who’d thought they could handle her.

On a less desperate note, it was her first time in a Maybach. Hopefully, also her last.

It was more of a rolling reliquary for titans chasing immortality through market share and unresolved daddy issues. The leather was too plush, the silence too padded. Everything about it exclaimed power, permanence, and ownership. She wouldn’t lounge in these private-jet-on-wheels seats like some arm candy with Stockholm Syndrome, so she perched instead—like she might bolt at any second or bite you for trying.

At her feet, two chrome-plated champagne flutes sparkled like tiny totems of excess. The mini-fridge hummed softly under the console. And of course, there was a mounted touchscreen display for ‘mood lighting.’ She wondered what ‘mood’ it glowed when someone was being interrogated by an ex-one-night-stand-slash-target.

She stared at all the luxuries for a moment, counting up the invisible zeroes. How many zeroes did it take to turn a car into his bastion?

Harry finally spoke to break the five-minute silence, his voice low, amused, a touch accusatory, but still he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“What’s your winnings on this one?”

He was reclining a little ways from her, and his dark eyes were still somewhere south, too—pretending not to enjoy he way the dress hugged her chest too much, and failing with flair.

She turned just enough to see that. She toyed with a fingernail, let it hover innocently near her lips.

“Nothing major, Papi.”

His brows lifted, just a tick. A man politely pretending to be surprised. He looked away, scoffing under his breath. “You’re allergic to 'nothing.'”

God, he was so painfully predictable. She offered a sugar-slick smile and sang out, “A tiiiny necklace. And... a ring.”

His posture stiffened a fraction. Alert, now. His eyes, the very shade of dark rum and worse decisions, cut to hers. “Collecting trophies now, are we?”

“Maybe.” She tilted her head. “Or planning a garage sale. Depends on the market.”

Harry leaned toward her, eyes hardening like he was ready to shift into another register. “Don’t fuck with me, Eve.”

His gruelling scowl was almost convincing—if her name had actually been Eve. That meant he still didn’t know who she really was. Not her name, not her history—so what was this, then? Some twisted coincidence? A brush with fate? Had he really followed her across town, all smooth in his black Maybach, chasing nothing more than a memory? No plan, no confirmation—just a vague pull and a hunch?

If so, it was almost laughable. Almost romantic, too. But mostly dangerous.

So, she leaned in, too, because it was fun to play. Her voice dropped half a note. “I already did fuck with you.”

Harry exhaled, long and frayed at the edges, and ran a hand down his face like she was a stain he could wipe away.

“Sweetheart,” he muttered, and it landed somewhere between a threat and a bribe, “if you give me that ring, I’ll take you to Fifth Avenue right now. You want two more? A whole fucking hand? A bracelet to go with it? Done. My card and Cartier Building are yours.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, biting her lip to contain amusement. It was almost too easy. Men... just dangle a little sex, a little danger, and they’d throw diamonds at you like Mardi Gras beads.

She allowed herself a small laugh—cruel, delighted. “Are you trying to buy me off with guilt jewellery? A shiny booby prize?”

“I’m trying to stop you from being stupid.”

Her lips thinned into a surgical smile. “If you wanted me rational, Harry, you should’ve fucked an accountant.”

Harry gave a pleased, filthy little hum. “Do you still have it?”

“Who says I do?”

“You do,” he insisted, like it was gravity. “You wore it out of that suite like a goddamn medal.”

She turned back to the window. The city was starting to rise in the distance, blurred under bridge lights. “Maybe I pawned it. Maybe I mailed it to your ex-girlfriend, little miss matchmaker. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a koi pond in Brooklyn.”

He just stared at her, no humour or patience left.

She shifted in her seat, her sundress sliding higher, not for him, but his inhale still snagged. Luxury-wrapped warfare, and she was fully fucking armed.

She was dismantling him, with bare legs and a grin that said, ‘You wanted this. I want it more now.’ And somewhere deep in that beautiful bastard brain of his, Harry knew it.

The Maybach hummed like a well-fed predator through the avenues, insulated from honks and heat. Outside was chaos, inside was gloved luxury, stitched leather, and two people pretending they weren’t seconds from lunging across the seat.

Harry's hand rested like a loose threat on the centre console. Still watching her, cataloguing every inch as if she weren’t already in his bloodstream, whether he liked it or not.

“You know,” he said finally, voice cool, “I’ve handled mergers with less resistance. And, never so deep in stalker territory that they know about my exes.”

She examined her nails, chipped from the subway turnstile. “Well, curiosity never killed anyone. And you know,” she countered, “I’ve handled richer men with worse cars.”

He glanced around the cabin, unimpressed. “That’s not even true.”

“It’s sadly true,” she said, biting back a grin.

He snorted because a real laugh would be too generous. His eyes dragged over her once more.

“That ring,” he said, finally, “wasn’t for sale or for taking.”

She feigned shock, clutching her imaginary pearls. “So possessive. I thought you evolved past that.”

Harry leaned forward, entirely implying a threat. “You don’t even know what it is.”

She met his eyes, head tipped. “I know it’s worth enough to make you beg.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious. And useful.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, and a smile nearly escaped. “Jesus. You’re not even trying to tempt me, and somehow it’s working.”

That earned him a slow, wicked smile. “Good.”

And that was the problem. She wasn’t trying from the start of this. She was just being—aggravating, hungry, radiant—and it was working. She knew it was, she saw it in the way his jaw kept flexing like he wanted to kiss her stupid and strangle her at the same time. He hadn’t touched her since that little performance at the curb, but she could still feel his hand, ghosted and smug across her ass. An assertion. A pushpin.

He cracked a bit of tension in his neck. “You keep that ring, Eve, and you’re in deep shit. I don’t bluff.”

“No, you just hold women against their will in your little jet-car and call them sweetheart like it’s 1942. Very romantic.”

He turned toward her, elbow on the backrest, his voice silken steel. “You’re not even scared.”

“Nope,” she said, flicking her eyes toward him. “I’m starving.”

He blinked at her, thrown for a second.

Then she added, sweet as syrup: “And I’m guessing you’re not dumb enough to threaten me on an empty stomach.”

Harry leaned back, assessing her like an appraiser with a looted painting. “You’re doing a lot of talking for someone exceptionally screwed.”

“Oh, Harry.” She leaned in across the console, chin in her hand, close enough that her breath brushed his jaw. “I’m only proposing a dinner. In exchange for what you want. Seems generous, considering the resale value of your little emotional support ring.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not emotional.”

“Of course not,” she said, settling back. “Just as priceless as your ego.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And need I remind you, this is extortion?”

“No,” she chirped brightly. “That’s dinner with a woman far out of your tax bracket.”

“Sweetheart, you—”

She shrugged one bare shoulder, calm as a cat sunning itself on a windowsill. “Come on. You missed me. Admit it. You just didn’t know where to find me.”

“I did, too, find you,” he shot back.

She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “After I’d finished with Max. Lucky break.”

“Greased Lightning, sure,” he muttered. “Real prize. Had his hand halfway up your skirt, tongue on your tonsils.”

She pointed an accusatory finger. “Slut-shaming me isn’t the persuasive tactic you think it is, mister.”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, ravenous eyes wandering up from the hem of her dress to her legs. “Not shaming. Just saying—you have interesting taste in rebound mechanics.”

“You jealous?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

His silence was golden; she wanted it in her palms.

“I was,” he said finally. He said it like it hurt to admit.

She flashed all her teeth, brilliant and wicked. “Aw, my Papi. Feeling things for me.”

Without warning, Harry leaned across the console—a fluid, avaricious shift that closed the space between them.

A flinch would give her away. Her chin still rested delicately in her hand, fingers curled beneath it like a bored schoolgirl. Her eyes sharpened, her mouth twitched, she didn’t move exactly, but every cell in her was suddenly keyed in.

He dragged a knuckle down the line of her jaw, featherlight—and of course it was that territorial, ravenous touch of his. As though he was checking to see if she still had skin, if it still responded to him. Yes, it did, and she hated that he knew.

“You really let him touch you like that? Right in front of me?” he murmured, fingers down the expanse of her throat, words curling with conversational filth. “You have no idea how easy it'd be to take you somewhere dark, pull those panties aside and remind you who makes you come.”

Her breath caught—a moment of restraint slipping because the sharp, vivid mental picture bloomed uninvited.

He was close enough now for her to smell the faint trace of his cologne—the same bergamot, wood and fresh banknotes—and underneath that, worse: familiarity. She hated that she remembered how he smelled. She hated it more than it still made her soaked in her best pair of panties.

Yet, she didn’t lean away. She didn’t so much as bat an eye when his fingers grazed her collarbone, dipping lower. She let him find the chain—let him think he was in control for a beat too long.

“You really want to see if it’s there?” she asked softly, teasing, a whisper with claws.

He took the bait, all male and smug, lifting the chain from between her breasts like he was unveiling buried treasure.

And there it was.

His precious ring.

That big, fat emerald swung like a pendulum between them—silent, supine, damning. She watched his eyes lock on it, and the flicker of recognition sharpen into a darker emotion. Greed. Frustration. Lust. Who knew—with Harry, the difference was academic.

He stared at it like it was a rib she’d stolen from his body while he slept.

“Ben,” he said, voice a velvet growl, never taking his eyes off her.

“Sir,” the driver answered with CIA-level readiness. As if he wasn’t listening to foreplay masquerading as directions.

“Miss... Eve is feeling famished. Spring Street, please. Sixth Avenue. Thanks.”

“Copy,” Ben muttered, keying his mic on his wrist. Then, under his breath, too low for the intercom or for his passenger's ears: “Yeah, sure. Let’s get her something to eat before she swipes your socks, too.”

Upon his command, the Maybach veered off course. Even at the razor's edge, Harry had it in him to be the well-mannered rich boy he was raised to be.

And, honestly, saviour Ben deserved hazard pay for the things he heard behind tinted glass. He must've thought that these two were sick with tension. She stole his ring, and he changed course for dinner. That was either love or capture-bonding... with a tip included.

She smiled at the road ahead. A sinful thing that unfolded like a plan, because yes, this was exactly why she’d kept the ring. Not for the money, though, it was easily six figures. Not even for the power, not in the obvious way.

But because he wanted it back, and wanting made Harry sloppy.

It made him touch. It made him chase. It made him reckless and sweet and very, very red-blooded, dumb male. Which meant she’d already won. Before the wine or the check arrived at whatever overpriced hole they were headed to.

She was still the one who dictated the terms. And Harry—poor, rage-polished, ring-hungry Harry—was already halfway back on the leash.

She crossed one leg over the other, reclined just a touch deeper into the seat, and gave him that look—You can have me or the ring. But only if you beg.

He still thought he had the upper hand. Wasn’t it just so cute?

Just the same, Big Dick Castillo brought his A-game for dinner.

The restaurant wasn’t just high-end—it was the kind of place that required two weeks’ notice, a powerbroker’s name on the reservation, and a tolerance for quirky food that looked like modern art. The hostess notably buttered him up, simpered away, took his coat, and called him Mr. Castillo.

“Been here before?” Harry asked as they were guided to their booth.

She didn’t answer, only let her eyes sweep the place—white linen tablecloths, waiters gliding past, a floral arrangement taller than her ego.

She wasn’t dressed for this. Too much skin, not enough couture. The jute of her espadrille heels was scuffed, her clutch was vintage in the wrong way, and her dress—while cute—read detrimental in a room full of tasteful dialogue and five-figure watches. She wished she hadn’t given away the flying fuck she’d reserved for Harry.

So instead, she slid into the booth, crossed her legs slowly, and leaned back like fuck it, let them all look. She’d never belonged in rooms like this, but she knew how to survive them.

Two Michelin stars. Or was it three, maybe? The lighting was gloomy, the cutlery artisanal, and the food came served under glass domes, wreathed in mist like a gothic séance. Every plate looked like a photograph from an art film: uni foam over wild nettle jelly, soil-infused mushroom consommé, whale fat ice-cream (yes, that.) There was no fixed menu—just blind trust in the chef, a man in clogs and tattoos who barely acknowledged them.

This was indulgent, out of her league, so of course she pretended to be unimpressed, like it was routine—hair touched up in the restroom, lips glossy again with the applicator of a stolen Chanel lipstick, heels clicking on imported Italian tile, seated next to a man who could pay her rent for the rest of her life and still have cash left to purchase a moiety of New York.

She even sneaked a photo of the dessert course when Harry got up to take a call, because come on. When else did she get plated edible Parmesan air on gold-rimmed porcelain?

Her last meal had been oatmeal with water, for crying out loud. Not milk. Water.

You could always ask why she didn’t just marry rich. She was beautiful enough to hoodwink them, so why not find a bored billionaire, play the long con, inherit the empire, and vanish somewhere scenic—the Amalfi Coast, or whatever place rich widows went to drink too much rosé—and feign rebirth? And sure, she’d considered it more than once. She wasn’t above strategy.

But something in her—call it pride, call it defiance, hunger for independence—refused to take the easy exit. And maybe one day she would. Maybe she’d settle for a gorgeous, uncomplicated Harry Castillo with deep pockets and no prenup, let herself be worshipped into early retirement. Just not yet.

She was still young, still electric, still drop-dead sexy. There was too much potential and too much fun to be had. Why skip to the end when she could win first? Use her beauty and her brains, pull strings, stay one step ahead of men with power.

Now, in the curved booth, a gilded lamplight spotlit above them, sitting beside her—never across, god forbid—was her latest complication.

Of course, Harry sat next to her, because across meant distance. Across meant restraint, and that would imply boundaries. This man didn't know how to spell the word, let alone observe it. He sat close enough that his thigh occasionally bumped hers. His scent was dark, warm, invasive, the same Jean Paul le Castillo, again, and his attention was even worse. Fork in one hand, wine glass in the other, and that goddamn heinous, hungry look in his eyes as he stared at her lips like it owed him answers.

The new ring—a ruby the size of a small nation—winked on his ring finger, gaudy and melodramatic. It clinked against his glass as he reached forward. His shirt sleeve inched up just enough to reveal his Hublot—black steel, custom dial, subtle as a gun to the temple. And paired with that bracelet, Damascus steel, he was cosplaying the final boss of Grand Theft Auto.

Her thighs pressed together. Inexcusable. Her hormones were staging a mutiny.

She’d spent the fundamental part of her life making sex a transaction. A leverage, a blade, for which men paid in obsession. And now, with him, her instincts were starting to betray her. Lust came up uninvited, and that wasn’t part of the plan.

Harry made her forget where the end was, made her want to tear off her own armour just to climb into his lap and beg. Before then, out of the blue—

“So, how many men came before me?”

He didn’t clarify. Lovers? Marks? The poor bastards who’d mistaken her for a doormat?

She took a slow sip of water, letting the silence stretch long enough to tighten the air. One brow ticked upward. “You want a number, or just a vague estimate that’ll challenge your gall? And also, ruin your appetite.”

He smirked, impressed. “I want honesty.”

She tilted her head. “Ooh, that's a new kink.”

“I’m possessive,” he admitted, pretty garish on his part. “Big difference.”

“Mm.” Her smile curved, feline. “Possessive is only sexy when the person saying it isn’t two drinks away from growling.”

“It’s sexy when it comes with dinner like this.” He waved his hand at the table.

She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, her heel dangling just a little. “You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“Why? You already got the ring. It's right in front of you. All polished and accounted for.”

He reached across the table and let his knuckle trace her cheekbone, then followed the angle of her jaw like he was mapping her. Shiftless, patient.

“You used it to bait me into dinner,” he said, a thumb stroking at her glistening lip. “Could’ve handed it over in the car. Hell, you could’ve pawned it, vanished. But you didn’t. So... you want me, too.”

She grinned at that—wide, unapologetic, teeth and trouble. “You’re adorable when you think you’re in charge.”

His gaze sharpened, darkened. But not in anger—he was starved. Amused, too. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, humming. “A better quality of dessert. Maybe something shiny to take home.”

“To wear or to sell?”

She pushed her bottom lip out. “Depends on whether you make me laugh.”

He shook his head, chuckling into his wine glass. “You’re the hysterical one, sweetheart.” He swallowed his sip, humming, “Do you ever think of doing anything else? Something legit?”

She pretended to think, tapping a finger against her chin. “You mean wait tables? Or marrying a hedge fund vampire who forgets my birthday every year but I have to offset with a wealth of blowjobs?”

He looked at her—a quiet examination that wasn’t judgment, as if wondering what it would take for her to stop running.

“I think you’re more priceless and smarter than you let on, or the little games you play.”

She laughed softly at that—a sound that had just the right amount of sadness tucked in the corners. “Yeah, well. The games pay the bills. And at least I get to choose the rules.”

Harry leaned in, an elbow resting on the table, voice a shade lower now—meant just for her. “You know, you don’t have to play a game to have me take you out. I would've abandoned an intergalactic arms deal if you wanted me here tonight.”

She burst with a giggle, and it was cute how much he took pride in making her laugh. She eventually locked eyes with him and said, calm and clean:

“But it’s so much more satisfying when I win first.”

That made him laugh. A proper, wrecked laugh dropped from his throat, and it surprised even him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, still half-winded. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could rob me blind and make me this hard at the same time.”

She bit her lip—as though it weren’t the exact effect she’d planned down to the second. Spoon clinked softly against the plate as she set it down with ceremony, eyes gleaming.

“I wanna see it,” she whispered, scooting closer to him on the leather booth, until her side was flush against his.

“Eve, sweetheart,” he warned.

She smoothed her lips against his jaw, playing a good little girl. “Show me. Please.”

Her fingers found the zipper of his tailored trousers, the expensive ones, that held shape like a secret. And it was amazing—how hard he was, how her palm couldn’t quite span the bold swell beneath, and how he throbbed to her touch.

She dragged her hand down, watching his face tighten—like a crackling electrical wire. His jaw flexed. His gaze darted briefly to the corners of the restaurant, the other elitist millionaires, scanning for anyone who might recognise the man unravelling.

Then he leaned in. A husky, thrumming caution. “If I knew you were going to get like this, I’d have asked for a private room.”

She stuck out her tongue, childish. “No fun.”

He laughed under his breath and traced a big fingertip down her cheek. “Tell me you missed me.”

“I did miss you,” she said like the sweetheart she was, and the best part was—it was true. Truth spoken with the cadence of a lie. Or a dare. “I thought you’d find me sooner. I waited for you.”

“Duty calls.” His voice dipped, like he hated saying it. “I'm sorry, honey. I was out of town yesterday.”

That explained everything and nothing. She was not satisfied.

She didn’t stop either, her hand kept its lazy rhythm over his bulge, like she was idly petting a wild animal. “I couldn’t sleep at night, Harry.”

His fathomless eyes were trained on her mouth. “Why not?”

“You know how much I missed you? How I was touching myself, wishing it was you inside me?” Her voice turned to silk—sinful, edged with heat, weaponised.

He exhaled sharply, words ghosting over her ear. “Prove it.”

She smiled, slow and wicked, like she’d been waiting for that line all night. With one last stroke, she removed her hand, pursuing her fingers up his jaw—lingering just enough to make his breath hitch. Down the line of his neck, across the snow-white shirt that skirted right around his shoulders, over that infuriatingly sculpted bicep, tough forearm, wrist—the original blueprint of sex—until she led his hand beneath her skirt, just enough to tilt the balance of power.

His long, large fingers took charge from there. They swept her panties aside without an afterthought and found her soaked right through and aching. Home turf, indeed.

A single long finger teased upward through her slick folds, the dewy little bead he wanted to tease all night. Her hips twitched, seeking more; she bit down on a moan that would’ve embarrassed her in any other life. But not here, not when she had the upper hand.

“Making such a mess,” he murmured, and started to push right in.

She caught his wrist—gently, firmly—and pulled his hand away. She wasn’t done playing. “Then let me clean up.”

Bringing his fingers to her mouth, ever so slowly, let her lips part just enough to catch one finger and draw it in. Her eyes never left his as she tasted herself on her tongue.

Harry’s nostrils flared. His jaw twitched, a visible glitch in his otherwise polished self-control. She could virtually hear the recalibration transpiring behind his eyes—an expensive machine overheating under pressure.

“You ever heard of taking turns?” he rasped, voice sandpapered and low.

She hummed into his finger with a grin.

Her tongue curled around the length of his finger in lazy, loving worship. She let her teeth graze the bone, just enough to sting, pulled away with a wet, filthy pop—then slid her hand back to the heat pressed against his trousers.

Still gloriously hard. Harder, maybe.

He made a sound. Barely audible, but visceral—her rich boy was about to snap.

“Mm, I missed my friend,” she teased, palm grazing along the thick outline of him, the way you'd check the heft of a stolen gold bar. “We need to take care of you.”

“Not in here,” he gritted, eyes flicking toward the very public preposterous restaurant, as if remembering too late they were still surrounded by pristine cutlery, half-finished wine glasses, and utterly oblivious millionaires.

She leaned in, voice sugarcoated and silk-wrapped. “Why not? Afraid the waitstaff will find out their favourite industrialist menace is getting head under the table?”

“Sweetheart,” he ground out, jaw tight, “you’re going to get us thrown out.”

She gasped, scandalised. “Oh, no. Not banned from a place where the peach coulis costs more than the average rent.” Her fingers traced the outline of him again, sinfully curious. “But it’s cute that you think I care.”

He gripped the table’s edge. “Outside.”

She leaned closer and click—her teeth snapped together in a playful bite.

What followed was a blur—his credit card swiped on the reader, the receipt signed with a flourish so fast it might’ve been a stock ticker. Between curt commands to the valet and a quiet, untamed “stand by for now,” to his head of security, there were brushes, glances, touches: her fingers sinking just beneath his waistband as he tipped the maître d’, his palm skating down her bare back where her dress dipped scandalously low. Every pass of skin-to-skin felt like a dare, an escalation, a lit fuse.

By the time they ducked into the alley behind the block—dimly illumined in cinematic amber—the anticipation between them had pulled taut enough to hum. The distant purr of traffic and the faint hiss of steam from a nearby vent were the accurate background noise to a heist in progress.

Harry didn’t even get the chance to lean to get her lips before she shoved him against the wall—decisive, insolent, the brick groaning against his back. Her eyes sparkled with that delicious edge, knowing she’d rehearsed the choreography in her dreams: a two-day fantasy played out frame by frame.

And he knew exactly what she was saying, without a single word. You’re mine right now.

Her hands slid up around his neck, fingers weaving into the short curls at his nape, nails just sharp enough to sting. She made him hiss through his teeth—and she smiled at that, feral satisfaction flashing across her lips. How could a man like the great Harry Castillo—so composed, so powerful, so painfully in control—still be reduced to deprived flesh under her touch?

“What did you say to me?” she panted. “That you'd drag me somewhere dark, pull my panties aside, and remind me who makes me come?”

His grin crooked sideways, as if it physically hurt to hold back a groan. “Still sounds like a solid plan to me.”

They let the words hang in the air between them, as her hips crushed into his, allowing him to feel the slow roll of her body against his, just so he damn sure remembered. She pulled back to lock eyes with him, and his expression was glowing with wicked amusement.

“Because that got me so wet,” she added, one brow lifting. “Truly. I’m so touched.”

He gave a rough laugh, hands twitching on her body. “Touched? If you keep grinding like that, I will absolutely bless the whole city block.”

She wrinkled her nose, displeased. “That's really gross, baby.”

He wrinkled his nose back at her. “Just get a move on. With you, my witty repartee functions scramble themselves.”

“That's really hot, baby.”

Then those same hands wandered. Down his collarbone, over his chest. She moved with the assurance of someone who’d mapped this terrain before, who knew every button as if it were a checkpoint on her way to spoils.

When she was rewarded with her kiss, it was a signature scrawled in heat—messy, urgent, binding—and branding him under his clothes, where no one could see. Oh, he’d feel it.

Then her fingers were at his belt.

A low, delighted laugh escaped her. Her rhythm was impatient, rhythm-less. Zipper down, cock out. Just as big, flushed dark, curving, and thick as she remembered him. She wrapped her awaiting palm around him, unmistakably reacquainting herself with an old luxury.

God, how she’d missed this. The raw him of it. The racy confidence, the amused shock in his eyes when she got ahead of him. The twitch in his cock, like it recognised her touch better than his.

“Omigod, Harry,” she breathed, eyes darting between his and the absurd girth in her grip. Imagine a sexy, artisanal baguette. If anything, French cuisine has never sounded more decadent.

“How are you still so hard?”

His head thunked back against the bricks, and a choked laugh dragged out of him. “And?”

She giggled, softer this time. “That’s... honestly, a little heroic. Amazing.”

He groaned, the edge in his voice splitting wide open. “I swear to god—I’m going it blow it right in your hand.”

She slowed her stroke, her hand sliding between his jacket and shirt to clamp down on his waist. “Oh no, baby. You don’t get to tap out when I’ve barely started. You’re gonna see the credits after the feature.”

She gripped him tighter, thumb sweeping the crown. His hips jerked—reflexive, needy.

She knew the tells better than most men knew their passwords. The tight clench of his thighs, the way his hips twitched in expectation, that little flicker in his jaw when he was fighting not to fall apart too soon. And then the low, involuntary groan he gave when she added that precise twist at the top.

So she did it again. And again. More intended, more viciously gentle. Until his body was practically quavering under her rhythm.

That’s when he saw it.

The ring.

His ring.

Gleaming like a petite green sin in the dim alley light—bold, unrepentant, perched snug between the ridges of her knuckles. She must’ve slipped it from its chain and onto her finger when he wasn’t looking—when his pants had come down, when his brain had gone sideways. It shone against her skin with all the drama of a closing argument, catching the movement of her hand every time it slid up and down his cock. Brazen. Ridiculous. Glorious.

He stared, eyes gone wide, chest heaving like he’d just run a fucking marathon in velvet loafers. Pure disbelief tempered only by the rising surge of pleasure threatening to knock him flat.

Her decadent grin spread wider. That same tilt she used before she broke into something expensive. Criminal.

“Look how gorgeous your ring looks on my hand, baby,” she purred, constricting her grip just enough to make him feel it. Then one long, mean stroke—merciless as it was smooth—had him grunting like she’d punched the air out of him.

Sugar in her tone, filth in the intent—“Right while I’m holding your cock.”

That almost undid him. It actually did... just not in the way she expected.

His hips bucked involuntarily—hard—one palm slapping against the wall beside them like he ought to brace against her, or the gravity of her power.

And she could feel it—how close he was, how his body betrayed him completely.

“Careful now,” she whispered, breath hot against his throat. “You’re gonna come all over your ring.”

“Fuck,” he hissed. “I need you.”

His palm found her waist first, then higher—greedier—spanning the swell of her breast, fingers slipping beneath the delicate strap of her dress. He touched her like a man unravelling, desperate to memorise her with his hands before he lost himself completely. She didn’t stop him or bother to slow down.

Ladies, listen up. You let him spiral, let him lose the plot. It, therefore, generates all these amazing results. First of all, you feel like a goddamn goddess.

If anything, the heat of his palm rolling over her chest, thumb brushing the peak of her nipple, made her hand tighten at the base of him, a lazy drag of friction that made his breath catch and his teeth bare. Good, she thought. He’d looked so calm at dinner—composed, controlled, smug. It was time she rattled that composure down to the bones.

His mouth landed near her jaw, warm and unravelling, his breath skipping against the sensitive shell of her ear.

“Christ, baby,” he gulped down. “You’ll kill me.”

“Just a little,” she whispered, a threat swathed in lace.

He gripped the back of her neck now—firm, desperate, tethering. But she could feel the tremble run through him, the growing urgency that turned every touch into a grasp, every kiss into a plea.

And when she felt that telltale twitch in her palm—close, so fucking close—she sank to her knees in one fluid, irreverent motion.

“Eve!” He growled.

“Might want to hold on for this,” she murmured, reaching out and dutifully closing his hand around her hair. Her personal hairband.

His head tipped to the wall with a dull thud, and his breath was knocked right out of him.

She took him into her mouth—no tease, no soft open. Just the hot, wet seal of her lips around him, engulfing pressure sliding down with a purpose that made men remember you. Her hand twisted at the base as her tongue flattened along the underside, every flick and hollow of her cheeks perfectly paced, free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently—almost as if she knew his body better than he did. Her hand stroked what she couldn’t take yet (a lot of it), but she was nothing if not determined, easing deeper, working her gasps and gags, her throat fluttering as she swallowed around him.

Then she pulled back just enough to kiss the tip, run her tongue around it in a slow, devastating circle, and whisper, “Look at me.”

When he did, wrecked and glassy-eyed, and nearly lost it when he saw the glint of the emerald—his emerald—catching the amber haze of the streetlight, shining vulgar and perfect as she worked him over with both mouth and hand, while that gem flashed in and out of sight like punctuation to her rhythm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gritted, hands flying into her hair, helpless to the thrusts into her mouth.

And still, she smiled around him with her eyes. Because down here, on her knees, oh-so-submissive, she fucking owned him. For a single second, she was entitled to billions and billions of dollars.

He let go with a broken sound, head tilted back, hands fastened in her hair. His release hit like a convulsion—deep, violent, ragged, unstoppable—and she took it. All of it.

She kept her lips closed around him, swallowed him down like a secret, let him spill hot down her throat, held still through every violent aftershock until he finally stopped pulsing against her tongue. Only then did she let him slide from her mouth, returning a relic to the altar.

As she littered a few kisses to his hipbone, above her, he was heaving. A ruin of breath and bone, one palm braced against the bricks, the other still fisted in her hair—completely, exquisitely unravelled.

Because for all his suits, his smirks, his predator calm, his moneyed arrogance, his big dick, and relentless pursuit—this was the real him. The one leaning against a piss-stained alley wall, jaw slack, pupils blown, chest rising like he’d been resuscitated by her mouth alone. That wide-eyed, blown-open stare—cracked devotion dressed as disbelief.

Ragged. Gutted. Hers.

She sat back on her heels, knees aching, throat raw, but her chin still tipped with defiance. The streetlamp lit her up from the side, catching the gleam of spit at the corner of her bruised lips, the waterline of her eyes, and the vulgar glint of his emerald still perched like a trophy on her finger.

She didn’t wipe her mouth or fix her hair. She wanted him to see it—the wreckage, the proof still painting her skin.

Look what you made me do, her body said. Now look what I did to you.

“To clarify,” she said, breath still ragged, eyes sharp with mischief. “Was that your soul I just sucked out or are you always this dramatic post-nut?”

He barked a laugh, dragging one trembling hand through his sweat-mussed hair, the other still propping him upright. “You are fucking unbelievable,” he panted.

“Mm.” She rose slowly, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulders and dusting her knees. “Takes one to chase one.”

But just as she turned to make her exit with all the flair of a woman who had already won, his hand caught her jaw.

He wasn’t anywhere near done with her.

He pulled her back around for a feral kiss, so strangely intimate, still so insatiate beneath the smug exterior. Tasting himself, tasting them, tongue plunging, moustache tickling, chasing whatever high was lost into her throat once more.

His other hand plunged low and hiked her thigh up around his hip in one swift motion, dragging her flush against him, pinning her, crowding her into the wall. She gasped at the feel of him again, already half-hard and thoughtless, thrusting up into the soaked heat of her panties, all the way through the flimsy lace and cotton barriers.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her gasping open mouth, “Let me return the favour, sweetheart. I'm a stickler for settling debts.”

“You're hard again?” she giggled, disbelieving. Her hand snuck back to confirm the evidence. “It's been two seconds.”

He grinned, teeth flashing. “It’s the new suit. Gets me going. You like?”

“Jesus, Harry,” she muttered, impressed. “This is either compulsive or Olympic. Have you been microdosing Viagra?”

“I’m just really, really motivated when I see you.”

She gave him a slow stroke through the fabric, lips parted in faux wonder. “Oh, I noticed. Your amazing dick has the recovery rate of a Marvel superhero.”

That husky, ruined laugh of his rang smoke signals all the way to her down there.

She will not deny it: she wanted to let him fuck her. She had been patient was a really long time (read, really two days.) That was practically monastic discipline.

She wanted to be slammed into that wall, chest down, hands crushed in the small of her back, and torn apart. She wanted him to slide into her fast, unrelenting, to fill her in one breathless, punishing thrust and ruin all the good work she’d done painting herself as unfuckwithable. She knew just how soaked she was, how badly her body wanted to cave in and make it impossible for him to forget her.

Instead, she pulled back far enough to break away from him. Her hands stayed on him whilst his desperate lips mouthed up her jaw and ears—one over his feverish heart, the other tenderly cradling his jaw.

Seemingly, fucking around and finding out included taking the win with her. So, she grinned, bright and goddamn invincible.

“Easy, big guy,” she murmured, dragging a lithe finger down his nose and lips. “You blow your load again, what’s left for the encore?”

He stared at her like she was both his best miracle and worst menace.

Then she dropped her leg, smoothed the hem of her dress, and leaned in one last time—her mouth teasing at the shell of his ear—and kissing the coarse arc of his cheek.

“Now, you owe me a ride.”

She hadn’t meant “ride” in the literal sense. But, of course, her recently sucked off, hedge-fund god had taken it that way.

Now here she was, waiting on a curb like a stranded groupie, knees hugged to her chest, fingers picking absently correcting her reapplied gloss, watching him pace twenty feet away, swirling through Important Business like he ran the New York Stock Exchange and the moon phases at the same time. Corporate acrobatics, last-minute deals, numbers, names, mergers.

Harry Castillo was the storm with no centre indeed. Elegant, effusive chaos.

She studied him, inventorying the little habits, just for herself to overthink later.

The way he loosened his collar half an inch, the fabric of his dress shirt tugging tight across his shoulder blades. The way he tilted his phone between his shoulder and ear to glance at his watch, never missing a beat in the conversation, another phone cradling market tickers and colour-coded blocks that meant nothing to her but had his full attention. The clipped, fricative syllables he used when someone tried to talk over him. The furrow of his brows. The press of his thumb and forefinger into his temple, as if the numbers both gave him migraines and fed his soul.

She wasn't supposed to notice this much, or even care. He was a depleted target.

After all, for her bravado, her games and schemes, she witnessed it in him: the sheer momentum of him. The time and tension. The experience that streaked his hair a little, crinkled at his eyes. He was the exemplar of hard work, empire-building and sleepless nights.

It was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen in any gentleman.

Yet, he made her feel small. Smaller than the filthy alley, the incredible sex, and the swagger had made her feel. It was that old, low-grade hum of self-loathing which unfurled in quiet moments when her five-dollar acrylics started to chip and bleed, and her bank account re-enacted a crime scene.

She was what she was. High school dropout, actress by ambition, hustler by necessity. Her résumé was an unconsolidated array of lies, fake eyelashes, and second jobs that paid in tips and IOUs. She didn’t articulate ‘Bloomberg,’ didn’t know what ‘price reflecting risk’ meant, and had never owned anything sparklier than a gold-plated nameplate necklace she hocked at sixteen.

She looked down at it now—his emerald ring glinting like she belonged under it's cocky gleam. Laughable, really. She twisted it round slowly, scrutinising the way it caught the streetlight as it threw new tints of the spectrum right into her undeserving eyes.

A low, motorised purr broke through her spiral.

She glanced up, confused at first, like the street itself had growled.

Something was coming. A fast, smooth statement. Sleek, angular, low-slung, orange—a tropical fruit had a baby with a warning sign. A McLaren, maybe? As far as her fluency in Car and Driver went, she could tell that thing had arguments about acceleration. Seriously, it belonged on a racetrack, not a city street. It was impractical, unreasonable, and utterly excessive—just like Harry.

As the car slid to a stop at the curb, she watched one of the suited security detail break formation and approach it while a man in gloves stepped out and performed a silent, expensive transaction with a key fob. And she—still on the curb, blinking—realised that she had been excluded from this entirely.

Oh, she wasn't part of this mean machine.

She was luggage. Really hot luggage in a pretty dress.

“It’s a platform play, but we can bolt on 2–3 tuck-ins within 18 months.” Harry was still speaking into his phone, utterly unfazed by the gravity-defying spaceship that had just landed in front of them. He was simply striding toward it like it was a goddamn Toyota.

Her stare ping-ponged between him, the security guy, the McLaren, and back to Harry. Soon, a slow surge of realisation struck her.

This was for her.

This was what happened when she joked about owing her a ride after blowing his mind (and him) in an alleyway. For one stupefied, unguarded second, she believed it—she might actually be fucked.

“We'll get this in front of IC and revert. Thanks, Mark.” A crisp click ended Harry's call, and the phones vanished into his jacket, so he turned his full attention to her.

He offered his hand, palm up, fingers splayed—infuriatingly gentlemanly. And the grin that spread across his face was downright criminal, that it should’ve come with a warning label.

“I believe I owe you a ride,” he rumbled.

She took one look at the orange beast purring by the curb and immediately shot up to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth to control a shrill squeal.

“Harry,” she breathed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart.”

“I should’ve given you head the first time we met.”

He snorted. “Oh, I remember. But you needed dental insurance before taking on the full... package?”

Every ounce of self-respect fled her system.

“I was joking!” she gasped, eyes locked on the car. “I mean, I’d give you your ring back—but you didn’t have to get me a sports car! This is insane. This is—”

She clapped her hands once, spun on her heel, convulsing, fanning a hand at her face. “—so goddamn sexy I might cry. Look at her! She has curves! She’s shiny! She’s so my type!”

Harry watched, entirely too amused and pleased with his own theatrics. His shoulders started to shake with deep, husky laughter.

“I hate to spoil your greedy little soul, but I just wanted a nightcap.” He tapped the hood of the car. “It was gathering dust, I figured you would appreciate—”

“I appreciate, I really, really appreciate.” She grinned, bouncing a little in place, pitch rising with every word. “Oh, we are breaking so many traffic laws tonight. We’re gonna crash this thing straight into an uppity country club.”

She bounced toward the passenger side like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to yank open the door—

“Other side.”

She halted mid-motion, narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

He raised the key fob near his head, pushed a button—and the car croaked an obedient electronic chirp as the driver’s side door lifted vertically, like a butterfly wing.

“You’re driving us tonight,” he informed.

She stared at him, attempting to render his words to her reality. She really must've blown off the one little screw that held his common sense together.

Her heart slammed against her ribs with a cocktail of adrenaline, arousal, and unbidden panic. And with it came the reveal of: “Harry. I haven’t driven anything in years.”

“Good,” he said, strolling about to the passenger side, leather shoes scuffing. “You’ve got experience.”

She scoffed. “What... and if I kill us?”

He shrugged with that aggravating impassivity. “For what I’m worth, they’d better build a memorial—not leave me smeared on the freeway.”

The key was dropped into her hand, and she looked down at it, then at the car—her reflection warped across its polished surface.

For a moment, it began flickering behind her eyes—that horrified, disbelieving piece of her that still didn’t think she deserved to touch a machine this exquisite, let alone drive it. A thief, a fake—what business did she have behind the wheel of a seven-figure car?

Despite that, she smiled. Well, that was not her now. She was made of wicked chaos, pink Chanel gloss, and full-figured hunger.

“Well, buckle up,” she said, ducking and gliding behind the wheel, basically stepping into her final form. “If we die, I’m haunting you with blue balls in the afterlife.”

He laughed, following her in. “Duly noted, sweetheart.”

And the door hissed shut, sealing her in.

One thing you needed to know about this city—laid out like a glittering, fatigued whore at her feet—was that even the rats had a hustle.

So before you judged her for jumping at the wheel of a hypercar she didn’t own, playing the coquette in knockoffs, maybe ask yourself this: what would you do, if a million-dollar engine thrummed at your fingertips and the man beside you looked at you like a sex god personified?

“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t give these nobodies no sympathy,” SZA whispered through the surround speakers, truth bleeding from her voice like philosophies.

She mouthed along to the words, head bobbing between the headrest, legs up on the dash.

She’d meant to steal one little big ring, and a few hours of air conditioning and affection. But somehow, she’d ended up here—idling by Riverside in a car that purred with decadent control, less an animal’s snarl, more a savvy grin. A flick of her foot on the pedal had set it forward like a breath—no lurch, no grunt. Just a seamless glide, the motion of a motor made to conquer without show.

New York City arrayed as circuitry in front of them—vast, shining, veined with red brake lights and screw-ups. They had chased the fringes of midnight toward a lookout she hadn’t been to in years, one of those places you only returned to when you had something to prove. Not anymore, the McLaren did it for her.

Her fingers traced the stitched grooves of the steering wheel, supple black leather, and the centre console illuminated the space like the cockpit of a fighter jet: chrome, carbon fibre, touchscreens glowing like digital seduction. Even the whole cabin smelled like ozone, leather and aerospace engineering. Every inch of it whispered, you don’t belong here.

Yeah, she didn’t. Her fingernails still had dirt under them. Her shoes were vintage consignment pretending to be Gucci. Her confidence, like most things in this city, was counterfeit—but expensive-looking.

And goddamn, did she look good pretending.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. The black sedan behind them hadn’t moved out of formation since the restaurant. No hazard lights, no overt tailing. Harry’s version of subtlety: a ghost that reeked of payroll.

Then her ex-target's voice cut through the hum of the engine.

“So,” he said, so offhandedly it almost sounded bored—if not for the fact that he was watching her like a man circling a flame. “Cartier or Harry Winston before closing time? I did promise you a handful of rings.”

She glanced over at him, lips quirking.

This man. This ludicrous, outrageous man. He had no idea the effect he had on her. Or maybe he did—and that was half the danger.

Here she was, fresh off scamming him into a disgustingly expensive dinner, jacking his family heirloom right under his nose, and now she was joyriding his million-dollar toy while he reclined in the passenger seat like some amused villain who’d already won.

She snorted, not bothering to hide the laugh. “I just need to say this out loud for the universe: I am using the absolute hell out of you.”

Harry leaned his head back, one arm slung behind her seat, the other lazily adjusting the cuff of his blazer. “If anything,” he said, “I’m disappointed you’re not using me more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t enough?”

“Hardly. If I were in your little shoes,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her strappy knockoffs, “we'd already be popping a bottle of Dom on a jet, halfway to Geneva right now.”

Her laugh cracked out before she could stop it. “Wow. Talk dirty to me, Papi.”

Grinning that tongue-in-cheek smile of his, he reached for her feet, pulling them up into his lap without asking. Scud dusted his sleek custom trousers, but he only focused on tracing lazy circles along her calf—intimate, absentminded, entitled, so domestic.

He toyed with the buckle of her shoe, lifting it with an index finger. “Speaking of, we need to get you a new pair. Maybe a dozen. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Jimmy Choos,” she said, going along with it.

“Done.”

“And while you’re at it, maybe a penthouse on the east side?”

“Take mine.” Then added, “Conditionally.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Still trying to bankroll what you can’t own.”

He kissed the inside of her ankle, exactly where she’d dabbed perfume to mask the shoe funk. “Still stealing what you secretly want to keep.”

Her heart thudded—almost annoyed at the betrayal. That little jump, that involuntary jolt at his voice, his closeness. As if her body hadn’t gotten the memo that she was supposed to be in control.

She let her head tip lazily toward him, eyes half-lidded. “You really want to be used by me?”

He leaned in, that sinuous way he did everything, as though gravity didn’t apply to him quite the same. “Only you.”

God knows she'd heard every variation of flattery laced in a threat—but that wrecked, gruff tone of his crushed under her ribs she didn’t care to name.

She held his gaze for a second too long, the moment coiling tight between them, breath warming the space where danger meets desire. She could taste it. This thing between them. It was scorched sweet.

He tilted his head, that lazy confidence coiled behind his jaw like a spring. “You’re the only one who uses me right, sweetheart. You do it selfish. And it works.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, because it was. But more so because it was true. In the non-tragic fucked-up way that made her heart twitch in a place she didn’t like to acknowledge.

“Is it?” he leaned in, letting his knuckles graze the inside of her thigh. “Because it sounded a hell of a lot like a compliment to me.”

She tilted her head with that dangerous little smirk, which usually preceded theft or sex.

“Tell me what you think I want from you,” she said, the implication lingering like steam off an expensive glass.

He didn't miss a beat; he met her gaze, dead-on. “Comfort. Sex. Money. Exactly in that order.”

Well. That was blunt. But she mostly got used to the sting.

It wasn’t a wrong guess, but it wasn’t the whole picture, either. That was the problem with men like Harry; they saw the silhouette and thought they interpreted the sculpture.

She projected that image—Eve, a loose, cocky, precocious thief in a pretty dress. It was the only currency that worked in most rooms. But… a part of her wanted to be seen through it, not as it. Charming fun. Clever girl. Desirable for more than how easily she slipped a watch off a man’s hand or a moan from his throat.

She inhaled through her nose, lips parting like a question left unsaid. “You really think that’s all I am?”

“I think you’ve figured out how to get what you want,” he said, his hand slipping casually down to the arch of her ankle. “And I respect the hell out of it.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t the yes she’d been half-daring him to say, either.

She looked away, a flick of her lashes down, forming a curtain between them. The lights of the city glimmered past the windshield, multicoloured, a little blurred. She didn’t even realise she’d gone quiet until—

His fingers clicked in front of her face. She blinked, coming back to herself, and turned just in time to catch his smirk.

“Earth to Eve?”

She sat up a little straighter, drawing her legs out over his lap in an easy stretch, avoiding a pang that was still ringing somewhere in her ribs. Her heel grazed the far car door, the other foot resting right where he wanted her. She could work with that.

She smiled—bright, artificial, wicked. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Back to our suite,” she lied, sugar-tipped, curling his hand between her bare knees. She guided it higher until his fingers found the hem of her dress and slipped beneath, “First, I want to know something.”

Thin lace. Warm skin. Low hum of history.

His palm cupped her, long fingers pressing against the soaked scrap of fabric as if he wasn’t already fluent in the language of her thighs. And still, she caught it—that stutter in his breath, the falter in his cool. Good. Let him lose his balance a little. She liked him like that.

“Does this question have to do with you coming on my hands?” he rasped.

She laughed, full-throated and bright, head tilted back like she'd just heard a good joke. “Don’t you want your ring back?”

He blinked, stunned, stupidly handsome. But before he could fathom a reply, she caught his hand in both of hers and pressed the car’s key fob into his palm. Then, with a magician’s flair—wrist tilted just so, fingers guiding the moment like sleight-of-hand, let the reveal land—there it was.

The emerald, back on his ring finger like it had never left. Gleaming.

“We’re even,” she said casually, all silk and smoke, like she hadn’t rehearsed that little flourish hours ago.

He gave a disbelieving laugh, a sound of him still catching up, halfway between fury and foreplay. She thrived with that sound on him—surprise laced with surrender.

“And this?” He gestured between them, a vague sweep of his hand as if it incorporated the entire cyclone.

“A draw, maybe,” she sang out. Then—after a beat—“Unless you want to raise the stakes.”

But his eyes flicked to hers—amusement glinting in the depths of them.

“You know,” he drawled, slow as molasses and twice as rich, “I promised myself I wouldn’t let you walk away tonight. I even…”

He undid his blazer button with a flick of his thumb, rolled the sleeve back, shirt cuff—pressed, white, expensive. Bare wrist, no watch.

The custom Hublot was missing. Only the steel bracelet jangled noiselessly, missing its pair.

Her smile bloomed—teeth and mischief. Pure delight with a cherry on top.

He looked at his wrist again, as if it might’ve reappeared, then at her. Half-outraged (you little shit), half-astonished (I really want to fuck you), and completely turned on. Her man.

“Way ahead of you, honey,” she whispered. Winking, but not bothering to show the prize. That wasn’t the point. She never flashed what she’d already claimed.

Theft was foreplay, and proof was irrelevant. And didn’t it feel good being her?

And the fact that somewhere between the appetiser and the edge of his self-control, he couldn’t stop chasing her even as she’d slipped through his fingers and walked off with both the crown and the kingdom.

In that moment, she felt like a force of nature. Beautiful, smug and completely untouchable.

And yet... she knew how this would go. How she’d go home eventually, peel off her heels, strip the night away, and set the Hublot down on her dresser like a trophy, her evidence of reality, even though it would never match anything she owned—too masculine, too boorish, too expensive.

And she’d lie awake, wondering if Harry was laughing right now, alone in his too-big bed, in a penthouse that echoed with emptiness. Or perhaps giving security some nondescript bullshit line like, “Don’t chase her. I'll find her soon.”

Now, she languidly drew her legs back into the footwell, all part of the final act. One last fluid exit, stage left. She reached for her satchel that she'd slotted somewhere by the console.

The butterfly door hissed open with a smooth hydraulic sigh, too much preposterous sex appeal. But before she could duck out, Harry’s warm, possessive hand caught her wrist.

“Give me something in return,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. Like if she didn’t, he’d unravel.

She turned, one brow lifting with theatrical grace—that signature look—you don’t know who you’re playing with, do you?

“I gave you something mind-blowing an hour ago,” she muttered, chin tilting.

He smirked, but didn’t let go. “Something of yours, sweetheart.” His gaze dropped to where her purse was on her lap, then climbed again, a lazy drag that felt like fingertips down her spine.

“I’m a materialist, too. You know that.”

That made her laugh, laced with irony only women like her could master—mostly weapon, all charm.

What was he, Prince Charming? Did he want a glass slipper, a trace of perfume, a lock of hair? Did he expect her to leave behind some totem of surrender, some girlish trace he could pine over, so he could come chasing after her with keen, awaiting arms and an incurable erection?

Oh, this poor man. Wrong fairytale.

His lopsided smile twitched, as if he were biting the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check, which also made her hesitate for half a second.

Just long enough for a thought to flicker through her. Unserious. Wildly inappropriate. Which, of course, meant it was perfect.

She shifted in her seat with catlike precision, eyes holding his, lifting her hips just enough to hook her thumbs beneath the waistband of her panties—white lace, delicate, and soaked through in the patternings that would make anyone blush. They slid down in an inching, methodical glide—past her soft thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles—until she held them between two fingers. A peace offering. A punchline. A poem in cursive.

But oh, Harry saw. His pupils expanded. His jaw ticked. There was the faintest inhale—so minor you could miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

And then she twirled them once, dainty and devilish, before looping the lace over the rearview mirror, letting them hang there like some heretical pair of fuzzy fucking dice.

“Fits right in your pocket,” she said with a girlish grin. “Low-upkeep. No batteries required.”

“I was hoping for your number,” Harry murmured, voice dragging a beat slower now, eyes still on the lace dangling from the mirror. “But I’ll have to look into your file for that. Might gild this.”

“Or sniff it like a sick fuck, I won't judge,” she replied, grinning as her fingers skimmed his jaw, affectionate enough to confuse.

Then she leaned in, cupped his jaw, and embossed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Absolute mockery to his devastation. She didn’t pull back right away; her lips hovered near his ear, voice dropping a fraction.

“You said file,” she murmured, the piece clicking into place. “That means you’ve been digging.”

His grin didn’t twitch. “You gave me a fake name, stole from me, then disappeared. What wronged man wouldn’t?”

Of fucking course.

That name. The one she’d given him in a silk-wrapped lie, born over fine liquor and misdirection. Eve—first woman, first sin, first scam. She’d let him keep it mostly because it worked, fit her like one of his tailored suits: sharp, pricey, vaguely challenging.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t stupid. Two days were plenty of time for a man like him to trace her name, her past, even her blood type if he really wanted. She knew the kind of resources he had, which meant either he’d been telling the truth—he had been out of town—or he’d been playing a longer game. And if he was playing, she needed to know the rules.

When she pulled back just enough to study his face, his eyes held hers with an agonising grace.

“Mm,” she mused. “And what’d you find?”

“I’m not a man who gives away his sources.”

She bit her lip. “But you’ve read it.”

His hand flexed on the leathered console, as if he were cogitating some undecipherable truth in his wide palm. “Skimmed,” he admitted. “Certain... hidden highlights.”

That made her laugh. “Did it come with a caution label?”

“Countless,” he said mordantly. “In red, underlined.”

She giggled, a little proud. “Bet you liked that so much it got you hard.”

He looked at her for a long, unreadable second. “You made sure of that.”

She smirked. “So, what else do you know?”

He let his miles-deep eyes trace her as though he were approximating her against intel he had in his desk somewhere. Fact versus sensation. Biography versus influence.

Finally, he said, “Enough to want more.”

“Of me?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Of the truth,” he said simply.

The way he said it got her wavering, which was no easy feat from someone like him. There was no flirtation or ploy involved. Harry was... interested. Still playing the game—but this time, one she hadn’t mapped out entirely.

So she flashed him a smile—bright, effortless, razor-edged. “Good luck with that,” she said breezily. “I charge by the minute.”

Then that smirk ghosted onto his face again—annoyingly familiar, dangerously fond. “I could pick up the tab for the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

Fuck, she wasn't kidding when she said that made her wet to her toes.

She was thinking through it all now. About files, how much he knew, about why the idea of being read like a dossier made her feel more exposed than when she’d dropped her panties for him.

He knew enough to chase, not enough to catch. Until then, that was the only leverage she had left on him.

“Thanks for your time, Mr Castillo,” she added, and that was the sting, of course it was—a jab at the custom Hublot she’d stolen straight off his wrist mid-handjob. She’d pocketed his time, and now she was thanking him for it. Full circle.

She slid out of the car, the hem of her dress flirting with indecency, heels tapping against the pavement, ass bared to the breeze like the night had to feel her too, and the wind responded—chasing her like it wanted to finish what they’d started.

She didn’t look back until she was halfway across the lot, because you know, lesson learned: drama demands distance.

Then she turned—just her head.

Harry was standing outside the car now, one hand braced against the hood like he needed it to stay upright. His thumb stroked at his smirking lower lip like he was trying to remember what just happened—and whether he wanted it to happen again. Shirt collar askew, hair messy from her hands, sweat matted, chest heaving, ring back on his finger—

He looked like debauchery on pause. A wealthy man wondering if, possibly, he’d just met the devil and preferred it to all the angels that roamed.

She gave him a smug, little fingers-only wave. Fucking couture.

The exit mask mattered. The smoking, final walk away in heels someone else paid for, hips swinging like a metronome wound up on spite and superiority.

Another dumbass bites the dust.

You need to know that, at the end of the day, Eve didn’t just chew on any apple. She carved it into slices, served it on stolen silver, and made sure God was watching.

Her bittersweet punishment was history.

Because temptation lingered, smiling when it burned, knowing where you kept your heart vaulted, and it definitely never forgot who bit first.

© damneddamsy

scam ideas for part 3? I'm thinking of the club and a bigshot entrepreneur 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads (you are my one and only), @woodxtock (my baby girllll, my whole life), @divine-timings , @jodiswiftle (BAY-BEH!), @bensonispunk @brittmb115 , @for-a-longlongtime (honey, thank you so much for the rants), @pedritotito , @desuidesu , @bluelightwrites , @isa942572 , @mallingcalling-blog , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @itstokyo-cos , @holholliday , @i-workwithpens , @any-corrie , @yourallaround-simp , @directfromreynaldo , @tezooks , @yungsuesi-blog , @czessianna , @aleariixx , @noisynightmarepoetry , @th3mrskory , @monamedeiros12 , @oliveksmoked , @gothcsz , @itstheanxietyforme , @lowrisemiller } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you for your support! 🌻🦋

[damneddamsy]

I just figured out how to do this, and can I just say - I am a whole dumbass?

Also, sweetheart, thank you!! 🫂🫶 the world needs more badass bitches like her honestly, and of course, Harry is WHIPPED, the girl is being so honest with him and honesty, I KNOW, turns this man on

I love you so much for this, you're awesome! ✨️🌻🫶☀️

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. 

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

© damneddamsy

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

[damneddamsy]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.��� Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. 

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

© damneddamsy

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

[damneddamsy]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. 

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

-> PART TWO HERE.

© damneddamsy

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc

E P I L O G U E

word count: 11,000 + warnings: literally all fluff. like painful, smothering fluff. Choking, blubbering, fitful angst. Sorry, not sorry. See you on the other side, everyone, hope you enjoyed 'Falling'!

The following is a series of artefacts belonging to JACKSON RESIDENTS recovered from their homes.

J. MILLER LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT - JACKSON, WY

If you’re reading this, or find this, I’m probably dead.

I’m okay with that. Would’ve preferred to go out old—grey-bearded, asleep on my porch swing in the summer, maybe a hundred and twenty with bad knees. Quietly. Got my fingers crossed, hoping that I do.

Because that ain’t how men like me go. I’ve lived hard. Killed more than I ever want to count. Broke things I couldn’t fix. And loved people I didn’t deserve. That’s the whole truth of it.

And now, sitting here writing this, I keep thinking about what the hell I’m really leaving behind. What is my legacy, anyway? Some folks leave behind land. Leela is going to leave behind her math and her inventions. Y’all’s names are clean enough to go on school buildings.

I live in a house that isn’t mine. My money’s long gone. And my name is a goddamn graveyard. So why am I doing this?

Look... I need you someone to know I tried.

I tried to be better. To build instead of destroy. To try love without losing control. I used to think all I was good for was surviving. Guarding. Holding the line until it all gave out. And yeah, maybe that was true once for a long time.

But then came my Ellie. Then came my Leela and my Maya.

I raised two three girls. THREE goddamn girls. More beautiful than me (thank god for that), more hardass-er than me, more stubborn than me, and that’s saying something. Ellie is the fire. Sarah was the storm, and Maya is the spring that comes after. I didn’t make them—but I kept them alive. Loved them the best way I knew how. Think I did a pretty good job.

That’s my legacy.

You can burn the rest of it. The guns, the patrol records, the guilt. Let it rot. The only thing worth anything now is what I loved.

Tommy. Maria. Brother, we never did things the easy way, did we? We fought like hell, and still came back. I know you two gave me a hard time some days, but you were the people I always knew had my six—whether I deserved it or not. Guess that's what siblings do. So don’t go getting all soft now. Just keep doing what you do best: being affectionate assholes and occasionally dumb as a pile of rocks. (Kidding. Mostly.)

Leela… darling, you had loved saved me. Over and over. By staying, letting me in, looking at me like I wasn’t the monster I saw in the mirror. You are my quiet, my reason, my damn backbone some days. I didn’t know it could be like that with someone. I didn’t ask you to forgive me, but you did it anyway, every time I came home to you a little more broken. I’m sorry for the parts of me I couldn’t fix. I know I said that too much—or not enough. Also—and I mean this with all the love in my tired bones—take your time, but don’t forget I’m waiting on those insane koftas over here. So when you finally get your fine ass to me… bring me some baharat (and those strappy little tops of yours because they really drive me wild.)

Ellie (hoping the above didn't throw you off, sorry). Here it is. I saved my world that day in the hospital. Yours. You. I’m not gonna pretend it was easy or righteous. It wasn’t. But I did it so you’d have more time with me—more chances to grow with me, laugh with me, hate me. I wanted that for you more than I ever wanted it for myself. I am sor I'd do it all over again. You might never have needed a father, but you got one anyway. You got me. And I’m proud of you, kiddo. Proud as one of your own. I LOVE YOU. There. I said it. I love you, Ellie.

And. Maya. Baby girl. If you’re reading this someday—well, shit, first off: did you get glasses? How else are you reading this with all that squinting? Eyes open, sweetheart. Ha, got you.

I want you to know it plain and simple: you are my everything. My girl. I loved you the moment you opened your eyes to me that night. You’re mine in every way that counts. Grow slow. There’s no prize for getting older, other than back pain. Be good—but not too good. Break some rules. No one likes a smartass. Don’t run too fast. Tie your shoes. Wear your damn socks, I MEAN IT. Don’t be scared of the world, even when it earns it. And take care of everyone, even when it hurts. And when you miss me (if you do), go sit with my guitar (be nice and share with Ellie). Sing to me. Hum. Cry. Talk out loud like I’m listening, because I swear I am.

I never had much. Still don’t. Got a couple of guitars, ammo, boots, a few busted knuckles, and a face that looks worse every year.

What I do have—what’s worth a damn—is all of you.

I was always the buffer. I thought that was the job. Keep everyone breathing, keep the world out. I don’t regret that. But it took me a long damn time to learn why I was doing it. It was never for survival.

It was for you. Always for you.

Signed, Joel Miller.

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – VIDEO FILE #1 TIMESTAMP: 19:48 | Reed Residence, Living room SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 2 years, 5 months CAMERA: Tripod, static, handheld. Low lighting. Floor lamp turned on. NOTES: Observational recording for cognitive development + emotional awareness + language formulation.

[CAMERA CLICKS ON. The video begins with a slightly tilted angle. The couch sits behind them, a soft quilt thrown over the edge. A toy horse lies abandoned on the floor. The room is warmly lit. LEELA adjusts the lens, sitting cross-legged, her voice focused but affectionate. JOEL is off-screen, behind the camera. Both their voices carry the sleepiness of a late evening.]

LEELA (softly, almost to herself): Okay... steady. This is important. (adjusts the lens) This is the first video entry in Maya’s development log—

JOEL (from off-screen, dry): Which is entirely unnecessary, 'cause she’s got a brain like a bear trap.

LEELA (half smiling): This is to test her cognitive flexibility, emotional regulation, and social interaction—

JOEL: C’mon, sweetheart. Listen to yourself. She’s fine.

LEELA: (glances at him behind the camera) I need to know she’s normal, Joel. Not just sweet or clever. Normal brain functioning.

JOEL (pauses, then gentler): She’s a goddamn miracle, Leela. Beat me at cards yesterday. Straight face the whole time. You think I let her win? (mimics a girlish voice) “Go fish, Daddy.” She’s hustlin’ me already.

[LEELA exhales, lips twitching, and nods. She angles the camera a little to the left. The frame shifts. MAYA is now sitting on the rug beside her mother, wearing denim dungarees over a cotton shirt with a stitched grasshopper. She waves at the camera like she’s greeting a friend.]

MAYA: (sends a flying kiss.) Hi.

JOEL (laughs): Hi, baby.

LEELA (gently): Alright, there we go. Baby, what's your name?

MAYA: (pointing) Daddy, video.

LEELA: Yeah, he is. Can you say your name for the video?

MAYA (taps her chest): Maya. Maya, Maa-yaa.

LEELA (laughs): Okay. Hi, Maya. And what’s your full name?

MAYA (mumbles): Maya… Miller.

LEELA: That’s right. Good girl. Now—can you please look at Mama for a second while we talk?

[MAYA is fully occupied with the brass buckle on her dungaree strap. She keeps flipping it open, then closing it, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.]

MAYA (without looking up): I fix this first.

LEELA (gently redirecting): Hmm. But if Mama wants to talk to you first, what would the polite thing be?

MAYA (quietly): …Wude.

[She lets go of the buckle and looks up, her knees drawn close.]

MAYA: Okay. I listen now.

LEELA: Thank you, baby. Ready?

MAYA: Yup.

LEELA: How old are you, Maya?

[MAYA holds up two fingers. Then she thinks, frowns, and adds a third finger halfway. Then reconsiders and puts it down.]

LEELA: That’s right. Two, almost three. And what’s Daddy’s name?

MAYA (giggles): Ha-wd-ass.

LEELA (gasps): No!

JOEL: Gonna kill that little shit Tommy.

MAYA (with her fist in her mouth, grinning): Joel.

LEELA: Joel, right. Maya… can you tell me: have you ever been angry at Daddy before?

MAYA (quickly): No.

LEELA (tilts her head): Never ever?

MAYA (frowning): ...mm, he took me home from park. He—he said... no. (points to the door) We go home now.

JOEL (off-screen, defensive): Hey now—it was a hundred degrees. I didn’t want you melting out there.

LEELA (clears her throat): Alright. And what did you say when he said that we have to go home?

MAYA (matter-of-fact): I said “NO! Not going home.” Then Daddy pick me up. We go home.

LEELA: And then?

MAYA: Then I... cried.

JOEL (mutters): Meltdown.

LEELA (to Maya): And when you get upset like that... what helps you feel better, Maya? Do you want to run away, or—do you need to yell? Maybe throw something?

JOEL (warning tone): Leela.

LEELA (ignoring him, soft but intent): Or maybe… do you just need a hug? Do you want someone to hold you?

[MAYA pauses. Her fingers fidget. Her chin tucks slightly, and her voice is very small.]

MAYA: I need hugs.

[LEELA looks up at the camera now. Her expression is softer, more tired. Her hand rests on Maya’s back.]

LEELA (to camera): So—we’re observing that when Maya experiences emotional dysregulation, she doesn’t act out violently or retreat, but reaches for physical reassurance. (pause, voice softening) Which is… significantly better than what I feared.

[MAYA turns and throws herself into Leela’s lap.]

MAYA: I love hugging Daddy.

JOEL (gravel-voiced, warm): Right back at ya, baby girl.

[MAYA now leans sideways into Leela’s lap, visibly drowsier but still engaged. A thread from Leela’s jeans has caught her attention, and she tugs it gently. LEELA hums quietly, drawing her back into the moment.]

LEELA (sing-song): Maya… now, were you really angry at Daddy that time?

MAYA (shakes her head, thumb brushing her lip): No. I just… don’t wanna go home.

LEELA (empathetic): Oh, well, I understand that. If I were having fun and someone told me it was time to go? I’d be mad too.

MAYA (nodding): Yeah. I wanna play more.

LEELA: So, do you have a lot of friends? Is that why you don't like leaving?

[MAYA looks up for a second, big, brown eyes shining, then shakes her head.]

MAYA: No.

LEELA (gently): Then why do you want playtime?

MAYA: I like big sandbox. Ellie helps me on the slide.

LEELA: What about the other kids?

MAYA: Only me, mama.

[LEELA hums again, stroking her hair slowly. The thread is forgotten now. MAYA leans closer.]

JOEL: Now, she ain’t alone. Ellie’s there, I’m there. The other kids... they're just older. And there are no other kids like her in town.

LEELA (shoots him a look): Joel—you're confusing her.

JOEL (scoffs): Fine. Shuttin’ up.

LEELA (focuses on Maya again): And how does it make you feel, baby girl? When you're alone? Are you scared? Or angry?

[MAYA’s brows furrow. She picks at her sock this time, quieter.]

MAYA: Sad.

LEELA (slight shift in posture, softer): You feel sad? Do you feel sad a lot?

MAYA (tiny nod, small voice): Yeah. I cry.

LEELA (quietly, not alarmed, just listening): You cry a lot when you're sad? When Mama isn’t around?

MAYA (sniffles): Mhm. I don’t like alone.

LEELA: Oh, my love.

[MAYA's face twists, and she rubs at her eye. A pause. JOEL’s voice is low and irritated from behind the camera at the sight of her hurting.]

JOEL: Okay, stop. You’re upsettin’ her.

LEELA (shaking her head, gently): No, we’re understanding. (She turns back to Maya, her hand brushing through tangled curls.) She’s not upset. She’s being brave. Aren’t you, baby?

[MAYA’s eyes flick to LEELA’s. She nods faintly.]

MAYA: I wanna be brave. Like Daddy.

LEELA: And you are. Angry and sad make you brave and real. Real people feel things. And they cry. Even big people. Even Daddy... (stage-whispers) in the shower.

[MAYA lets out a little giggle through her tears.]

LEELA (tucking a strand of hair behind Maya’s ear): Baby, you know… if you ever feel like it got dark around you, you can tell us. If you’re mad, you can stomp your feet. If you’re sad, you can cry in my lap. You don’t have to hide it or hold it in your belly, okay?

[MAYA shakes her head firmly this time, her lip wobbling just slightly.]

MAYA: I don’t wanna be mad, Mama. Don’t like it.

LEELA: No, honey. It’s okay to be mad. I get mad. Daddy gets mad all the time.

[A brief, audible scoff from JOEL.]

JOEL: Yeah, alright.

LEELA (grinning): All the time. And when he does, what do we do?

MAYA (perking up): Time-out!

LEELA: Right. And do we yell at him?

MAYA (giggling): You hug him.

JOEL (mock indignation): It's brutal.

[LEELA laughs softly, then leans forward again, face almost fully in frame now. Her voice drops to that warm, instructional tone again.]

LEELA: So next time, baby, when you feel mad or sad... what do you do?

[MAYA’s brow knits as she thinks. Then her eyes brighten.]

MAYA (low to loud): I say, 'Mama, I'm sad.'

LEELA (laughing): Very good. And then what happens?

MAYA (repeating back): You hug me.

JOEL (quietly): Every single time.

[There’s a long, peaceful pause now. MAYA rests fully in Leela’s lap, three fingers in her mouth, eyelids fluttering closed. JOEL finally appears in frame again, crouching beside them. He presses a hand gently to Maya’s back and gives Leela a tired, fond look.]

JOEL (murmuring): We should probably stop here. She’s running on fumes.

LEELA (sighs): Yeah, okay. That concludes entry one—emotional processing and response. Maya is responsive to guided questioning, able to self-identify emotions, strong associative memory.

JOEL (grins at Maya): Translation: she’s a little miracle.

LEELA: She’s Maya.

[JOEL leans in, kisses the top of Leela’s head.]

JOEL: You’re doin’ real good, mama.

[LEELA swallows and nods, visibly emotional. She lifts her hand to turn off the camera.]

[CAMERA CLICKS OFF]

X

E. WILLIAMS TRAVEL LOG #2

(The camera jolts to life with a brief blur of sunlight. A rhythmic thud-thud-thud of hooves on dry dirt is heard beneath the image. The view steadies to show Ellie, sweat glinting on her brow, holding the camera at arm’s length. She squints at the screen, then grins.)

(Ellie, to camera) “Okay, we’re rolling. This is Travel Log number two—because apparently Leela thinks we’re NatGeo now.”

(She wipes sweat off her nose with the back of her arm, then flips the camera around. It bounces before settling on the riders behind her.)

(Ellie, off-screen) “Maya, say hi!”

(The camera catches a horse trotting beside Dina’s. Joel rides a little behind, Maya seated snugly in front of him on the saddle. Maya is grinning so wide it looks like her face might split open.)

“Hai!”

(Ellie laughing) “And how the hell are you outside of Jackson, missy?”

“’Cause Daddy let me. And now we’re gonna catch fish!”

“Oh yeah? Wanna tell everybody how old you are?”

(Maya proudly holds up three chubby fingers, but two of them are smushed together.) “I’m th-wee.”

(The camera pans shakily to Dina, who rides up alongside, squinting against the light. Her hair is pulled back to that familiar topknot, sweat matting her face.)

“And there’s my gorgeous girlfriend. Babe, say hi.”

(Dina groans, ducking her head.) “I look like shit.”

“Yeah, but like—hot shit.”

(Dina flips her off. Ellie cackles. The camera swerves toward Joel, who is too focused on keeping Maya safe and the horse steady.)

(Ellie snorts.) “Could be worse. Look at this dumbass.”

(Joel, gruffly) “You better get that thing outta my face.”

“No can do. I’m under strict orders. Your wife told me to document everything. I’m just being a good citizen.”

“Christ. Just watch your step, kiddo.”

(Ellie, to camera now) “So, for the record: We’re taking baby girl on a late fishing trip for her birthday, which was all the way back on Christmas. And—this is the troop.”

(The camera zooms in briefly on Maya, who is now humming some nonsense song and patting the saddle horn. Joel looks down at her, and for a second, the camera catches him smiling.)

(Ellie, softer) “Not bad, right?”

(Static crackle as the image shakes again. Ellie flips the camera back to herself.)

“Alright, let’s go catch some fuckin' fish.”

—

(The footage stutters into motion with a high-pitched whine of static. The screen shakes wildly for a moment—just flashes of sky, pine, and boot—and then jolts into focus. A rough hand fumbles across the lens. Joel grumbles.)

“How the hell do you—? Goddamnit.”

(He shifts the camera. The image stabilises. Now it’s looking out over a sunlit rocky ledge above a wide, glittering creek. Ellie, Dina, and Maya are perched in a row on the flat of a sun-warmed boulder. Three rods poke into the air, lines drifting lazily into the current. The only sound is birdsong, water, and distant giggling.)

“Ellie, keep your arms around her. She’s jumpy as a damn frog.”

(Ellie snickers.) “Relax, old man. I’ve got her.“ (Then to Maya:) “You’re good, gremlin. Just hold it still and wait.”

(Maya squeals, standing up.) “I saw a fish! I saw one!”

(Dina teases.) “You’ve said that like ten times.”

“This time it smiled at me!”

“Liar!”

(The camera zooms slightly. Joel’s breathing is close in the mic, still focused on the trio. Maya suddenly gasps and yanks her tiny rod.)

“Mine's moving! DINA, I GOT ONE! I—!”

(Her footing slips. She screams with a quick splash—then chaos.)

“Maya, no!”

(The camera jerks wildly—Joel’s dropped it. It lands half-sideways in the dirt, still rolling. We catch fractured glimpses: Dina throwing off her jacket, Ellie lunging forward, Joel already in motion, boots thundering past the lens.)

(Ellie hisses.) “Shit—Maya!”

(A splash. Then another. Then silence but for the rush of water and muffled voices underwater, distant and panicked. Joel's frantic voice is the loudest.)

“Maya! Maya, can you hear me?”

(No answer. Just the hiss of the creek and thrashing limbs. The lens catches the churn of boots and panicked motion, but no child. Ellie surfaces empty-handed, wiping water from her face. Dina calls out, chest-deep and scanning rocks.)

“Anything?”

“Nothing—babe, she was right here, she was right here—”

(The lens catches motion as Joel barrels downstream. The camera misses his face, but his actions are sharp, driven. He throws himself into the current, shoving aside reeds, slipping on wet stone. He shouts again.)

“Maya, just come up, baby! Listen to my voice!”

(Nothing. Just the creek roaring louder. Ellie glances toward the far bank, silent now. Dina exhales hard, treading water. It’s been a full minute now. Then two. And—Joel stops.)

(He buckles—doubles over with both hands on his knees, soaked to the chest, breathing too fast. For a second, he’s motionless, like this short-circuited inside him. He grips his thigh, grounding himself. Then, barely audible—)

“God, please… please.”

(Dina turns toward him, voice gentler now but firm, trying to cut through the spiral.)

“Hey—hey, Joel. Listen to me. It’s gonna be okay. We’ll split up. I’ll head up the rocks, Ellie’ll sweep back toward the reeds. You keep to the bend. Okay? We’ll find her.”

(Joel doesn’t respond. His hands twitch at his sides, clenched and unclenched. He’s not hearing her. Or he is, but it’s bouncing off armour.)

“I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve—I looked away, just, just one second—”

(Ellie moving closer.) “Joel. Joel. Look at me. It's fine.”

(She’s within arm’s reach now. His jaw is set, neck tight, eyes scanning but not seeing. Ellie softens.)

“She can't have gotten far. We find her. You with me?”

(He blinks hard—once, twice. His hand comes to his mouth like he’s trying to hold something in. Then hoarsely—)

“Not again. Not her. Not…”

(He trails off. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Ellie’s eyes flicker, understanding more than he says. Behind them, Dina is waist-deep and staring at the far downstream bend. Her hand goes up slowly, pointing.)

“Wait. Wait—do you—?”

(A faint, distant voice echoes from downstream—bright and bubbly.)

“Daddy, Dina! I got it! I got the fish!”

(Joel doesn’t move at first. His head lifts slowly, like he’s afraid to believe it. Then Ellie breaks into motion and he follows—trudging through water, stumbling once but not stopping. The camera is still skewed, but it catches a tiny shape emerging from the trees further downstream, waterlogged and barefoot, holding something overhead in both hands.)

“It was hiding! I chase it!”

(Joel’s breath catches. His arms drop slack, then he’s moving faster, boots pounding the muddy bank, sloshing up toward her.)

“Maya. C'mere, baby.”

(He drops to his knees in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and then crushes her into a hug, flapping fish and all. Maya giggles, not understanding the terror that had settled in his chest just moments ago.)

“You scared the hell outta me. Thought I lost you.”

“But I got it!”

(Joel clutches her closer, water dripping down his face—unclear if it’s from the river or his eyes. His voice is barely a breath now.)

“Don’t ever do that again. You hear me? Don’t ever…”

(He cuts himself off. Kisses the top of her head, pushing the wet hair off her cheeks and neck. Behind him, Dina rubs her face and exhales, laughing through leftover adrenaline. Ellie just drops backwards into the creek with a splash, limbs splayed like a starfish.)

(Ellie sighs and looks up to the sky.) “I'm never fuckin' babysitting this little demon again. Not without a goddamn leash.”

(Maya beams.) “I was tracking! It went under the rocks, so I had to go up the side like Dina said!”

(Joel shakes his head.) “Not without tellin’ me, you don’t.”

(Ellie picks up the camera—mud-smeared and dripping, but still running. She holds it at a crooked angle as the group sloshes back to shore, all soaked, all laughing in that shaky, post-crisis way. Joel’s doesn’t come yet—but he’s still holding Maya.)

“Update: Joel has aged twenty years. Maya met a fish. And none of us are allowed to breathe ever again.”

(Maya, off-camera, all chipper.) “I wanna swim!”

(All three, in perfect unison—)

“Nope.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Never happening.”

(The camera catches one last frame of Maya proudly cradling the flopping fish, her curls plastered to her forehead, Joel’s arm around her protectively. Ellie’s laughter trails off as the screen fades into soft static. Cut to black.)

X

J. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3

(Video begins mid-jostle. The camera is unsteady, jiggling as Joel tries to lift it above the crowd. Boots thump on the wooden floors, fiddle music screeches with jubilance. String lights swing in the rafters, and there’s distant whooping over the band’s tempo.)

(Joel’s voice mutters, amused.) “Can’t see nothin’ in this damn barn…”

(Camera finds its focus, finally sweeping over the packed dance floor, shakily pushing through arms, backs, and half-finished pints. Then the camera locks in on Maya, spinning into dizziness in the middle of the floor. She’s in denim overalls, her sleeves rolled, curly hair bouncing, boots two sizes too big. People are giving her space, clapping in rhythm.)

(Tommy, off-camera, hoots.) “Look at her go!”

(Maria coos, off to the side.) “Shit, I wanna bite her little face off.”

(Camera zooms and shakes slightly. Joel laughs.)

“Go on, baby girl!”

(Maya notices the camera. She gasps, hands on her cheeks like a cartoon character. Then waves with both hands.)

“Haiiii!”

(She dashes forward, expertly weaving between dancers, laughing the whole time. Camera wobbles as she leaps at Joel, arms flung wide.)

“Let me hold it! I wanna be the camera girl!”

“You got butterfingers. This thing’s older than Ellie.”

(Maya whines, bouncing in protest. Joel tips the camera up and away as she tries to jump for it. A waitress sidesteps her, chuckling. Joel lowers the lens, steadies it again.)

“C’mon, help me find your mama. She better not be—”

(Sudden distant yell.)

“WOOOOOO!”

(Camera swings wildly again—searching. Finally, it lands: Leela, up near the band. Her cowboy hat's tipped too far back, one boot missing, one boot on. She’s shimmying with total abandon to the beat, singing along loud and off-key to a song she clearly doesn’t know.)

(Tommy cackles.) “'S happened again.”

(Joel groans. The camera jolts down, then upward—now Tommy is holding it, laughing breathlessly.)

“Grab it. I gotta go fix this.”

(Tommy lifts the camera to zoom in as Joel pushes through the crowd. Ellie briefly appears beside Tommy, leaning in to whisper.)

“Is that one boot on, one boot off? Iconic.”

(Maria snorts.) “She drinking out of her boot?”

(Camera zooms in—Leela indeed holds a boot like a goblet, sloshing something suspiciously dark and fizzy inside. She twirls—and nearly slips.)

(Joel reaches her just in time. He grabs her arm with both hands. Leela gasps, delighted.)

“There he is! Husbaaaaand.”

(Joel is clearly trying not to laugh.) “You stink.”

(Leela puts on a fake cowboy accent.) “That’s called love, darlin’.”

(Her arms loop around his neck, hat slipping to one side, planting a kiss on his mouth. Joel—half laughing, half exasperated—obliges, but only briefly before pulling back.)

“You’re gonna break your neck out here.”

(She sways her hips in an invitation.) “Dance with me, Daddy.”

(Ellie groans from off-camera.) “Ew, what the fuck?”

(Joel groans, pinches the bridge of his nose. Crowd laughter builds in the background.)

“Jesus, don’t call me that in public. You’re gonna confuse the hell outta people.”

(She uses a finger to beckon him.) “C’mon.”

(He plants both hands gently on her waist to steady her.) “You gotta sober up, sweetheart. You already lost a boot.”

(She pouts. He sighs. Then offers his hand.)

“Just one.”

(The music softens into a slower tune—harmonica over strings. Leela leans into Joel, wrapping her arms around his neck like a sleepy kid. They sway awkwardly. One-booted. Out of time. Joel mutters something we can’t hear. Leela giggles like it’s the funniest thing in the world.)

(Camera pans down: her bare foot rests on his boot. He just lets her lean.)

(Ellie whispers nearby.) “Stop filming. They’re so gross.”

(Tommy snickers.) “They’re happy.”

(In the far right of the frame, Maya appears again, now holding Ellie’s hand and tugging hard.)

“Dance with me, Ellie, c'mon!”

(Leela turns mid-dance and waves dramatically at Maya, then does a very poor spin that nearly sends her into a table. Joel catches her mid-fall and dips her, exaggerated, one arm around her waist. She shrieks with laughter.)

(Camera pulls back. The saloon lights flicker overhead. Everyone around them is dancing, drunk, or both. It’s messy and warm and joyful—a pause in the noise of survival.)

(Frame lingers on Joel and Leela, pressed close. He murmurs something into her hair. She closes her eyes. The song fades to the final note—violin and steel guitar.)

X

TELEPHONE RECORDING #1 DATE: SEP. 26TH | TIME: 04:03 A.M. LINE: INTERNAL, JACKSON, WY PARTICIPANTS: J. MILLER, L. MILLER, M. MILLER

[Distant, metallic click. Faint static hum. A long pause. Then—a shrill ring, not the synthetic tone of modern cellphones, but an old, analogue bell. Faint rustling. Something thuds lightly against wood—maybe a hand fumbling in the dark.]

J.M. (groggy, disoriented): …the hell…?

[Rustling sheets. A creak of the bedframe. He fumbles for something in the dark.]

J.M: …No way.

[Another ring. Then a hesitant click as he answers. Silence.]

L.M. (warm, amused): Hi, can I speak with the birthday boy, please?

[Long silence. A faint creak.]

J.M. (cautious, stunned): Leela?

L.M. (giggles): Joel. Can you hear me?

J.M: I’m not dead, am I? It’s four in the damn morning… and the phone that’s sounds like a death knell just rang.

L.M. (sing-song): Surprise!

[A beat. Then, Joel exhales a sharp, stunned laugh. Fabric shifts as he sits up.]

J.M: Holy shit. Leela. Darlin’… Holy shit. This is real.

L.M. (whispers): Happy birthday.

J.M (laughs again): I—I can’t even wrap my head around this. You’re on the phone. Like actual… static and everything. How the hell’d you pull this off?

L.M: Well... I rewired the internal comms grid. Boosted a small solar cell relay through the southern outpost lines. Then I cross-fed it into the restored switchboard. Et voila, eight months later, it works just in time.

J.M: …Y'know, I only caught about two words of that, right?

L.M. (smiling through): I said I missed your voice.

J.M: Goddamn. All that for a call to me?

L.M. (gently teasing): You’re not that hard to miss. But yeah… first working phone in Jackson. Figured it should go to the man who hates birthdays and attention. Two birds.

J.M. (grinning now): You gonna make the whole town use this thing?

L.M: Eventually. For now, I serve as both operator and technician. Thought I’d test the system on someone who doesn’t mind me, er.... rambling.

J.M: That right? Hell, I’d listen to you read out the damn dictionary, baby. You always made even the hard shit sound soft.

L.M.: Don’t go sweet-talking me now. It’s your birthday. I should be the one getting all the mushy.

J.M. (lower, softer): You already gave me everything I wanted.

[A faint click in the background—a loose wire, or a shift in signal. Then Joel clears his throat, as if trying to recover.]

J.M: So tell me—now that I’ve got you on the line… You reckon this thing could handle what the kids used to call phone sex?

L.M. (incredulous laugh): Joel!

J.M.: Come on, darlin’. I’m just sayin’—voice like yours in my ear? Might short out the tower.

L.M.: Stop. I’m recording this call for research.

J.M.: Whatever. I’m the birthday boy. I get one pass.

[They both laugh. Then, a faint stirring. A tiny yawn. The faintest whimper.]

M.M. (sleepy): Daddy…?

J.M.: Hold on. Trouble’s wakin’ up.

[He shifts. The mattress creaks. A soft scritch of his beard brushing her cheek. A kiss to her forehead.]

J.M. (instantly gentle): Hi, baby girl. You’re okay. It’s just the phone.

M.M.: Phone?

[Joel adjusts—the rustle of movement, soft fabric, a creaking mattress. Then, the faint sound of a small body being shifted, carefully.]

J.M.: Here. I want you to listen to someone special.

[Receiver shifts slightly. Then—]

M.M. (suspiciously): Mama?

L.M. (audible intake of breath, voice trembling slightly): Hi, baby girl. Hello.

M.M. (in awe): Are you inside the... box?

L.M. (chuckling): Sort of. The box can carry voices through the wires and air.

M.M. (gasps): It’s a magic box!

J.M.: Damn right it is. First call of the new world, and it went to you.

M.M.: Mama… where are you?

L.M.: Still right here, baby. Just downstairs, in the hall. But this box lets me kiss you goodnight without moving.

M.M. (soft giggle): It is magic.

[A tiny yawn. Then the gentle shuffling of her curling into Joel’s chest. The receiver shifts again.]

J.M. (hushed): She’s driftin’. You still there?

L.M. (sniffles): Always. Did you like your surprise?

J.M. (low chuckle): No phone sex? Hardly a surprise.

L.M.: Your daughter is literally five inches from your face.

J.M. (snickers): And you’re missin’ five inches in yours.

L.M. (shocked gasp): Joel, what is wrong with—

J.M. (grinning): You made it too easy. Alright, I love you. Now hang up… and come over here.

L.M. (quiet smile in her voice): You hang up.

J.M.: Mm-mm. Not playin’ this game, darlin’. Been dead for twenty years, I intend to keep it that way.

[Silence lingers. Then—]

L.M. (whispered): Good night, birthday boy. See you in a minute.

J.M. (just above a murmur): Night, baby.

[Click. The line goes dead. Faint hum fades out.]

X

E. WILLIAMS HOME VIDEO #16

(The footage opens with a bit of bounce—someone's adjusting the handheld camera. There is a gentle sound of cards shuffling. Ellie is clearly behind the camera. Her steps are slow as she moves into view of the dining table, where Tommy sits across from Maya, elbows on the table, scattered with half-finished custard, eyes narrowed in concentration.)

(Ellie, off-camera, voice playful) “Alright, it’s dead silent in here. What’s goin’ on? Poker night?”

(Tommy, gruffly, not looking up) “It’s war.”

“With a three-year-old?”

“She’s up four hands and counting. I ain’t here to play. I’m here to win back my dignity.”

(The camera pans to Maya, sitting squarely in Leela’s lap, her tiny brows furrowed, lips pursed. The cards look enormous in her little hands, but she’s manoeuvring them with sharp, deliberate movements. Leela’s not helping—just holding her arms up as Maya goes through them.)

(Maya, serious, without looking up) “Your turn, Uncle Tommy.”

“I know, kid. I know. Just thinkin’.”

“Don’t think too long. That’s how Daddy lost.”

(A beat. Then a snort of laughter from Ellie.) “Oh my god. Joel lost to Maya. Comedy gold.”

(The camera zooms in a little as Tommy lays down his card—then, slowly, Maya lays hers. A moment passes. Tommy exhales through his nose.)

“Son of a—”

(Maya squeals, grinning wide.) “Yay! Mine’s bigger!”

(Tommy grumbles.) “Damn right it is.”

(Leela gently warns) “Maya…”

(Maya is still triumphant.) “I said bigger. Not a bad word, mama.”

(Ellie, laughing) “I dunno, Tommy. You sure you’re not lettin’ her win?”

(Tommy holds up both hands.) “You see me foldin’? Hell no. She’s counting cards. I ain’t got a chance.”

(Maya, too gleeful) “That’s ‘cause I remeh-mber them.”

(The camera wobbles as Ellie doubles over laughing. Tommy just leans back in his chair, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.)

“Leela, honey, what are you feedin’ your child? We all get the same goddamn rations.”

(Leela with a small smile) “Books. Puzzles. Joel.”

(Ellie heaves a breath.) “Well, that explains the poker face.”

(The camera zooms once more on Maya, who now holds up her cards dramatically toward the lens, fanned out—wrong side forward.)

(She stage-whispers to the camera.) “No one can sh-top me.”

(Tommy shakes his head.) “I gotta start cheating.”

“That’s against the ruuuuules.”

(Leela giggles.) “Tommy, she will never let you live it down.”

(The camera lingers on Maya’s proud little face, cheeks puffed out as she shuffles her cards again—badly, sloppily, adorably. Leela helps guide her fingers, whispering numbers, which Maya repeats under her breath. Across the table, Tommy looks both defeated and weirdly proud.)

(A beat. Then, off-camera, Joel’s voice cuts in—gentle, curious.)

“You wanna be like your mama when you grow up, baby?”

(Maya pauses mid-shuffle. The cards slip out of her hands and scatter. Her eyes go wide—and then she lets out a shy giggle, immediately burying her face in Leela’s chest.)

“Mmm…”

(Leela laughs softly and brushes back Maya’s curls.) “What? What is it?”

(She kisses the top of Maya’s head. Just then—sharp, tinny brrrring! cuts through the moment—the patched-up rotary phone on the wall rings. Everyone in the room glances over, startled.)

(Maya gasps, squealing) “Aaaah! I got it! I got it, I got it!”

(She scrambles to her feet, almost tripping on her feet, and makes a beeline for the phone. Joel chuckles and reaches out instinctively to steady her as she races past.)

“Easy, trouble.”

(She hops up on the table by the wall, lifting the receiver with both hands like it’s treasure. Maya speaks in a serious tone, copying someone she has seen.)

“Jackson outpost. Maya speakin’.”

(Leela hides a laugh behind her hand. Ellie is already zooming the camera in as Tommy leans forward, amused.)

“Aw hell—she’s got a job now?”

(Maya, now pressing the receiver to her ear, trying to sound official) “Okay. Uh-huh. You got it. I tell Uncle Tommy. Stand by!”

(She covers the receiver with her hand and turns to Tommy with wide eyes.)

“Uncle Tommy, they sayin' the lookout spotted smoke near the ridge. You check it now.”

(Tommy is laughing but impressed.) “Well damn. Alright, little ranger. I’ll suit up. Thanks for the heads up.”

(Maya beams proudly and puts the phone down, then turns back to the group, chest puffed a little.)

(Ellie, mock-serious) “That��s it. She’s taking my side gig. I’m retiring.”

(Joel grins at Ellie behind the camera.) “Gotta get her her own call sign. Radio girl’s gonna run Jackson by ten.”

(Leela pulls Maya back into her lap.) “Where’d you learn to talk like that, huh?”

“I listen when you think I’m sleepin’.”

(Joel snorts.) “'Course she does.”

(Tommy raises his glass.) “To the youngest scout we got.”

“Maya Miller: card shark, signal scout, future queen of the airwaves.”

(Laughter ripples through the room. The camera catches Maya grinning bashfully, resettled between Leela’s arms, stacking her scattered cards again. A brief static flickers as the camera feed fades to black.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #48

[The broadcast crackles in—a gentle hum of wind in the background, maybe the faint clatter of boots on wood outside. Maya, aged TEN, runs the radio station in the mornings. A little jingle—probably something she made herself with Ellie’s help—plays, made up of a few clunky guitar notes and a whistle.]

M.M. (bright, chipper): “Goooood morning, Jackson! It's 7 a.m., the sun is shining, the wind is definitely tryna blow the roof off the stables, and you're tuned in to our very own radio station with your friendly neighbourhood deejay, Maya Miller, keeping you company as we ride out another day in paradise.”

[Short laugh—a little dry, but charming.]

M.M: “Okay, okay—maybe not paradise. But hey, it’s home. And here in Jackson, we’ve got chickens that lay, fences that hold, and people that don't give two shits about my radio station. That’s more than most.”

[A page rustles. She taps her book—maybe a list.]

M.M: “We’re keepin’ it light today, folks. A couple of songs, a couple of stories, maybe one or two terrible jokes if you're lucky, thanks to Ellie. And if you're tuning in from the outer fields, the boiler room, or the patrol tower—this one's for you.”

[Pause—her tone quiets, like remembering a note.]

M.M: “Oh! Big shout-out to Kenan at the forge. They just finished another batch of those wicked-sharp hatchets. If you scored one before the morning shift, buy 'em a cider at the Tipsy Bison. Or—I mean, at least carry their woodpile for a week.”

[She laughs, a little sheepish now.]

M.M: “And... yeah, I know it’s been a little rough out there lately. More sightings than usual. One of the patrols spotted a runner near the Gulch—again. But look—we’re still here. Still standing. Still singin’.”

[A breath, then her voice perks back up.]

MAYA: “Alright, alright, no more of that serious stuff. That’s not what you tuned in for. Let’s play something for Bill, who requested ‘Mr. Sandman’—says it reminds him of ‘before.’ I don’t know if that’s sweet or depressing, but I’m rollin’ with it.”

[‘Mr. Sandman’ begins to play softly underneath.]

MAYA: “This one’s for you, Bill. And for anyone else out there, remembering a time when the world made a little more sense. You’re not alone. And hey, if anybody wants to drop in and say 'hi', I'm right by the main hall, and it's a pretty sweet setup. I don't bite. Anymore. I promise.”

[Music fades back, plays for a few moments, then cuts softly as the mic picks up again.]

MAYA (a little mischievous): “Alright, folks, you’re in for a treat. We’ve got a very special guest in the booth today. Resident genius and best mom in the world. Wanna say hi?”

LEELA (off-mic at first, reluctant): “Uh. I’m Leela. Her—your mother. Hi.”

MAYA: “Hi, Mama.”

LEELA (dryly): “You forgot your lunch bag. Again.”

MAYA: “I was... on the air. Y’know. Broadcasting to the entire colony. Essential work.”

LEELA: “Mhm. Well, now your sandwich is cold. Again. Good luck with that.”

MAYA (laughing): “Wait! Wait. Sit down. Just one question. It’s a good one.”

LEELA (sighs): “Maya, I’ve got to look at the turbines at the dam today—”

MAYA: “Please. Please-please-please! C’mon. For the people.”

LEELA (defeated): “Fine.”

MAYA (suddenly mock-serious): “Okay, Jackson, here’s today’s philosophical corner: If you could say one thing to someone or something you’ve lost—what would it be?”

[Silence for a second. Then, deadpan:]

MAYA (hisses): “Mama, you have to answer.”

LEELA (after a pause, dryly): “To someone I’ve lost? …I’d probably have a word or two with my patience. Wherever it went. Please come back.”

[MAYA snorts with laughter.]

LEELA (murmuring): “And now I really do have to go.”

MAYA: “You’re the worst.”

[A kiss lands audibly—Leela kisses the top of Maya’s head, just off-mic.]

LEELA (softly, already stepping away): “Have a great day. I love you, baby.”

[The door clicks. Faint sounds of her leaving — boots on wood, the wind again. Then silence. Maya exhales like she’s trying not to smile.]

MAYA (quietly, into the mic): “She says that every time, like she doesn’t mean it. But she does. Every single word.”

[She clears her throat.]

MAYA: “Okay, back to the music before I start cryin' on air. This next one’s for y'all weirdos with too many feelings. Stay safe, stay sharp, and stay with me.”

[The song fades in.]

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #12 TIMESTAMP: 11:03 | Reed Residence, Dining room SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 3 years, 8 months NOTES: Observational recording for emotional awareness _ identity formation.

(Soft rustle. The recorder clicks on. Leela's voice enters soft, tired, but affectionate, as though she’s easing into the moment.)

“Development log twelve. Maya, aged three years and nine months. Today I want to check in on Maya’s social-emotional patterns—how she plays, how she relates to other kids. Observation notes: Today, she built a “rocket ship fort” with our laundry basket. Declared herself commander. Declared Ellie the alien. She delegated roles. Pretty assertively.”

(There’s a quiet chuckle from Leela, followed by a long exhale.)

“It’s been... remarkable, watching her become her own person. She’s started giving things names. Stories. Feelings. People. I just want to see where her head’s at.”

(She sets something down, the soft clatter of a ceramic mug. Then gently—)

“Hey, baby girl. You wanna come sit with Mama for a second?”

(There’s the sound of soft running feet on hardwood, followed by a tiny huff of breath as Maya sits down. Fabric rustles. Maya’s voice is sweet and happy.)

“I was building a big zoo for you, mama.”

“A zoo? Wow. What animals did you put in it?”

“Three horses, one tiger, two bunnies, and a T-Rex.”

(Leela laughs.) “Now that’s a very inclusive zoo.”

(A pause. Then, casually but purposeful—) “Maya, can you tell me about your friends? Who do you play with the most?”

(Maya, without missing a beat) “Carter.”

“Oh, he's a nice boy. Remind me, who's Carter?”

“Silly.” (She hums.) “He lives next door!”

“Mhm. And what’s Carter like?”

“He’s funny. He let me use his green crayon even though it's his favourite. And he pushed me on the swing so high I almost touched the sun!”

(Leela, gently teasing) “You have a lot of fun together?”

(Maya giggles.) “He’s my boyfwen.”

(There’s a beat of silence. A soft click as Leela sets down her pen.)

(Leela sounds more careful than amused.) “He's your boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh. He shared. And I kissed him on the cheek. So now we’re... boyfwen and girlfwen.”

(Leela’s quiet laugh slips out—surprised, warm.) “And how did he feel about that?”

(Maya, cheerfully) “He said I smelled like apples.”

“That’s a pretty sweet thing to say.”

(Then her tone shifts—slower now. She softens it without losing the thread, like a hand on Maya’s back.)

“Baby, can we talk about something important?”

“'Kay.”

“You know how hugs and kisses and holding hands can feel really nice, right?”

“Yeah. I go like this—mwah!”

(There's a small pause.) “But you always get to choose. Nobody gets to touch you unless you want them to.”

“Mhm.”

“And if someone ever tries, and it makes your tummy feel funny, like a scared feeling, or like you want to get away—you tell Mama. Or Daddy. Or anyone in your family.”

(Maya, quietly) “Even if they’re nice?”

“Even if they’re really nice. If you don’t feel good about it, that’s enough. Your body is yours.”

(There’s a pause, like Maya is working it out in her head. Something taps gently—Maya’s fingers on the table, maybe. Then her voice returns, brighter again.)

“But I wanted to give him kiss, mama.”

“That’s okay. It’s good when you want to. That’s how we know something feels right. But you should know it’s always okay to say no, too. Even to kisses. Even to Carter.”

(Maya hums, a beat later) “What if I change my mind?”

“Exactly. Then you say, “No, thank you.” And he has to listen. And if he doesn’t, you come straight to me, alright?”

“I think he listens.”

“Then he’s being a good friend. That’s what matters most. Being safe and kind.”

(Silence. Then—)

“Mama?”

“Yeah, baby.”

(Her voice is shy.) “Can I kiss you?”

(Leela laughs, breath catching a little—caught off guard.) “Of course you can. Gimme a big one.”

(A pause. A kiss lands—a loud little mwah. Then giggles.)

“You smell like Daddy.”

“And you smell like apples. Go on now, go build your big zoo.”

(Tiny footsteps patter away. The door creaks faintly. The room settles. The faint hiss of the windchime and the occasional tick of the cooling kettle fill the space. Then—soft, almost absent-minded—Leela begins speaking again.)

“Um, well... Maya shows increasing um, verbal complexity in social interactions. She uses ownership language—“my boyfriend,” “my zoo”—which aligns with expected identity formation at her... stage. Shows initiative in emotional reciprocity—physical affection, shared play, verbal acknowledgement of care...”

(She takes a quiet breath, then shifts.)

“Omigod... what happens when those interactions aren’t safe? When someone nice isn’t good?”

(Another breath. This one is shakier.)

“I don’t know how to teach my daughter the difference between fear and instinct without giving her...” (A soft gulp.) “...my history. I don’t want her carrying mine. I want her to know the world. But how do you prepare someone for what you survived, without letting that become the shadow they grow up under?

(A long pause.)

“My baby, she’s so soft. And that’s a miracle. I didn’t know softness could survive me. I didn’t know I could still hold it, let alone raise it.”

(Her voice lowers again, almost as if she’s talking only to herself.)

“I watch her love so freely, and it's starting to terrify me again. Because there’s always this part of me that thinks: someone's going to take it. But another part, the one that clings to Joel, assures me that she's safe. Maya knows how her father is and how a person should be.”

(Silence. Then, quietly, with that same gentle steadiness she gives to Maya—)

“She knows she can say no, and that she can run home to me. That’s… a start.”

(Click.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #49

[Mid-broadcast—music fades out. The soft hum of the station returns.]

MAYA (into the mic, mock-serious): “And that was Fleetwood Mac for the third time this week because apparently we are a town of heartbreakers. Thanks for the request, Esteban—erm, next time, maybe something that doesn’t make me want to bash my head against the wall for two hours.”

[She shuffles a cassette case, clicks it shut.]

[The studio door creaks open. Footsteps, then a long, familiar sigh as someone flops down onto a chair.]

ELLIE (off-mic, relaxed): “Damn, it’s cosy up in here. Look at this! Did you get new pillows? Wait, that one's mine.”

MAYA (groans): “Oh no. No, no, no. Ellie—you’re not cleared for entrance. You gotta go.”

ELLIE (snorts): “Relax. I’m just hangin’ out. You got snacks? You always got snacks. Leela's fuckin' sinful pretzels.”

MAYA: “This is a professional environment. You can’t just—”

ELLIE (into the mic, sing-song): “Psh, you're like ten. Did your professional environment know you’ve got a boyfriend who—”

MAYA (shrieks, cuts her off): “NOPE. Nope. Don’t you dare! You always do this! Get out!”

ELLIE (cackling): “What! I didn’t even say—Carter!—Come and—ow, hey!”

MAYA (wrestling for the mic): “Get! Out!”

[There’s a scuffle, laughter, the sound of a chair scraping back. Ellie’s voice is fading as she’s being half-dragged.]

ELLIE (calling out): “He sees her through his window, Joel’s gonna—!”

MAYA: “OH MY GOD!”

[Just as Ellie is shoved out the door—]

MARIA (stern, from the hall): “Girls. Too loud.”

[Silence. The studio door eases shut.]

MAYA (breathing hard, mutters): “…Gonna kill her.”

[She takes a second. Then clears her throat and speaks calmly into the mic again, regaining her radio persona like nothing happened.]

MAYA: “Apologies for the brief turbulence. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programme. Here’s one for anyone with nosy sisters and no locks on their doors. This is ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me.’”

[Music kicks in—The Police.]

X

MILLER HOME VIDEO #16

(The footage starts mid-motion—jostled slightly as someone fumbles with the handstraps. A soft clatter in the background, tools on wood. The screen settles, coming into focus on Joel at his workbench, his head bowed, the muscles in his forearm taut as he files the edge of a half-finished guitar body. Sunlight spills across his shoulders. There’s a quiet hum in the room: dust in the air, the faint buzz of wind outside, the rasp of wood shaving down.)

(Leela, off-camera, dryly amused) “You done pretending I’m not here?”

(Joel doesn’t look up. His voice is slow, roughened with focus.) “If you’re filmin’ me again, I’m chargin’ a fee.”

“Mm. That so? Well, I've got money to spare.” (A pause as she zooms slightly, catching the flex of his hand as he turns the wood. She goes into a deep voice.) “Joel Miller. Documented in the wild. In his natural habitat. Look at the precision. The grace. The muscle.”

(Joel snorts. Still doesn’t look up.) “For real?”

(She laughs quietly behind the camera.) “I wish I were more artistic.”

(He finally lifts his gaze, catches her through the lens, then returns to his work with a little shake of his head.)

“You are. You just get mad when it ain’t perfect.” (A beat. Then he sets the file down, reaching up to flick the collar of his flannel toward the camera.) “Like this. Tell me this ain’t art.”

(The camera zooms in. There, stitched along the collar’s edge in slightly uneven thread, is a pair of deer antlers—wobbly, charming, clearly handmade.)

(Leela laughs.) “That was not for public display!”

“Too late. It’s on record now.” (He grins, clearly enjoying himself, and lifts his palm next—dark ink visible along the base of his thumb.) “And this?”

(Camera focuses on his outstretched palm. A swirl of dark brown ink stains the skin—rust-colored henna, slightly cracked with drying. The design isn’t excellent, but in the centre are the small, careful initials: L & J. The camera dips just as quick.)

“Ugh, you're proving my point. It looks terrible.”

(Joel studies it for a moment.) “Looks perfect to me. Show me yours.”

(The shot wobbles as Joel takes the camera gently. A moment of black, then the image refocuses—now it’s Leela in frame, sitting cross-legged on the floor, light pooling behind her in the corner of the woodshop. She gives a reluctant grin, her hands resting in her lap, then slowly lifts them.)

“Happy?”

“Look at that. Real pretty. Like you.”

(Camera zooms. Her palms are detailed with dark henna—delicate vines, tiny dots like stars, and soft spirals, uneven in some places but clearly done with care. Her ring sits amid it, gleaming bright against her skin.)

(Joel’s voice is soft behind the lens.) “What’s this called again?”

“Henna.”

“Right, henna. And you did this because...?”

(She gives him a pointed look.) “Because I got married.”

“That you did.” (A pause, then:) “Poor bastard.”

(Leela laughs and throws a scrap of fabric at the camera.)

(Joel lowers the camera a bit, just enough to see more of her—not posing, just being.) “And in two days. I get to see all this goodness in a pretty white dress.”

“If you shave a little.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“And wear a tux.”

“Now that’s pushin’ it.”

(She tilts her head, lips pushed to a frown.)

(Joel clucks his tongue.) “We’re not even having a real ceremony, baby. Just some pictures. No one’s wearin’ a damn tux.”

(She narrows her eyes playfully.) “Then why should I wear a dress?”

(Joel pauses.) “Don’t, then. Even better.”

(Leela looks away, but her mouth curves.) “Put the camera away, Joel.”

(A beat. Joel mumbles something inaudible to catch.)

(She gasps.) “Turn it off! You can't just say that while—”

(She exhales a quiet laugh, then reaches toward the lens—fingers outstretched. The footage shudders as the camera is lowered, turned. Just before the image cuts out, there’s a blurred shot of Joel’s boots stepping toward her.)

—

(The footage flickers back on. The camera shifts wildly at first—then it steadies, slightly tilted, capturing a low, intimate view of the workshop floor. The frame settles on Leela.)

(She’s sitting with her back against the wood-panelled wall, knees drawn up, a guitar resting haphazardly in her lap. Her hair is tousled, her nightdress clinging loosely with two buttons undone and one sleeve halfway off her shoulder. There’s a lazy satisfaction in her posture, it's obvious—she is freshly fucked. She’s grinning, biting her kiss-bitten bottom lip as she awkwardly tries to strum.)

(She nods to the camera.) “Nice, you turned it on. Say it again for me.”

(Joel, off-camera, voice sheepish) “You wish. I turned it on because future historians are gonna know what beautiful means.”

“Uh-uh. You have to say it. For the record.”

“There ain’t gonna be a record. This thing’ll get eaten by squirrels or somethin’.”

“You just said—”

“Changed my mind.”

(She laughs, eyes flicking up toward the lens, fingers still plucking uncertainly at the strings.)

“So, Joel said—and I quote—‘If I die, you have my blessing to move on, but not to someone with bad grammar or a weak chin.’”

“I was jokin’.”

“No, no. This is legal documentation now. You’re on record.”

“Fine. You got it on tape. But it’s a one-way deal. No replacements. I die, you mourn forever. Become a ghost widow or some shit.”

(Leela snorts. She strums a wrong chord and winces.) “You really think I’d let you die?”

“You plan on goin’ first?”

“Someone’s got to make you dinner in the afterlife.”

(Joel sighs.) “Hate it when you talk like that.”

(She softens then, gaze dropping back to the strings. Her voice stays light, but there's something underneath it—like the edge of a sigh.)

“You’re not gonna die anytime soon, Joel. Remember your guarantee?”

(He grumbles.) “Hundred-and-twenty years. No refunds.”

“Precisely. You’re only halfway through.”

“Still got time to pick up bad habits.”

(Leela flashes him a smile.) “You already did. Me.”

(There’s a beat of silence. You can hear Joel shift off-camera, maybe leaning closer. When he speaks, it’s warm, almost shy.)

“At least I get a cute girl outta the deal. And then some.”

“And I haven’t even started greying yet.”

“You won’t. Not for another decade. Still a damn teenybopper.”

“Right, right. I’m seventeen, Maya doesn’t exist, and I met you at my high school prom.”

“That’d explain the dress this weekend.”

“It has stars on it. Maya drew it.”

“Look, I’m livin’ long enough to see that girl bring home some cocky little bastard, and when they knock on our door, I’m gonna be sittin’ there with this guitar, cleanin’ it like it’s a shotgun.”

(Leela breaks into quiet, delighted laughter, leaning her head back against the wall. Her fingers fall still on the strings. She looks up at the camera and lifts one brow.)

“Will you at least put on your shirt first?”

“Hell no. Ruins my intimidation tactic.”

(She groans, mock-horrified. The camera tilts just slightly as Joel chuckles, and the screen catches a blurry glimpse of his knee before the feed goes shaky.)

“Alright, movie star. Gimme that thing before I start filming your bald spot.”

“Such a little—”

(A blurry shot of her smirk as he dodges a playful swipe. Then—black.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #50

[The last notes of a mellow track fade out—Simon & Garfunkel’s 'The Only Living Boy in New York.' The needle lifts. A breath of quiet static. Then, Maya’s voice, soft and clear through the mic.]

MAYA (into the mic, thoughtful): “Going along with our question for the day... I always wonder what the old world felt like. It's something I lost. Y’know, the one before the fences and the patrol schedules and the rules about not going past the orchard without a grown-up.”

“My dad and mom—they tell me stories. Sometimes funny ones. Like the time Daddy got stuck in this thing called an elevator and thought he was gonna spend the rest of his life in there.” [laughs quietly]

“And sometimes they tell me the coolest stuff. Like—did you know Leela Miller was supposed to inherit a jet? One of those fast-flying things that important people used to ride in. A private jet, she said. With soft chairs and teeny-tiny pretzels. You should’ve seen Daddy’s face when she told me. He just went real quiet and blinked a bunch.”

[Her voice quietens.] “Sometimes the stories are sad, though. Ellie told me once about the stars and how people used to ride rockets into space. She said if she had the chance, she’d go straight to the moon and never look back. I didn’t even know the moon was close enough to touch.”

[A soft pause. You can hear her thumb tap the desk, just once.]

“And every Thursday, I help my ma make dinner. It’s, like, our thing. She says people used to do that—pass down recipes and stories while peeling potatoes or whatever. Last week, we made these round stuffed cookie sandwiches called Oreos. Black and white. Sounded fancy. Tasted like… chalk? Ugh.” (giggles) “I don’t know why people were obsessed with them. Daddy ate five just to prove he liked them. Then he made this face like he’d swallowed his boot.”

“And then there were the M&Ms. Uncle Tommy found this old sealed jar when he was out on patrol. Tiny little colours, all shiny like beads. I thought they’d taste like cardboard. But… they didn’t. They melted in my mouth. Like, hmm… I don’t know. Crunchy happiness? I didn’t even care if they were a hundred years old. I wanted three more jars.”

[Her voice quiets. More space between words now.]

“Sometimes… I think I’m never gonna know what that world felt like. The one with school buses, and oh! These ice cream trucks that played music? With movie theatres and cereal aisles that go on forever. Where you could drive a car just because you felt like it. And move to a whole continent in a few hours.”

“I live in a world of rationed rice. And fences. And watchtowers. A world where you grow what you eat. And you don’t go out unless you have to...”

“But it’s not all bad.”

[She inhales, like she’s grounding herself in the now.]

“It’s actually kinda nice here. I wake up and check the berry bushes with Mama. I get to see the horses every day with Ellie. I help Daddy in the shop—he lets me sand the soft wood and shows me how to oil the hinges so they don’t squeak. When we walk through town, people wave. They know my name. The Miller kid.”

[A beat. Then she smiles, almost audibly.]

“Maybe the old world’s gone. But this one’s still growing, right?”

[She hesitates. Then leans a little closer to the mic. Her voice goes small—sincere.]

“If I ever had to pick between all the shiny stuff, the Oreos and M&Ms, the old world… or having this, my family, the lake, and my town?”

“I’d pick this. Every time.”

[There’s a quiet moment—just the hum of the equipment and a flick of a switch.]

MAYA (soft): “This next one goes out to anyone who's building something new in a world that’s still figuring itself out. Hang in there. Here’s “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles. Stay warm, Jackson.”

[Music begins.]

X

T. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3

(The frame opens with a slow zoom onto Joel, standing in front of a small bedroom mirror, trying—and failing—to get his cufflinks to sit right. The golden sun highlights the pressed lines of Joel's jacket. Tommy's teasing voice comes from behind the camera.)

“Look at that. Goddamn. Joel Miller in a tux. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

(Joel doesn’t look up. Just mutters a curse under his breath and keeps wrestling with the cuff.) “Terrible timing.”

“Oh, c’mon. Give us a spin, would ya?”

(Joel doesn't even glance over.) “Fuck off.”

(Tommy chuckles behind the camera. The lens zooms in—just slightly too close—as Joel adjusts his tie. The suit fits better than expected: crisp, black with a subtle grey lining. He looks good, clean, handsome, and uncomfortable. Someone has ironed the outlaw right off him. He finally gets the tie straight, eyes narrowing at his own reflection like it just insulted him.)

(Tommy, drawling, mock-formal) “Big brother’s gettin’ married today. Real event of the year.”

(Joel continued centring his tie.) “It ain’t a wedding. It’s pictures.”

(Tommy ignores him.) “There’s a bride. There’s a groom. She’s in white. You’re in a tux. There are rings involved.”

(Joel snorts. He fiddles with the small boutonniere Maria had pinned to the lapel earlier. It’s a single thistle and a white wildflower. Subtle.)

“Ain’t about the pictures or the suit. I… wanted a day that Maya could remember. So that’s what we’re doin’.”

“That’s a wedding, dumbass.”

(Joel gives him a look. The kind that would’ve stopped most people from speaking again. Tommy is not most people.)

“If you fuck this up for me, I am puttin’ your head through a goddamn wall.”

(The camera pans awkwardly to the bed, where Maya, three years old, is sitting cross-legged in a blue dress with a sash, hugging her stuffed bear. Her hair is braided in two neat ropes on her shoulders. She’s watching Joel with the kind of reverence only little kids have for their dads.)

“Hey, squirt. You seen your mama?”

(Maya beams at the camera.) “Yeah, she looks like a pin-cess. She got tattoo on her hands, and flowers in her hair...”

(She falls back onto the bed, kicking her feet in glee. Joel turns at the sound, a smile creeping over his face.)

“Well, now I gotta see her.”

(From off-frame, a calm voice answers, warm and amused—)

“Look no further.”

(The camera swings again, a little too fast, before it steadies—catching Leela standing in the doorway. She’s radiant in a simple flared white dress, tea-length with delicate lace sleeves. Her long braid is swept over one shoulder, tucked with tiny wildflowers. A string of pearls graces her neck, and white heels click softly on the floorboards as she steps in. She’s not done up like a fairy tale—she’s real, alive, smiling, glowing like one.)

(She smooths a hand down her stomach.) “Is it fine?”

(Joel doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares. His brow softens. One hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, the way he does when words fail him.)

“You look...” (He exhales a short breath through his nose, still watching her like she’s walked out of a dream.) “Yeah, darlin'. Yeah, you look... more than fine.”

(Then he snaps his fingers at Tommy without breaking eye contact.)

“Out. Take baby girl with you.”

(Tommy groans.) “Aw, c’mon, Joel. Get a grip.”

“Get. Out.”

(Maya squeals as Tommy dutifully scoops her up. The camera jostles a little. A final glimpse of Joel reaching for Leela’s hand before the door begins to close.)

(Maya, off-camera, giggling) “Bye, Mama! Bye, Daddy!”

(Just before the recording cuts, there’s a quiet moment—Leela stepping close, Joel’s hand brushing along her waist, his head dipping against hers, and the soft click of the door behind them.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #51

[The tape clicks on—there's a fuzzy hum of silence, then the creak of a stool. Maya exhales. She’s clearly resting her chin in her hand, voice small and low.]

M.M (quietly): ...you're tuned in with me, Maya, where the stars are out and everyone else is asleep. Except me. And maybe that one rooster that doesn’t understand how time works.

[A pause. The chair creaks again. She exhales, this time longer. Her voice grows softer—almost like she’s talking to herself now.]

M.M: No one came down here tonight. Not even... Carter. And he said he would. Boys are so dumb. (Then quickly:) Also, he's not my boyfriend! I hate his stupid guts!

[A long silence. Just the faint sound of a wire humming. Then, her voice, low and a little sad—]

I guess... if anyone’s still listening… thank you. [Her voice tightens. She’s holding something back. Then—] Okay. That’s enough sadness. Up next is the sound of me flipping through my songbook until I find something good.

[Just as she starts to rustle the pages, there’s a knock. Soft, deliberate. Her head lifts slightly. Another knock. Then Joel’s voice—]

J.M. (off-mic, gentle): Hey.

M.M (muffled, burying her face in her arms): Hi.

J.M.: How'd it go today?

M.M: Super. No one came. Or called.

J.M.: I came.

MAYA: You don’t count.

[A beat. The floor creaks as he steps inside, sits beside her. A long silence between them—companionable. Then—]

J.M: Well. You sure do like talkin’, huh?

[Maya mock gasps—like he’s insulted her most grievously.]

MAYA: Dad. Talking is important.

J.M. (teasing): Didn’t say it wasn’t. Just wonderin’... you ever run outta words?

MAYA (proudly): Nope. Never. Not even once.

[Joel lets out a low chuckle.]

J.M: Alright. But why the radio? What is it, your diary?

[Pause. Her tone pivots—still Maya, still full of sunshine, but now there’s a thoughtfulness underneath. Like she’s been waiting for someone to ask.]

MAYA: No. Because it’s... magic. You talk... and the words go somewhere. You don’t know where or who’s listenin’. But it’s out there.

[Beat. The chair creaks as she swings her feet.]

Mama said sound keeps goin’ even after we stop hearin’ it. Maybe it bounces off the sky or floats forever in space.

[She lowers her voice now—a hush, like telling a secret.]

So what if someone’s out there in our town, and what if they’re sad and alone... and then poof, they hear my voice. They know I’m real.

[Joel doesn’t answer for a second. You can hear the emotion get caught somewhere between silence and breath.]

J.M. (soft): That’s a mighty big heart you got.

MAYA (shrugs): It’s just talking.

J.M: Nah... ’S more than that.

[A rustle—Joel moves closer, maybe rests a hand on her head. His voice lowers.]

J.M.: Why don’t I answer your question tonight?

[A soft shuffle—maybe she’s lifting her head just slightly.]

MAYA: You will?

J.M: Shoot.

MAYA (a little more awake): Um... today it was: if you could say one thing to someone or something you lost… what would you say?

[Joel doesn’t answer right away. The mic hums gently. When he speaks, it’s soft—like he’s not sure she should hear it, but says it anyway.]

J.M: I’d say… I’m still here. Still tryin’. Doin’ better. And I’d say I love you very much. Took me a while to come back. (A pause.) That’s all.

MAYA (humming): Was it… a person? Or your guitar?

J.M (snorts softly): Ain’t the guitar.

MAYA (after a beat): Then I think I know who she is.

[He doesn’t deny it.]

J.M.: You got a song picked out?

MAYA: Not really.

J.M. (with a little smile): Well, you know mine.

MAYA (grinning): Future Days?

J.M: Mind if I play it?

MAYA: Well, no one's listening to put up with your singing anyway. Go ahead.

J.M: Smartass.

[He reaches for the old guitar case he brought with him—the latch clicks faintly. The strings hum as he tunes without thinking, hands practised, voice low.]

J.M. (gravel-voiced, playful): “This next one’s for the late-night crew. All one and a half of you.”

MAYA (giggles): Hey!

[He starts to play. A few soft, familiar chords. The mic catches it, carries it. Maya leans into his side. You can hear the soft brush of her hair against his jacket. Her voice, sleepy now.]

MAYA: Thanks for coming down here, Daddy.

J.M (quietly): Always will, darlin’.

[The song fades in.]

X

PHOTO LOG — SPRING | “Unwedding” Filed: L. MILLER, personal archive Roll #03, camera serial A-081 [TRIPOD RECORDING – VIDEO & STILL INTERVAL] CAMERA: ACTIVE

Frame 001

JOEL & LEELA, centre frame. They’re standing side by side in front of the big white house. Leela holds a handful of clipped sunflowers from her garden, stems wet and crooked. She’s smiling widely, the grin still growing. Joel gives the camera a suspicious look, then manages a half-smile, awkward, slightly off-centre.

ELLIE (offscreen, yelling): Joel, your face looks like you just stepped on a nail. Try smiling like you love her!

JOEL (grumbling): I do love her.

ELLIE: Then tell your dumb mouth.

Frame 002

JOEL & LEELA, closer. Joel’s arm slips around her waist, tugging her toward him. She stumbles into him, laughing, and the sunflowers drag a streak of yellow pollen down the front of his jacket. He scowls. She looks up at him, still laughing.

LEELA (cowboy accent): Guess I done marked you there, partner.

JOEL: Been doin’ that since day one.

Frame 003

JOEL, LEELA, & ELLIE. Ellie jumps into the frame, arms around their shoulders. She’s in a wrinkled black suit with a bright red tie, hair slicked back in a ponytail. Leela clutches Ellie’s hand with a smile that softens her whole face. Joel’s attention has shifted—he’s not looking at the camera anymore, just at Ellie, and there's something proud and bone-deep in the way he’s smiling down at her.

Frame 004

JOEL, TOMMY, LEELA, & MARIA. They’re bunched close, like they’re about to break into a group prayer or a brawl. Maria has her arm around Leela’s waist. Joel stands slightly behind, one hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy’s got his eyes closed like he’s already regretting whatever Joel’s about to say.

JOEL (murmured): Don’t you dare put your scaly ass lips near my wife again.

TOMMY (winking at Leela): I got one more kiss left in me.

LEELA (laughs): Me, too.

JOEL: Don't encourage him, honey.

MARIA: Shut the fuck up and smile.

Frame 005

MAYA. She stands in the front lawn by her swingset, a sunflower tucked behind her ear, grinning so wide her cheeks nearly touch her eyes. She frames her chin with her little hands, posing like someone’s taught her pageantry. Her gaze is angled up—someone tall, probably Joel, is just off-frame.

Frame 006

JOEL & TOMMY. They're in a mild standoff, both half-turned toward each other and toward the camera, bickering with their eyebrows.

TOMMY: You go left. I go right.

JOEL: You ain’t ever been right.

Frame 007

MARIA & TOMMY. Maria’s head is thrown back in a real laugh, eyes crinkling. Tommy’s kissed her cheek mid-frame, smug. His tie’s crooked. Her blouse is wrinkled. They look like the only people who didn’t try and still somehow got it right.

Frame 008

TOMMY & MAYA. He crouches beside her, both of them duck-pouting for the camera. Maya quickly throws up bunny ears behind his head just as the shutter clicks.

TOMMY (growls): Little nightmare. C'mere, I'll yank your nose out. Can't have one good photo.

[MAYA squeals, running off.]

Frame 009

ELLIE & MAYA. Ellie lifts Maya up at the waist, both laughing like they’ve just shared a secret. Maya’s braid is lopsided now. Ellie's hair is blown upward by the wind. They don’t care; they erupt into laughter.

Frame 010

JOEL, LEELA, & MAYA. The final frame lingers. Joel holds Maya in his arms, her small hands looped loosely around his neck, her cheek tucked against his shoulder. His other arm is around Leela, drawing her in without hesitation. She leans into him, one hand resting gently over his heart, holding it there, the wood-and-gold ring twinkling in the sun. Joel doesn’t smile often, but he does here. It’s lopsided and big. It took a long road to arrive at this moment.

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #117 October 3rd, 10:12 P.M.

(Soft click. A breath. Fabric rustles. Distant sound of wind chimes, maybe a creaky chair.)

“Okay. Six years, four months.”

“Maya asked me today if the sky always looked this old. And I didn’t know what to tell her.” (She laughs.) “I am still thinking about it. She is absolutely incredible. Now I know how my parents felt.”

“She’s... sharp lately. Surpasses me in all ways. Picks up on patterns faster than I can redirect her. Her brain is restless—it wants to devour everything. Maps. Fire. Roots. Words she’s not ready for. Words I wasn’t ready to hear her say.”

“Transcend. Refract. Exquisite. And, ugh, gross. Which she gets from Ellie.”

“She is Joel’s mirror. Her eye-roll, the little tilt of her head, the way she leans. She wears his old shirts, tucked into her jeans, sleeves all rolled up. She still bolts out the front door at exactly four every afternoon, barefoot if I don’t catch her, just to meet him halfway, and grabs his bag like it’s hers to carry. She sings with him now, plays guitar with him, little fingers on the frets. She even talks with that same Texas drawl of his.”

“She’s started naming weather. Not just clouds, but moods—“grump-storm,” “whisper rain,” “sun that’s pretending.” I think it’s how she handles the chaos. Which makes sense. It’s how I handled mine.”

(A beat passes.)

“I have decided that this is the last one. The last log. Not because she’s finished—well, she’s just getting started—but because I think she’s moving beyond me. And that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“My brilliant baby girl doesn’t need me to define her anymore. She’s learning what kind of person she wants to be. All I ever wanted was to get her this far. Alive. Unbroken. Curious. Aspiring. And so damn beautiful.”

“I think… I think I did that.”

(A brief rustling, a soft clink of glass—maybe a whiskey. Quite out of character for Leela.)

“As for me...” (She clears her throat. A chair creaks as she leans back.)

“I’m still working. I finished my notes on the zeta convergence problem last week—well, finished for now. There’s a ceiling I keep hitting, but I’m trying to trick myself into thinking it’s just another kind of symmetry.”

“I never thought I’d leave anything behind of mine own that mattered. But lately, I’ve been helping Jackson map our winter grid—energy storage with the lightning battery, food supply routes, even water rationing patterns. We’re building a resilience plan that doesn’t rely on luck anymore. A bunch of futurists here.”

(She exhales.) “I drew up the town’s first curriculum guidelines last month—basic logic, analytic equations, geometry... Maria says we’re going to turn the old sawmill into a school next year. Joel says if I make him teach fractions, he’ll fake his own death.”

(A small laugh. She lets it fade.)

“But I think he’s proud. Quietly. Of me.”

(And here—she gets a little softer, thoughtful, speaking more to herself now.)

“I don’t know if any of this will last. The world still breaks more than it builds. But maybe we leave behind, um... enough blueprints. Enough questions. Enough people who believe something good is possible.”

(Silence, just the faint hum of wind outside. Then—)

“I keep the hard math separate from the home stuff. Thanks to my handy chore chart. Usually. But sometimes—like today—I sit at the window with my pen, and I think about proof, and beauty, and entropy, and how somehow we still made this little family work. Even after everything.”

(Beat. She takes a sip. The glass touches the table again.)

“I mean, I still get the nightmares. Can't stop it. Not every night, but some. Sometimes I wake up with the scream still stuck in my chest. Sometimes I can’t get near my daughter's room without remembering what was done to me. What I survived.”

“But I’m doing better than I ever was. I don’t flinch as often when Joel touches me. I like taking walks around Jackson with Maria. I like to listen to people talk. Sometimes I visit Joel at the contracting yard, just to wake him up a little. I still freeze when I smell bleach, but I tell myself I’m safe, Maya is safe, and sometimes it even works. And when it doesn’t... he holds me through it. No questions or pushing. Just waits for me to fall asleep, and is awake before I am to reassure me that I didn't disappear.”

(Her voice softens here—full, held together like something precious she doesn't want to break just by saying it aloud.)

“Being with Joel is... loving a faultline. It is too silent, too deep, and it waits there. Ancient. Worn. Presence over promise. There’s something in him that bends toward my grief without being afraid of it. He just knows it’s there.”

(A soft breath, like she’s amazed by her own truth.)

“I think I love him more now because I know he’s seen the worst of me. And somehow he still leaves coffee by my nightstand every morning and kisses me like I’m his gift.”

(A faint, amused exhale—almost a laugh. She sniffles.)

“God, I sound so corny. He’d tease the hell out of me for this.”

“I never thought I’d have this. But then Joel knocked on my door one night, and everything began again. I’m... still learning how to let myself have that. Which is the hardest goddamn part. Belonging.”

(She sighs.) “Anyway... that’s the... my everything for now.”

“Joel’s downstairs—hinge number six. Maya’s his shadow, as always. I’ll go to them in a minute.”

“If I never say anything else—let this be the one that stays. I'm still here. I’ll hold onto this as long as the world lets me.”

[Click.]

X

© damneddamsy

I think it took me a really long time to post this because I had to say goodbye. To everyone who made it this far, thank you. What a wild journey this has been! Round two starts here -> FALLING masterlist Or if you're interested in something else, it's here -> DAMS main masterlist

{taglist (my literal family) 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

[damneddamsy]

FALLING. RATING Explicit (18+ only) PAIRING Joel Miller x BIPOC OFC (Leela) FORMAT & SETTING Joel's POV & Post-TLOU Jackson AU WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER approx. 12,000+ STATUS Complete

SUMMARY It is said that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. Now, Joel Miller wasn’t looking to be a saint. Trust was a liability. Love, a memory too painful to keep. But if a sinner like him still had some future, and if that future starts with one night—a baby’s relentless cries cracking through his walls and breaking him open—then maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t lost everything yet. Against all instincts, he steps into that big, white house across his street. Nothing drives Joel to linger, but he does. For the baby at first—nascent Maya, with her bright eyes and fistfuls of Joel’s collar. Then, the strange new mother. What begins as an uneasy coexistence grows into something deeper, which neither of them dares name. Haunted by a narrative she never chose, brilliant but reclusive, Leela’s mind runs into the theoretical—proofs, patterns, chasing solutions to an unsolvable equation—while Joel’s hands are scarred by the practical: protecting, killing, enduring. When that peace becomes fleeting, when a fragile hope in the shape of a mathematical discovery begins to bloom, and the world, as always, threatens to take it away, Joel confronts what it means to fall—not just into the impossible, but into love, into hope, into the fragile rhythms of Leela and Maya’s life, and their quiet home that becomes a rare thing in this decaying tomorrow: a reason to stay. This is a story of healing, found family, and the abnormal, slow math of love—how we factor grief, multiply hope, balance the unknowns, it never adds up but somehow makes perfect sense.

INDEX (might be subject to change as the story progresses.)

part i -> EVENT HORIZON

part ii -> MICROFRACTURE

part iii -> FALSE EQUILIBRIUM

part iv -> MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE

part v -> RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM

part vi -> LIMIT APPROACHES GRACE

part vii -> FREEFALL FUNCTION

part viii -> SOFT INFINITY

part ix -> STITCH THEORY

interlude

part x -> DECOHERENCE

part xi -> ZERO CROSSING

part xii -> THEOREM OF BECOMING

part xiii -> HEURISTIC BLOOM

part xiv -> THE FINAL INTEGRATION

epilogue

acknowledgements

FALLING MOODBOARD (a huge bear hug, thank you and shoutout to the incredible @jolapeno !!)

FALLING MOODBOARD (2) (so many kisses and so much love to the talented, sweet @mrsmando !!)

CHARACTER STUDY A deep dive into Joel, Maya, and Leela, answering an ask from one of my sweetheart friends @jodiswiftle who followed along!

AUTHOR'S NOTE Have loads of fun with this masterlist! took me a while to think up a different way to potray these chapters, I'm so glad it came through so great!

TAGS your (ultimate) fix-it fic, The Dad™️ Joel, softest Joel you've ever seen, he is also an old yearner cuntstruck hardass, Joel being down bad for a teeny baby girl, OFC is arabic, OFC being an academic nerd and STEM girlie, the cutest baby (Maya) ever, baby is an actual character, Miller family dynamics, Tommy-Joel-Ellie hooliganisms, life in Jackson town, Ellie being the generally awesome older sister, neighbours-to-lovers trope, found family, slowburn, a lot of math references, lotsa door metaphors, epistolary interlude.

CONTENT WARNINGS eventual smut (the whole kaboodle), big griefs, depression, unbearable angst, violence, gore, blood, alcoholism, substance abuse, post-natal depression, the pains of motherhood, mentions of rape and suicide, childbirth.

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc

E P I L O G U E

word count: 11,000 + warnings: literally all fluff. like painful, smothering fluff. Choking, blubbering, fitful angst. Sorry, not sorry. See you on the other side, everyone, hope you enjoyed 'Falling'!

The following is a series of artefacts belonging to JACKSON RESIDENTS recovered from their homes.

J. MILLER LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT - JACKSON, WY

If you’re reading this, or find this, I’m probably dead.

I’m okay with that. Would’ve preferred to go out old—grey-bearded, asleep on my porch swing in the summer, maybe a hundred and twenty with bad knees. Quietly. Got my fingers crossed, hoping that I do.

Because that ain’t how men like me go. I’ve lived hard. Killed more than I ever want to count. Broke things I couldn’t fix. And loved people I didn’t deserve. That’s the whole truth of it.

And now, sitting here writing this, I keep thinking about what the hell I’m really leaving behind. What is my legacy, anyway? Some folks leave behind land. Leela is going to leave behind her math and her inventions. Y’all’s names are clean enough to go on school buildings.

I live in a house that isn’t mine. My money’s long gone. And my name is a goddamn graveyard. So why am I doing this?

Look... I need you someone to know I tried.

I tried to be better. To build instead of destroy. To try love without losing control. I used to think all I was good for was surviving. Guarding. Holding the line until it all gave out. And yeah, maybe that was true once for a long time.

But then came my Ellie. Then came my Leela and my Maya.

I raised two three girls. THREE goddamn girls. More beautiful than me (thank god for that), more hardass-er than me, more stubborn than me, and that’s saying something. Ellie is the fire. Sarah was the storm, and Maya is the spring that comes after. I didn’t make them—but I kept them alive. Loved them the best way I knew how. Think I did a pretty good job.

That’s my legacy.

You can burn the rest of it. The guns, the patrol records, the guilt. Let it rot. The only thing worth anything now is what I loved.

Tommy. Maria. Brother, we never did things the easy way, did we? We fought like hell, and still came back. I know you two gave me a hard time some days, but you were the people I always knew had my six—whether I deserved it or not. Guess that's what siblings do. So don’t go getting all soft now. Just keep doing what you do best: being affectionate assholes and occasionally dumb as a pile of rocks. (Kidding. Mostly.)

Leela… darling, you had loved saved me. Over and over. By staying, letting me in, looking at me like I wasn’t the monster I saw in the mirror. You are my quiet, my reason, my damn backbone some days. I didn’t know it could be like that with someone. I didn’t ask you to forgive me, but you did it anyway, every time I came home to you a little more broken. I’m sorry for the parts of me I couldn’t fix. I know I said that too much—or not enough. Also—and I mean this with all the love in my tired bones—take your time, but don’t forget I’m waiting on those insane koftas over here. So when you finally get your fine ass to me… bring me some baharat (and those strappy little tops of yours because they really drive me wild.)

Ellie (hoping the above didn't throw you off, sorry). Here it is. I saved my world that day in the hospital. Yours. You. I’m not gonna pretend it was easy or righteous. It wasn’t. But I did it so you’d have more time with me—more chances to grow with me, laugh with me, hate me. I wanted that for you more than I ever wanted it for myself. I am sor I'd do it all over again. You might never have needed a father, but you got one anyway. You got me. And I’m proud of you, kiddo. Proud as one of your own. I LOVE YOU. There. I said it. I love you, Ellie.

And. Maya. Baby girl. If you’re reading this someday—well, shit, first off: did you get glasses? How else are you reading this with all that squinting? Eyes open, sweetheart. Ha, got you.

I want you to know it plain and simple: you are my everything. My girl. I loved you the moment you opened your eyes to me that night. You’re mine in every way that counts. Grow slow. There’s no prize for getting older, other than back pain. Be good—but not too good. Break some rules. No one likes a smartass. Don’t run too fast. Tie your shoes. Wear your damn socks, I MEAN IT. Don’t be scared of the world, even when it earns it. And take care of everyone, even when it hurts. And when you miss me (if you do), go sit with my guitar (be nice and share with Ellie). Sing to me. Hum. Cry. Talk out loud like I’m listening, because I swear I am.

I never had much. Still don’t. Got a couple of guitars, ammo, boots, a few busted knuckles, and a face that looks worse every year.

What I do have—what’s worth a damn—is all of you.

I was always the buffer. I thought that was the job. Keep everyone breathing, keep the world out. I don’t regret that. But it took me a long damn time to learn why I was doing it. It was never for survival.

It was for you. Always for you.

Signed, Joel Miller.

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – VIDEO FILE #1 TIMESTAMP: 19:48 | Reed Residence, Living room SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 2 years, 5 months CAMERA: Tripod, static, handheld. Low lighting. Floor lamp turned on. NOTES: Observational recording for cognitive development + emotional awareness + language formulation.

[CAMERA CLICKS ON. The video begins with a slightly tilted angle. The couch sits behind them, a soft quilt thrown over the edge. A toy horse lies abandoned on the floor. The room is warmly lit. LEELA adjusts the lens, sitting cross-legged, her voice focused but affectionate. JOEL is off-screen, behind the camera. Both their voices carry the sleepiness of a late evening.]

LEELA (softly, almost to herself): Okay... steady. This is important. (adjusts the lens) This is the first video entry in Maya’s development log—

JOEL (from off-screen, dry): Which is entirely unnecessary, 'cause she’s got a brain like a bear trap.

LEELA (half smiling): This is to test her cognitive flexibility, emotional regulation, and social interaction—

JOEL: C’mon, sweetheart. Listen to yourself. She’s fine.

LEELA: (glances at him behind the camera) I need to know she’s normal, Joel. Not just sweet or clever. Normal brain functioning.

JOEL (pauses, then gentler): She’s a goddamn miracle, Leela. Beat me at cards yesterday. Straight face the whole time. You think I let her win? (mimics a girlish voice) “Go fish, Daddy.” She’s hustlin’ me already.

[LEELA exhales, lips twitching, and nods. She angles the camera a little to the left. The frame shifts. MAYA is now sitting on the rug beside her mother, wearing denim dungarees over a cotton shirt with a stitched grasshopper. She waves at the camera like she’s greeting a friend.]

MAYA: (sends a flying kiss.) Hi.

JOEL (laughs): Hi, baby.

LEELA (gently): Alright, there we go. Baby, what's your name?

MAYA: (pointing) Daddy, video.

LEELA: Yeah, he is. Can you say your name for the video?

MAYA (taps her chest): Maya. Maya, Maa-yaa.

LEELA (laughs): Okay. Hi, Maya. And what’s your full name?

MAYA (mumbles): Maya… Miller.

LEELA: That’s right. Good girl. Now—can you please look at Mama for a second while we talk?

[MAYA is fully occupied with the brass buckle on her dungaree strap. She keeps flipping it open, then closing it, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.]

MAYA (without looking up): I fix this first.

LEELA (gently redirecting): Hmm. But if Mama wants to talk to you first, what would the polite thing be?

MAYA (quietly): …Wude.

[She lets go of the buckle and looks up, her knees drawn close.]

MAYA: Okay. I listen now.

LEELA: Thank you, baby. Ready?

MAYA: Yup.

LEELA: How old are you, Maya?

[MAYA holds up two fingers. Then she thinks, frowns, and adds a third finger halfway. Then reconsiders and puts it down.]

LEELA: That’s right. Two, almost three. And what’s Daddy’s name?

MAYA (giggles): Ha-wd-ass.

LEELA (gasps): No!

JOEL: Gonna kill that little shit Tommy.

MAYA (with her fist in her mouth, grinning): Joel.

LEELA: Joel, right. Maya… can you tell me: have you ever been angry at Daddy before?

MAYA (quickly): No.

LEELA (tilts her head): Never ever?

MAYA (frowning): ...mm, he took me home from park. He—he said... no. (points to the door) We go home now.

JOEL (off-screen, defensive): Hey now—it was a hundred degrees. I didn’t want you melting out there.

LEELA (clears her throat): Alright. And what did you say when he said that we have to go home?

MAYA (matter-of-fact): I said “NO! Not going home.” Then Daddy pick me up. We go home.

LEELA: And then?

MAYA: Then I... cried.

JOEL (mutters): Meltdown.

LEELA (to Maya): And when you get upset like that... what helps you feel better, Maya? Do you want to run away, or—do you need to yell? Maybe throw something?

JOEL (warning tone): Leela.

LEELA (ignoring him, soft but intent): Or maybe… do you just need a hug? Do you want someone to hold you?

[MAYA pauses. Her fingers fidget. Her chin tucks slightly, and her voice is very small.]

MAYA: I need hugs.

[LEELA looks up at the camera now. Her expression is softer, more tired. Her hand rests on Maya’s back.]

LEELA (to camera): So—we’re observing that when Maya experiences emotional dysregulation, she doesn’t act out violently or retreat, but reaches for physical reassurance. (pause, voice softening) Which is… significantly better than what I feared.

[MAYA turns and throws herself into Leela’s lap.]

MAYA: I love hugging Daddy.

JOEL (gravel-voiced, warm): Right back at ya, baby girl.

[MAYA now leans sideways into Leela’s lap, visibly drowsier but still engaged. A thread from Leela’s jeans has caught her attention, and she tugs it gently. LEELA hums quietly, drawing her back into the moment.]

LEELA (sing-song): Maya… now, were you really angry at Daddy that time?

MAYA (shakes her head, thumb brushing her lip): No. I just… don’t wanna go home.

LEELA (empathetic): Oh, well, I understand that. If I were having fun and someone told me it was time to go? I’d be mad too.

MAYA (nodding): Yeah. I wanna play more.

LEELA: So, do you have a lot of friends? Is that why you don't like leaving?

[MAYA looks up for a second, big, brown eyes shining, then shakes her head.]

MAYA: No.

LEELA (gently): Then why do you want playtime?

MAYA: I like big sandbox. Ellie helps me on the slide.

LEELA: What about the other kids?

MAYA: Only me, mama.

[LEELA hums again, stroking her hair slowly. The thread is forgotten now. MAYA leans closer.]

JOEL: Now, she ain’t alone. Ellie’s there, I’m there. The other kids... they're just older. And there are no other kids like her in town.

LEELA (shoots him a look): Joel—you're confusing her.

JOEL (scoffs): Fine. Shuttin’ up.

LEELA (focuses on Maya again): And how does it make you feel, baby girl? When you're alone? Are you scared? Or angry?

[MAYA’s brows furrow. She picks at her sock this time, quieter.]

MAYA: Sad.

LEELA (slight shift in posture, softer): You feel sad? Do you feel sad a lot?

MAYA (tiny nod, small voice): Yeah. I cry.

LEELA (quietly, not alarmed, just listening): You cry a lot when you're sad? When Mama isn’t around?

MAYA (sniffles): Mhm. I don’t like alone.

LEELA: Oh, my love.

[MAYA's face twists, and she rubs at her eye. A pause. JOEL’s voice is low and irritated from behind the camera at the sight of her hurting.]

JOEL: Okay, stop. You’re upsettin’ her.

LEELA (shaking her head, gently): No, we’re understanding. (She turns back to Maya, her hand brushing through tangled curls.) She’s not upset. She’s being brave. Aren’t you, baby?

[MAYA’s eyes flick to LEELA’s. She nods faintly.]

MAYA: I wanna be brave. Like Daddy.

LEELA: And you are. Angry and sad make you brave and real. Real people feel things. And they cry. Even big people. Even Daddy... (stage-whispers) in the shower.

[MAYA lets out a little giggle through her tears.]

LEELA (tucking a strand of hair behind Maya’s ear): Baby, you know… if you ever feel like it got dark around you, you can tell us. If you’re mad, you can stomp your feet. If you’re sad, you can cry in my lap. You don’t have to hide it or hold it in your belly, okay?

[MAYA shakes her head firmly this time, her lip wobbling just slightly.]

MAYA: I don’t wanna be mad, Mama. Don’t like it.

LEELA: No, honey. It’s okay to be mad. I get mad. Daddy gets mad all the time.

[A brief, audible scoff from JOEL.]

JOEL: Yeah, alright.

LEELA (grinning): All the time. And when he does, what do we do?

MAYA (perking up): Time-out!

LEELA: Right. And do we yell at him?

MAYA (giggling): You hug him.

JOEL (mock indignation): It's brutal.

[LEELA laughs softly, then leans forward again, face almost fully in frame now. Her voice drops to that warm, instructional tone again.]

LEELA: So next time, baby, when you feel mad or sad... what do you do?

[MAYA’s brow knits as she thinks. Then her eyes brighten.]

MAYA (low to loud): I say, 'Mama, I'm sad.'

LEELA (laughing): Very good. And then what happens?

MAYA (repeating back): You hug me.

JOEL (quietly): Every single time.

[There’s a long, peaceful pause now. MAYA rests fully in Leela’s lap, three fingers in her mouth, eyelids fluttering closed. JOEL finally appears in frame again, crouching beside them. He presses a hand gently to Maya’s back and gives Leela a tired, fond look.]

JOEL (murmuring): We should probably stop here. She’s running on fumes.

LEELA (sighs): Yeah, okay. That concludes entry one—emotional processing and response. Maya is responsive to guided questioning, able to self-identify emotions, strong associative memory.

JOEL (grins at Maya): Translation: she’s a little miracle.

LEELA: She’s Maya.

[JOEL leans in, kisses the top of Leela’s head.]

JOEL: You’re doin’ real good, mama.

[LEELA swallows and nods, visibly emotional. She lifts her hand to turn off the camera.]

[CAMERA CLICKS OFF]

X

E. WILLIAMS TRAVEL LOG #2

(The camera jolts to life with a brief blur of sunlight. A rhythmic thud-thud-thud of hooves on dry dirt is heard beneath the image. The view steadies to show Ellie, sweat glinting on her brow, holding the camera at arm’s length. She squints at the screen, then grins.)

(Ellie, to camera) “Okay, we’re rolling. This is Travel Log number two—because apparently Leela thinks we’re NatGeo now.”

(She wipes sweat off her nose with the back of her arm, then flips the camera around. It bounces before settling on the riders behind her.)

(Ellie, off-screen) “Maya, say hi!”

(The camera catches a horse trotting beside Dina’s. Joel rides a little behind, Maya seated snugly in front of him on the saddle. Maya is grinning so wide it looks like her face might split open.)

“Hai!”

(Ellie laughing) “And how the hell are you outside of Jackson, missy?”

“’Cause Daddy let me. And now we’re gonna catch fish!”

“Oh yeah? Wanna tell everybody how old you are?”

(Maya proudly holds up three chubby fingers, but two of them are smushed together.) “I’m th-wee.”

(The camera pans shakily to Dina, who rides up alongside, squinting against the light. Her hair is pulled back to that familiar topknot, sweat matting her face.)

“And there’s my gorgeous girlfriend. Babe, say hi.”

(Dina groans, ducking her head.) “I look like shit.”

“Yeah, but like—hot shit.”

(Dina flips her off. Ellie cackles. The camera swerves toward Joel, who is too focused on keeping Maya safe and the horse steady.)

(Ellie snorts.) “Could be worse. Look at this dumbass.”

(Joel, gruffly) “You better get that thing outta my face.”

“No can do. I’m under strict orders. Your wife told me to document everything. I’m just being a good citizen.”

“Christ. Just watch your step, kiddo.”

(Ellie, to camera now) “So, for the record: We’re taking baby girl on a late fishing trip for her birthday, which was all the way back on Christmas. And—this is the troop.”

(The camera zooms in briefly on Maya, who is now humming some nonsense song and patting the saddle horn. Joel looks down at her, and for a second, the camera catches him smiling.)

(Ellie, softer) “Not bad, right?”

(Static crackle as the image shakes again. Ellie flips the camera back to herself.)

“Alright, let’s go catch some fuckin' fish.”

—

(The footage stutters into motion with a high-pitched whine of static. The screen shakes wildly for a moment—just flashes of sky, pine, and boot—and then jolts into focus. A rough hand fumbles across the lens. Joel grumbles.)

“How the hell do you—? Goddamnit.”

(He shifts the camera. The image stabilises. Now it’s looking out over a sunlit rocky ledge above a wide, glittering creek. Ellie, Dina, and Maya are perched in a row on the flat of a sun-warmed boulder. Three rods poke into the air, lines drifting lazily into the current. The only sound is birdsong, water, and distant giggling.)

“Ellie, keep your arms around her. She’s jumpy as a damn frog.”

(Ellie snickers.) “Relax, old man. I’ve got her.“ (Then to Maya:) “You’re good, gremlin. Just hold it still and wait.”

(Maya squeals, standing up.) “I saw a fish! I saw one!”

(Dina teases.) “You’ve said that like ten times.”

“This time it smiled at me!”

“Liar!”

(The camera zooms slightly. Joel’s breathing is close in the mic, still focused on the trio. Maya suddenly gasps and yanks her tiny rod.)

“Mine's moving! DINA, I GOT ONE! I—!”

(Her footing slips. She screams with a quick splash—then chaos.)

“Maya, no!”

(The camera jerks wildly—Joel’s dropped it. It lands half-sideways in the dirt, still rolling. We catch fractured glimpses: Dina throwing off her jacket, Ellie lunging forward, Joel already in motion, boots thundering past the lens.)

(Ellie hisses.) “Shit—Maya!”

(A splash. Then another. Then silence but for the rush of water and muffled voices underwater, distant and panicked. Joel's frantic voice is the loudest.)

“Maya! Maya, can you hear me?”

(No answer. Just the hiss of the creek and thrashing limbs. The lens catches the churn of boots and panicked motion, but no child. Ellie surfaces empty-handed, wiping water from her face. Dina calls out, chest-deep and scanning rocks.)

“Anything?”

“Nothing—babe, she was right here, she was right here—”

(The lens catches motion as Joel barrels downstream. The camera misses his face, but his actions are sharp, driven. He throws himself into the current, shoving aside reeds, slipping on wet stone. He shouts again.)

“Maya, just come up, baby! Listen to my voice!”

(Nothing. Just the creek roaring louder. Ellie glances toward the far bank, silent now. Dina exhales hard, treading water. It’s been a full minute now. Then two. And—Joel stops.)

(He buckles—doubles over with both hands on his knees, soaked to the chest, breathing too fast. For a second, he’s motionless, like this short-circuited inside him. He grips his thigh, grounding himself. Then, barely audible—)

“God, please… please.”

(Dina turns toward him, voice gentler now but firm, trying to cut through the spiral.)

“Hey—hey, Joel. Listen to me. It’s gonna be okay. We’ll split up. I’ll head up the rocks, Ellie’ll sweep back toward the reeds. You keep to the bend. Okay? We’ll find her.”

(Joel doesn’t respond. His hands twitch at his sides, clenched and unclenched. He’s not hearing her. Or he is, but it’s bouncing off armour.)

“I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve—I looked away, just, just one second—”

(Ellie moving closer.) “Joel. Joel. Look at me. It's fine.”

(She’s within arm’s reach now. His jaw is set, neck tight, eyes scanning but not seeing. Ellie softens.)

“She can't have gotten far. We find her. You with me?”

(He blinks hard—once, twice. His hand comes to his mouth like he’s trying to hold something in. Then hoarsely—)

“Not again. Not her. Not…”

(He trails off. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Ellie’s eyes flicker, understanding more than he says. Behind them, Dina is waist-deep and staring at the far downstream bend. Her hand goes up slowly, pointing.)

“Wait. Wait—do you—?”

(A faint, distant voice echoes from downstream—bright and bubbly.)

“Daddy, Dina! I got it! I got the fish!”

(Joel doesn’t move at first. His head lifts slowly, like he’s afraid to believe it. Then Ellie breaks into motion and he follows—trudging through water, stumbling once but not stopping. The camera is still skewed, but it catches a tiny shape emerging from the trees further downstream, waterlogged and barefoot, holding something overhead in both hands.)

“It was hiding! I chase it!”

(Joel’s breath catches. His arms drop slack, then he’s moving faster, boots pounding the muddy bank, sloshing up toward her.)

“Maya. C'mere, baby.”

(He drops to his knees in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and then crushes her into a hug, flapping fish and all. Maya giggles, not understanding the terror that had settled in his chest just moments ago.)

“You scared the hell outta me. Thought I lost you.”

“But I got it!”

(Joel clutches her closer, water dripping down his face—unclear if it’s from the river or his eyes. His voice is barely a breath now.)

“Don’t ever do that again. You hear me? Don’t ever…”

(He cuts himself off. Kisses the top of her head, pushing the wet hair off her cheeks and neck. Behind him, Dina rubs her face and exhales, laughing through leftover adrenaline. Ellie just drops backwards into the creek with a splash, limbs splayed like a starfish.)

(Ellie sighs and looks up to the sky.) “I'm never fuckin' babysitting this little demon again. Not without a goddamn leash.”

(Maya beams.) “I was tracking! It went under the rocks, so I had to go up the side like Dina said!”

(Joel shakes his head.) “Not without tellin’ me, you don’t.”

(Ellie picks up the camera—mud-smeared and dripping, but still running. She holds it at a crooked angle as the group sloshes back to shore, all soaked, all laughing in that shaky, post-crisis way. Joel’s doesn’t come yet—but he’s still holding Maya.)

“Update: Joel has aged twenty years. Maya met a fish. And none of us are allowed to breathe ever again.”

(Maya, off-camera, all chipper.) “I wanna swim!”

(All three, in perfect unison—)

“Nope.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Never happening.”

(The camera catches one last frame of Maya proudly cradling the flopping fish, her curls plastered to her forehead, Joel’s arm around her protectively. Ellie’s laughter trails off as the screen fades into soft static. Cut to black.)

X

J. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3

(Video begins mid-jostle. The camera is unsteady, jiggling as Joel tries to lift it above the crowd. Boots thump on the wooden floors, fiddle music screeches with jubilance. String lights swing in the rafters, and there’s distant whooping over the band’s tempo.)

(Joel’s voice mutters, amused.) “Can’t see nothin’ in this damn barn…”

(Camera finds its focus, finally sweeping over the packed dance floor, shakily pushing through arms, backs, and half-finished pints. Then the camera locks in on Maya, spinning into dizziness in the middle of the floor. She’s in denim overalls, her sleeves rolled, curly hair bouncing, boots two sizes too big. People are giving her space, clapping in rhythm.)

(Tommy, off-camera, hoots.) “Look at her go!”

(Maria coos, off to the side.) “Shit, I wanna bite her little face off.”

(Camera zooms and shakes slightly. Joel laughs.)

“Go on, baby girl!”

(Maya notices the camera. She gasps, hands on her cheeks like a cartoon character. Then waves with both hands.)

“Haiiii!”

(She dashes forward, expertly weaving between dancers, laughing the whole time. Camera wobbles as she leaps at Joel, arms flung wide.)

“Let me hold it! I wanna be the camera girl!”

“You got butterfingers. This thing’s older than Ellie.”

(Maya whines, bouncing in protest. Joel tips the camera up and away as she tries to jump for it. A waitress sidesteps her, chuckling. Joel lowers the lens, steadies it again.)

“C’mon, help me find your mama. She better not be—”

(Sudden distant yell.)

“WOOOOOO!”

(Camera swings wildly again—searching. Finally, it lands: Leela, up near the band. Her cowboy hat's tipped too far back, one boot missing, one boot on. She’s shimmying with total abandon to the beat, singing along loud and off-key to a song she clearly doesn’t know.)

(Tommy cackles.) “'S happened again.”

(Joel groans. The camera jolts down, then upward—now Tommy is holding it, laughing breathlessly.)

“Grab it. I gotta go fix this.”

(Tommy lifts the camera to zoom in as Joel pushes through the crowd. Ellie briefly appears beside Tommy, leaning in to whisper.)

“Is that one boot on, one boot off? Iconic.”

(Maria snorts.) “She drinking out of her boot?”

(Camera zooms in—Leela indeed holds a boot like a goblet, sloshing something suspiciously dark and fizzy inside. She twirls—and nearly slips.)

(Joel reaches her just in time. He grabs her arm with both hands. Leela gasps, delighted.)

“There he is! Husbaaaaand.”

(Joel is clearly trying not to laugh.) “You stink.”

(Leela puts on a fake cowboy accent.) “That’s called love, darlin’.”

(Her arms loop around his neck, hat slipping to one side, planting a kiss on his mouth. Joel—half laughing, half exasperated—obliges, but only briefly before pulling back.)

“You’re gonna break your neck out here.”

(She sways her hips in an invitation.) “Dance with me, Daddy.”

(Ellie groans from off-camera.) “Ew, what the fuck?”

(Joel groans, pinches the bridge of his nose. Crowd laughter builds in the background.)

“Jesus, don’t call me that in public. You’re gonna confuse the hell outta people.”

(She uses a finger to beckon him.) “C’mon.”

(He plants both hands gently on her waist to steady her.) “You gotta sober up, sweetheart. You already lost a boot.”

(She pouts. He sighs. Then offers his hand.)

“Just one.”

(The music softens into a slower tune—harmonica over strings. Leela leans into Joel, wrapping her arms around his neck like a sleepy kid. They sway awkwardly. One-booted. Out of time. Joel mutters something we can’t hear. Leela giggles like it’s the funniest thing in the world.)

(Camera pans down: her bare foot rests on his boot. He just lets her lean.)

(Ellie whispers nearby.) “Stop filming. They’re so gross.”

(Tommy snickers.) “They’re happy.”

(In the far right of the frame, Maya appears again, now holding Ellie’s hand and tugging hard.)

“Dance with me, Ellie, c'mon!”

(Leela turns mid-dance and waves dramatically at Maya, then does a very poor spin that nearly sends her into a table. Joel catches her mid-fall and dips her, exaggerated, one arm around her waist. She shrieks with laughter.)

(Camera pulls back. The saloon lights flicker overhead. Everyone around them is dancing, drunk, or both. It’s messy and warm and joyful—a pause in the noise of survival.)

(Frame lingers on Joel and Leela, pressed close. He murmurs something into her hair. She closes her eyes. The song fades to the final note—violin and steel guitar.)

X

TELEPHONE RECORDING #1 DATE: SEP. 26TH | TIME: 04:03 A.M. LINE: INTERNAL, JACKSON, WY PARTICIPANTS: J. MILLER, L. MILLER, M. MILLER

[Distant, metallic click. Faint static hum. A long pause. Then—a shrill ring, not the synthetic tone of modern cellphones, but an old, analogue bell. Faint rustling. Something thuds lightly against wood—maybe a hand fumbling in the dark.]

J.M. (groggy, disoriented): …the hell…?

[Rustling sheets. A creak of the bedframe. He fumbles for something in the dark.]

J.M: …No way.

[Another ring. Then a hesitant click as he answers. Silence.]

L.M. (warm, amused): Hi, can I speak with the birthday boy, please?

[Long silence. A faint creak.]

J.M. (cautious, stunned): Leela?

L.M. (giggles): Joel. Can you hear me?

J.M: I’m not dead, am I? It’s four in the damn morning… and the phone that’s sounds like a death knell just rang.

L.M. (sing-song): Surprise!

[A beat. Then, Joel exhales a sharp, stunned laugh. Fabric shifts as he sits up.]

J.M: Holy shit. Leela. Darlin’… Holy shit. This is real.

L.M. (whispers): Happy birthday.

J.M (laughs again): I—I can’t even wrap my head around this. You’re on the phone. Like actual… static and everything. How the hell’d you pull this off?

L.M: Well... I rewired the internal comms grid. Boosted a small solar cell relay through the southern outpost lines. Then I cross-fed it into the restored switchboard. Et voila, eight months later, it works just in time.

J.M: …Y'know, I only caught about two words of that, right?

L.M. (smiling through): I said I missed your voice.

J.M: Goddamn. All that for a call to me?

L.M. (gently teasing): You’re not that hard to miss. But yeah… first working phone in Jackson. Figured it should go to the man who hates birthdays and attention. Two birds.

J.M. (grinning now): You gonna make the whole town use this thing?

L.M: Eventually. For now, I serve as both operator and technician. Thought I’d test the system on someone who doesn’t mind me, er.... rambling.

J.M: That right? Hell, I’d listen to you read out the damn dictionary, baby. You always made even the hard shit sound soft.

L.M.: Don’t go sweet-talking me now. It’s your birthday. I should be the one getting all the mushy.

J.M. (lower, softer): You already gave me everything I wanted.

[A faint click in the background—a loose wire, or a shift in signal. Then Joel clears his throat, as if trying to recover.]

J.M: So tell me—now that I’ve got you on the line… You reckon this thing could handle what the kids used to call phone sex?

L.M. (incredulous laugh): Joel!

J.M.: Come on, darlin’. I’m just sayin’—voice like yours in my ear? Might short out the tower.

L.M.: Stop. I’m recording this call for research.

J.M.: Whatever. I’m the birthday boy. I get one pass.

[They both laugh. Then, a faint stirring. A tiny yawn. The faintest whimper.]

M.M. (sleepy): Daddy…?

J.M.: Hold on. Trouble’s wakin’ up.

[He shifts. The mattress creaks. A soft scritch of his beard brushing her cheek. A kiss to her forehead.]

J.M. (instantly gentle): Hi, baby girl. You’re okay. It’s just the phone.

M.M.: Phone?

[Joel adjusts—the rustle of movement, soft fabric, a creaking mattress. Then, the faint sound of a small body being shifted, carefully.]

J.M.: Here. I want you to listen to someone special.

[Receiver shifts slightly. Then—]

M.M. (suspiciously): Mama?

L.M. (audible intake of breath, voice trembling slightly): Hi, baby girl. Hello.

M.M. (in awe): Are you inside the... box?

L.M. (chuckling): Sort of. The box can carry voices through the wires and air.

M.M. (gasps): It’s a magic box!

J.M.: Damn right it is. First call of the new world, and it went to you.

M.M.: Mama… where are you?

L.M.: Still right here, baby. Just downstairs, in the hall. But this box lets me kiss you goodnight without moving.

M.M. (soft giggle): It is magic.

[A tiny yawn. Then the gentle shuffling of her curling into Joel’s chest. The receiver shifts again.]

J.M. (hushed): She’s driftin’. You still there?

L.M. (sniffles): Always. Did you like your surprise?

J.M. (low chuckle): No phone sex? Hardly a surprise.

L.M.: Your daughter is literally five inches from your face.

J.M. (snickers): And you’re missin’ five inches in yours.

L.M. (shocked gasp): Joel, what is wrong with—

J.M. (grinning): You made it too easy. Alright, I love you. Now hang up… and come over here.

L.M. (quiet smile in her voice): You hang up.

J.M.: Mm-mm. Not playin’ this game, darlin’. Been dead for twenty years, I intend to keep it that way.

[Silence lingers. Then—]

L.M. (whispered): Good night, birthday boy. See you in a minute.

J.M. (just above a murmur): Night, baby.

[Click. The line goes dead. Faint hum fades out.]

X

E. WILLIAMS HOME VIDEO #16

(The footage opens with a bit of bounce—someone's adjusting the handheld camera. There is a gentle sound of cards shuffling. Ellie is clearly behind the camera. Her steps are slow as she moves into view of the dining table, where Tommy sits across from Maya, elbows on the table, scattered with half-finished custard, eyes narrowed in concentration.)

(Ellie, off-camera, voice playful) “Alright, it’s dead silent in here. What’s goin’ on? Poker night?”

(Tommy, gruffly, not looking up) “It’s war.”

“With a three-year-old?”

“She’s up four hands and counting. I ain’t here to play. I’m here to win back my dignity.”

(The camera pans to Maya, sitting squarely in Leela’s lap, her tiny brows furrowed, lips pursed. The cards look enormous in her little hands, but she’s manoeuvring them with sharp, deliberate movements. Leela’s not helping—just holding her arms up as Maya goes through them.)

(Maya, serious, without looking up) “Your turn, Uncle Tommy.”

“I know, kid. I know. Just thinkin’.”

“Don’t think too long. That’s how Daddy lost.”

(A beat. Then a snort of laughter from Ellie.) “Oh my god. Joel lost to Maya. Comedy gold.”

(The camera zooms in a little as Tommy lays down his card—then, slowly, Maya lays hers. A moment passes. Tommy exhales through his nose.)

“Son of a—”

(Maya squeals, grinning wide.) “Yay! Mine’s bigger!”

(Tommy grumbles.) “Damn right it is.”

(Leela gently warns) “Maya…”

(Maya is still triumphant.) “I said bigger. Not a bad word, mama.”

(Ellie, laughing) “I dunno, Tommy. You sure you’re not lettin’ her win?”

(Tommy holds up both hands.) “You see me foldin’? Hell no. She’s counting cards. I ain’t got a chance.”

(Maya, too gleeful) “That’s ‘cause I remeh-mber them.”

(The camera wobbles as Ellie doubles over laughing. Tommy just leans back in his chair, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.)

“Leela, honey, what are you feedin’ your child? We all get the same goddamn rations.”

(Leela with a small smile) “Books. Puzzles. Joel.”

(Ellie heaves a breath.) “Well, that explains the poker face.”

(The camera zooms once more on Maya, who now holds up her cards dramatically toward the lens, fanned out—wrong side forward.)

(She stage-whispers to the camera.) “No one can sh-top me.”

(Tommy shakes his head.) “I gotta start cheating.”

“That’s against the ruuuuules.”

(Leela giggles.) “Tommy, she will never let you live it down.”

(The camera lingers on Maya’s proud little face, cheeks puffed out as she shuffles her cards again—badly, sloppily, adorably. Leela helps guide her fingers, whispering numbers, which Maya repeats under her breath. Across the table, Tommy looks both defeated and weirdly proud.)

(A beat. Then, off-camera, Joel’s voice cuts in—gentle, curious.)

“You wanna be like your mama when you grow up, baby?”

(Maya pauses mid-shuffle. The cards slip out of her hands and scatter. Her eyes go wide—and then she lets out a shy giggle, immediately burying her face in Leela’s chest.)

“Mmm…”

(Leela laughs softly and brushes back Maya’s curls.) “What? What is it?”

(She kisses the top of Maya’s head. Just then—sharp, tinny brrrring! cuts through the moment—the patched-up rotary phone on the wall rings. Everyone in the room glances over, startled.)

(Maya gasps, squealing) “Aaaah! I got it! I got it, I got it!”

(She scrambles to her feet, almost tripping on her feet, and makes a beeline for the phone. Joel chuckles and reaches out instinctively to steady her as she races past.)

“Easy, trouble.”

(She hops up on the table by the wall, lifting the receiver with both hands like it’s treasure. Maya speaks in a serious tone, copying someone she has seen.)

“Jackson outpost. Maya speakin’.”

(Leela hides a laugh behind her hand. Ellie is already zooming the camera in as Tommy leans forward, amused.)

“Aw hell—she’s got a job now?”

(Maya, now pressing the receiver to her ear, trying to sound official) “Okay. Uh-huh. You got it. I tell Uncle Tommy. Stand by!”

(She covers the receiver with her hand and turns to Tommy with wide eyes.)

“Uncle Tommy, they sayin' the lookout spotted smoke near the ridge. You check it now.”

(Tommy is laughing but impressed.) “Well damn. Alright, little ranger. I’ll suit up. Thanks for the heads up.”

(Maya beams proudly and puts the phone down, then turns back to the group, chest puffed a little.)

(Ellie, mock-serious) “That’s it. She’s taking my side gig. I’m retiring.”

(Joel grins at Ellie behind the camera.) “Gotta get her her own call sign. Radio girl’s gonna run Jackson by ten.”

(Leela pulls Maya back into her lap.) “Where’d you learn to talk like that, huh?”

“I listen when you think I’m sleepin’.”

(Joel snorts.) “'Course she does.”

(Tommy raises his glass.) “To the youngest scout we got.”

“Maya Miller: card shark, signal scout, future queen of the airwaves.”

(Laughter ripples through the room. The camera catches Maya grinning bashfully, resettled between Leela’s arms, stacking her scattered cards again. A brief static flickers as the camera feed fades to black.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #48

[The broadcast crackles in—a gentle hum of wind in the background, maybe the faint clatter of boots on wood outside. Maya, aged TEN, runs the radio station in the mornings. A little jingle—probably something she made herself with Ellie’s help—plays, made up of a few clunky guitar notes and a whistle.]

M.M. (bright, chipper): “Goooood morning, Jackson! It's 7 a.m., the sun is shining, the wind is definitely tryna blow the roof off the stables, and you're tuned in to our very own radio station with your friendly neighbourhood deejay, Maya Miller, keeping you company as we ride out another day in paradise.”

[Short laugh—a little dry, but charming.]

M.M: “Okay, okay—maybe not paradise. But hey, it’s home. And here in Jackson, we’ve got chickens that lay, fences that hold, and people that don't give two shits about my radio station. That’s more than most.”

[A page rustles. She taps her book—maybe a list.]

M.M: “We’re keepin’ it light today, folks. A couple of songs, a couple of stories, maybe one or two terrible jokes if you're lucky, thanks to Ellie. And if you're tuning in from the outer fields, the boiler room, or the patrol tower—this one's for you.”

[Pause—her tone quiets, like remembering a note.]

M.M: “Oh! Big shout-out to Kenan at the forge. They just finished another batch of those wicked-sharp hatchets. If you scored one before the morning shift, buy 'em a cider at the Tipsy Bison. Or—I mean, at least carry their woodpile for a week.”

[She laughs, a little sheepish now.]

M.M: “And... yeah, I know it’s been a little rough out there lately. More sightings than usual. One of the patrols spotted a runner near the Gulch—again. But look—we’re still here. Still standing. Still singin’.”

[A breath, then her voice perks back up.]

MAYA: “Alright, alright, no more of that serious stuff. That’s not what you tuned in for. Let’s play something for Bill, who requested ‘Mr. Sandman’—says it reminds him of ‘before.’ I don’t know if that’s sweet or depressing, but I’m rollin’ with it.”

[‘Mr. Sandman’ begins to play softly underneath.]

MAYA: “This one’s for you, Bill. And for anyone else out there, remembering a time when the world made a little more sense. You’re not alone. And hey, if anybody wants to drop in and say 'hi', I'm right by the main hall, and it's a pretty sweet setup. I don't bite. Anymore. I promise.”

[Music fades back, plays for a few moments, then cuts softly as the mic picks up again.]

MAYA (a little mischievous): “Alright, folks, you’re in for a treat. We’ve got a very special guest in the booth today. Resident genius and best mom in the world. Wanna say hi?”

LEELA (off-mic at first, reluctant): “Uh. I’m Leela. Her—your mother. Hi.”

MAYA: “Hi, Mama.”

LEELA (dryly): “You forgot your lunch bag. Again.”

MAYA: “I was... on the air. Y’know. Broadcasting to the entire colony. Essential work.”

LEELA: “Mhm. Well, now your sandwich is cold. Again. Good luck with that.”

MAYA (laughing): “Wait! Wait. Sit down. Just one question. It’s a good one.”

LEELA (sighs): “Maya, I’ve got to look at the turbines at the dam today—”

MAYA: “Please. Please-please-please! C’mon. For the people.”

LEELA (defeated): “Fine.”

MAYA (suddenly mock-serious): “Okay, Jackson, here’s today’s philosophical corner: If you could say one thing to someone or something you’ve lost—what would it be?”

[Silence for a second. Then, deadpan:]

MAYA (hisses): “Mama, you have to answer.”

LEELA (after a pause, dryly): “To someone I’ve lost? …I’d probably have a word or two with my patience. Wherever it went. Please come back.”

[MAYA snorts with laughter.]

LEELA (murmuring): “And now I really do have to go.”

MAYA: “You’re the worst.”

[A kiss lands audibly—Leela kisses the top of Maya’s head, just off-mic.]

LEELA (softly, already stepping away): “Have a great day. I love you, baby.”

[The door clicks. Faint sounds of her leaving — boots on wood, the wind again. Then silence. Maya exhales like she’s trying not to smile.]

MAYA (quietly, into the mic): “She says that every time, like she doesn’t mean it. But she does. Every single word.”

[She clears her throat.]

MAYA: “Okay, back to the music before I start cryin' on air. This next one’s for y'all weirdos with too many feelings. Stay safe, stay sharp, and stay with me.”

[The song fades in.]

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #12 TIMESTAMP: 11:03 | Reed Residence, Dining room SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 3 years, 8 months NOTES: Observational recording for emotional awareness _ identity formation.

(Soft rustle. The recorder clicks on. Leela's voice enters soft, tired, but affectionate, as though she’s easing into the moment.)

“Development log twelve. Maya, aged three years and nine months. Today I want to check in on Maya’s social-emotional patterns—how she plays, how she relates to other kids. Observation notes: Today, she built a “rocket ship fort” with our laundry basket. Declared herself commander. Declared Ellie the alien. She delegated roles. Pretty assertively.”

(There’s a quiet chuckle from Leela, followed by a long exhale.)

“It’s been... remarkable, watching her become her own person. She’s started giving things names. Stories. Feelings. People. I just want to see where her head’s at.”

(She sets something down, the soft clatter of a ceramic mug. Then gently—)

“Hey, baby girl. You wanna come sit with Mama for a second?”

(There’s the sound of soft running feet on hardwood, followed by a tiny huff of breath as Maya sits down. Fabric rustles. Maya’s voice is sweet and happy.)

“I was building a big zoo for you, mama.”

“A zoo? Wow. What animals did you put in it?”

“Three horses, one tiger, two bunnies, and a T-Rex.”

(Leela laughs.) “Now that’s a very inclusive zoo.”

(A pause. Then, casually but purposeful—) “Maya, can you tell me about your friends? Who do you play with the most?”

(Maya, without missing a beat) “Carter.”

“Oh, he's a nice boy. Remind me, who's Carter?”

“Silly.” (She hums.) “He lives next door!”

“Mhm. And what’s Carter like?”

“He’s funny. He let me use his green crayon even though it's his favourite. And he pushed me on the swing so high I almost touched the sun!”

(Leela, gently teasing) “You have a lot of fun together?”

(Maya giggles.) “He’s my boyfwen.”

(There’s a beat of silence. A soft click as Leela sets down her pen.)

(Leela sounds more careful than amused.) “He's your boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh. He shared. And I kissed him on the cheek. So now we’re... boyfwen and girlfwen.”

(Leela’s quiet laugh slips out—surprised, warm.) “And how did he feel about that?”

(Maya, cheerfully) “He said I smelled like apples.”

“That’s a pretty sweet thing to say.”

(Then her tone shifts—slower now. She softens it without losing the thread, like a hand on Maya’s back.)

“Baby, can we talk about something important?”

“'Kay.”

“You know how hugs and kisses and holding hands can feel really nice, right?”

“Yeah. I go like this—mwah!”

(There's a small pause.) “But you always get to choose. Nobody gets to touch you unless you want them to.”

“Mhm.”

“And if someone ever tries, and it makes your tummy feel funny, like a scared feeling, or like you want to get away—you tell Mama. Or Daddy. Or anyone in your family.”

(Maya, quietly) “Even if they’re nice?”

“Even if they’re really nice. If you don’t feel good about it, that’s enough. Your body is yours.”

(There’s a pause, like Maya is working it out in her head. Something taps gently—Maya’s fingers on the table, maybe. Then her voice returns, brighter again.)

“But I wanted to give him kiss, mama.”

“That’s okay. It’s good when you want to. That’s how we know something feels right. But you should know it’s always okay to say no, too. Even to kisses. Even to Carter.”

(Maya hums, a beat later) “What if I change my mind?”

“Exactly. Then you say, “No, thank you.” And he has to listen. And if he doesn’t, you come straight to me, alright?”

“I think he listens.”

“Then he’s being a good friend. That’s what matters most. Being safe and kind.”

(Silence. Then—)

“Mama?”

“Yeah, baby.”

(Her voice is shy.) “Can I kiss you?”

(Leela laughs, breath catching a little—caught off guard.) “Of course you can. Gimme a big one.”

(A pause. A kiss lands—a loud little mwah. Then giggles.)

“You smell like Daddy.”

“And you smell like apples. Go on now, go build your big zoo.”

(Tiny footsteps patter away. The door creaks faintly. The room settles. The faint hiss of the windchime and the occasional tick of the cooling kettle fill the space. Then—soft, almost absent-minded—Leela begins speaking again.)

“Um, well... Maya shows increasing um, verbal complexity in social interactions. She uses ownership language—“my boyfriend,” “my zoo”—which aligns with expected identity formation at her... stage. Shows initiative in emotional reciprocity—physical affection, shared play, verbal acknowledgement of care...”

(She takes a quiet breath, then shifts.)

“Omigod... what happens when those interactions aren’t safe? When someone nice isn’t good?”

(Another breath. This one is shakier.)

“I don’t know how to teach my daughter the difference between fear and instinct without giving her...” (A soft gulp.) “...my history. I don’t want her carrying mine. I want her to know the world. But how do you prepare someone for what you survived, without letting that become the shadow they grow up under?

(A long pause.)

“My baby, she’s so soft. And that’s a miracle. I didn’t know softness could survive me. I didn’t know I could still hold it, let alone raise it.”

(Her voice lowers again, almost as if she’s talking only to herself.)

“I watch her love so freely, and it's starting to terrify me again. Because there’s always this part of me that thinks: someone's going to take it. But another part, the one that clings to Joel, assures me that she's safe. Maya knows how her father is and how a person should be.”

(Silence. Then, quietly, with that same gentle steadiness she gives to Maya—)

“She knows she can say no, and that she can run home to me. That’s… a start.”

(Click.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #49

[Mid-broadcast—music fades out. The soft hum of the station returns.]

MAYA (into the mic, mock-serious): “And that was Fleetwood Mac for the third time this week because apparently we are a town of heartbreakers. Thanks for the request, Esteban—erm, next time, maybe something that doesn’t make me want to bash my head against the wall for two hours.”

[She shuffles a cassette case, clicks it shut.]

[The studio door creaks open. Footsteps, then a long, familiar sigh as someone flops down onto a chair.]

ELLIE (off-mic, relaxed): “Damn, it’s cosy up in here. Look at this! Did you get new pillows? Wait, that one's mine.”

MAYA (groans): “Oh no. No, no, no. Ellie—you’re not cleared for entrance. You gotta go.”

ELLIE (snorts): “Relax. I’m just hangin’ out. You got snacks? You always got snacks. Leela's fuckin' sinful pretzels.”

MAYA: “This is a professional environment. You can’t just—”

ELLIE (into the mic, sing-song): “Psh, you're like ten. Did your professional environment know you’ve got a boyfriend who—”

MAYA (shrieks, cuts her off): “NOPE. Nope. Don’t you dare! You always do this! Get out!”

ELLIE (cackling): “What! I didn’t even say—Carter!—Come and—ow, hey!”

MAYA (wrestling for the mic): “Get! Out!”

[There’s a scuffle, laughter, the sound of a chair scraping back. Ellie’s voice is fading as she’s being half-dragged.]

ELLIE (calling out): “He sees her through his window, Joel’s gonna—!”

MAYA: “OH MY GOD!”

[Just as Ellie is shoved out the door—]

MARIA (stern, from the hall): “Girls. Too loud.”

[Silence. The studio door eases shut.]

MAYA (breathing hard, mutters): “…Gonna kill her.”

[She takes a second. Then clears her throat and speaks calmly into the mic again, regaining her radio persona like nothing happened.]

MAYA: “Apologies for the brief turbulence. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programme. Here’s one for anyone with nosy sisters and no locks on their doors. This is ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me.’”

[Music kicks in—The Police.]

X

MILLER HOME VIDEO #16

(The footage starts mid-motion—jostled slightly as someone fumbles with the handstraps. A soft clatter in the background, tools on wood. The screen settles, coming into focus on Joel at his workbench, his head bowed, the muscles in his forearm taut as he files the edge of a half-finished guitar body. Sunlight spills across his shoulders. There’s a quiet hum in the room: dust in the air, the faint buzz of wind outside, the rasp of wood shaving down.)

(Leela, off-camera, dryly amused) “You done pretending I’m not here?”

(Joel doesn’t look up. His voice is slow, roughened with focus.) “If you’re filmin’ me again, I’m chargin’ a fee.”

“Mm. That so? Well, I've got money to spare.” (A pause as she zooms slightly, catching the flex of his hand as he turns the wood. She goes into a deep voice.) “Joel Miller. Documented in the wild. In his natural habitat. Look at the precision. The grace. The muscle.”

(Joel snorts. Still doesn’t look up.) “For real?”

(She laughs quietly behind the camera.) “I wish I were more artistic.”

(He finally lifts his gaze, catches her through the lens, then returns to his work with a little shake of his head.)

“You are. You just get mad when it ain’t perfect.” (A beat. Then he sets the file down, reaching up to flick the collar of his flannel toward the camera.) “Like this. Tell me this ain’t art.”

(The camera zooms in. There, stitched along the collar’s edge in slightly uneven thread, is a pair of deer antlers—wobbly, charming, clearly handmade.)

(Leela laughs.) “That was not for public display!”

“Too late. It’s on record now.” (He grins, clearly enjoying himself, and lifts his palm next—dark ink visible along the base of his thumb.) “And this?”

(Camera focuses on his outstretched palm. A swirl of dark brown ink stains the skin—rust-colored henna, slightly cracked with drying. The design isn’t excellent, but in the centre are the small, careful initials: L & J. The camera dips just as quick.)

“Ugh, you're proving my point. It looks terrible.”

(Joel studies it for a moment.) “Looks perfect to me. Show me yours.”

(The shot wobbles as Joel takes the camera gently. A moment of black, then the image refocuses—now it’s Leela in frame, sitting cross-legged on the floor, light pooling behind her in the corner of the woodshop. She gives a reluctant grin, her hands resting in her lap, then slowly lifts them.)

“Happy?”

“Look at that. Real pretty. Like you.”

(Camera zooms. Her palms are detailed with dark henna—delicate vines, tiny dots like stars, and soft spirals, uneven in some places but clearly done with care. Her ring sits amid it, gleaming bright against her skin.)

(Joel’s voice is soft behind the lens.) “What’s this called again?”

“Henna.”

“Right, henna. And you did this because...?”

(She gives him a pointed look.) “Because I got married.”

“That you did.” (A pause, then:) “Poor bastard.”

(Leela laughs and throws a scrap of fabric at the camera.)

(Joel lowers the camera a bit, just enough to see more of her—not posing, just being.) “And in two days. I get to see all this goodness in a pretty white dress.”

“If you shave a little.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“And wear a tux.”

“Now that’s pushin’ it.”

(She tilts her head, lips pushed to a frown.)

(Joel clucks his tongue.) “We’re not even having a real ceremony, baby. Just some pictures. No one’s wearin’ a damn tux.”

(She narrows her eyes playfully.) “Then why should I wear a dress?”

(Joel pauses.) “Don’t, then. Even better.”

(Leela looks away, but her mouth curves.) “Put the camera away, Joel.”

(A beat. Joel mumbles something inaudible to catch.)

(She gasps.) “Turn it off! You can't just say that while—”

(She exhales a quiet laugh, then reaches toward the lens—fingers outstretched. The footage shudders as the camera is lowered, turned. Just before the image cuts out, there’s a blurred shot of Joel’s boots stepping toward her.)

—

(The footage flickers back on. The camera shifts wildly at first—then it steadies, slightly tilted, capturing a low, intimate view of the workshop floor. The frame settles on Leela.)

(She’s sitting with her back against the wood-panelled wall, knees drawn up, a guitar resting haphazardly in her lap. Her hair is tousled, her nightdress clinging loosely with two buttons undone and one sleeve halfway off her shoulder. There’s a lazy satisfaction in her posture, it's obvious—she is freshly fucked. She’s grinning, biting her kiss-bitten bottom lip as she awkwardly tries to strum.)

(She nods to the camera.) “Nice, you turned it on. Say it again for me.”

(Joel, off-camera, voice sheepish) “You wish. I turned it on because future historians are gonna know what beautiful means.”

“Uh-uh. You have to say it. For the record.”

“There ain’t gonna be a record. This thing’ll get eaten by squirrels or somethin’.”

“You just said—”

“Changed my mind.”

(She laughs, eyes flicking up toward the lens, fingers still plucking uncertainly at the strings.)

“So, Joel said—and I quote—‘If I die, you have my blessing to move on, but not to someone with bad grammar or a weak chin.’”

“I was jokin’.”

“No, no. This is legal documentation now. You’re on record.”

“Fine. You got it on tape. But it’s a one-way deal. No replacements. I die, you mourn forever. Become a ghost widow or some shit.”

(Leela snorts. She strums a wrong chord and winces.) “You really think I’d let you die?”

“You plan on goin’ first?”

“Someone’s got to make you dinner in the afterlife.”

(Joel sighs.) “Hate it when you talk like that.”

(She softens then, gaze dropping back to the strings. Her voice stays light, but there's something underneath it—like the edge of a sigh.)

“You’re not gonna die anytime soon, Joel. Remember your guarantee?”

(He grumbles.) “Hundred-and-twenty years. No refunds.”

“Precisely. You’re only halfway through.”

“Still got time to pick up bad habits.”

(Leela flashes him a smile.) “You already did. Me.”

(There’s a beat of silence. You can hear Joel shift off-camera, maybe leaning closer. When he speaks, it’s warm, almost shy.)

“At least I get a cute girl outta the deal. And then some.”

“And I haven’t even started greying yet.”

“You won’t. Not for another decade. Still a damn teenybopper.”

“Right, right. I’m seventeen, Maya doesn’t exist, and I met you at my high school prom.”

“That’d explain the dress this weekend.”

“It has stars on it. Maya drew it.”

“Look, I’m livin’ long enough to see that girl bring home some cocky little bastard, and when they knock on our door, I’m gonna be sittin’ there with this guitar, cleanin’ it like it’s a shotgun.”

(Leela breaks into quiet, delighted laughter, leaning her head back against the wall. Her fingers fall still on the strings. She looks up at the camera and lifts one brow.)

“Will you at least put on your shirt first?”

“Hell no. Ruins my intimidation tactic.”

(She groans, mock-horrified. The camera tilts just slightly as Joel chuckles, and the screen catches a blurry glimpse of his knee before the feed goes shaky.)

“Alright, movie star. Gimme that thing before I start filming your bald spot.”

“Such a little—”

(A blurry shot of her smirk as he dodges a playful swipe. Then—black.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #50

[The last notes of a mellow track fade out—Simon & Garfunkel’s 'The Only Living Boy in New York.' The needle lifts. A breath of quiet static. Then, Maya’s voice, soft and clear through the mic.]

MAYA (into the mic, thoughtful): “Going along with our question for the day... I always wonder what the old world felt like. It's something I lost. Y’know, the one before the fences and the patrol schedules and the rules about not going past the orchard without a grown-up.”

“My dad and mom—they tell me stories. Sometimes funny ones. Like the time Daddy got stuck in this thing called an elevator and thought he was gonna spend the rest of his life in there.” [laughs quietly]

“And sometimes they tell me the coolest stuff. Like—did you know Leela Miller was supposed to inherit a jet? One of those fast-flying things that important people used to ride in. A private jet, she said. With soft chairs and teeny-tiny pretzels. You should’ve seen Daddy’s face when she told me. He just went real quiet and blinked a bunch.”

[Her voice quietens.] “Sometimes the stories are sad, though. Ellie told me once about the stars and how people used to ride rockets into space. She said if she had the chance, she’d go straight to the moon and never look back. I didn’t even know the moon was close enough to touch.”

[A soft pause. You can hear her thumb tap the desk, just once.]

“And every Thursday, I help my ma make dinner. It’s, like, our thing. She says people used to do that—pass down recipes and stories while peeling potatoes or whatever. Last week, we made these round stuffed cookie sandwiches called Oreos. Black and white. Sounded fancy. Tasted like… chalk? Ugh.” (giggles) “I don’t know why people were obsessed with them. Daddy ate five just to prove he liked them. Then he made this face like he’d swallowed his boot.”

“And then there were the M&Ms. Uncle Tommy found this old sealed jar when he was out on patrol. Tiny little colours, all shiny like beads. I thought they’d taste like cardboard. But… they didn’t. They melted in my mouth. Like, hmm… I don’t know. Crunchy happiness? I didn’t even care if they were a hundred years old. I wanted three more jars.”

[Her voice quiets. More space between words now.]

“Sometimes… I think I’m never gonna know what that world felt like. The one with school buses, and oh! These ice cream trucks that played music? With movie theatres and cereal aisles that go on forever. Where you could drive a car just because you felt like it. And move to a whole continent in a few hours.”

“I live in a world of rationed rice. And fences. And watchtowers. A world where you grow what you eat. And you don’t go out unless you have to...”

“But it’s not all bad.”

[She inhales, like she’s grounding herself in the now.]

“It’s actually kinda nice here. I wake up and check the berry bushes with Mama. I get to see the horses every day with Ellie. I help Daddy in the shop—he lets me sand the soft wood and shows me how to oil the hinges so they don’t squeak. When we walk through town, people wave. They know my name. The Miller kid.”

[A beat. Then she smiles, almost audibly.]

“Maybe the old world’s gone. But this one’s still growing, right?”

[She hesitates. Then leans a little closer to the mic. Her voice goes small—sincere.]

“If I ever had to pick between all the shiny stuff, the Oreos and M&Ms, the old world… or having this, my family, the lake, and my town?”

“I’d pick this. Every time.”

[There’s a quiet moment—just the hum of the equipment and a flick of a switch.]

MAYA (soft): “This next one goes out to anyone who's building something new in a world that’s still figuring itself out. Hang in there. Here’s “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles. Stay warm, Jackson.”

[Music begins.]

X

T. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3

(The frame opens with a slow zoom onto Joel, standing in front of a small bedroom mirror, trying—and failing—to get his cufflinks to sit right. The golden sun highlights the pressed lines of Joel's jacket. Tommy's teasing voice comes from behind the camera.)

“Look at that. Goddamn. Joel Miller in a tux. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

(Joel doesn’t look up. Just mutters a curse under his breath and keeps wrestling with the cuff.) “Terrible timing.”

“Oh, c’mon. Give us a spin, would ya?”

(Joel doesn't even glance over.) “Fuck off.”

(Tommy chuckles behind the camera. The lens zooms in—just slightly too close—as Joel adjusts his tie. The suit fits better than expected: crisp, black with a subtle grey lining. He looks good, clean, handsome, and uncomfortable. Someone has ironed the outlaw right off him. He finally gets the tie straight, eyes narrowing at his own reflection like it just insulted him.)

(Tommy, drawling, mock-formal) “Big brother’s gettin’ married today. Real event of the year.”

(Joel continued centring his tie.) “It ain’t a wedding. It’s pictures.”

(Tommy ignores him.) “There’s a bride. There’s a groom. She’s in white. You’re in a tux. There are rings involved.”

(Joel snorts. He fiddles with the small boutonniere Maria had pinned to the lapel earlier. It’s a single thistle and a white wildflower. Subtle.)

“Ain’t about the pictures or the suit. I… wanted a day that Maya could remember. So that’s what we’re doin’.”

“That’s a wedding, dumbass.”

(Joel gives him a look. The kind that would’ve stopped most people from speaking again. Tommy is not most people.)

“If you fuck this up for me, I am puttin’ your head through a goddamn wall.”

(The camera pans awkwardly to the bed, where Maya, three years old, is sitting cross-legged in a blue dress with a sash, hugging her stuffed bear. Her hair is braided in two neat ropes on her shoulders. She’s watching Joel with the kind of reverence only little kids have for their dads.)

“Hey, squirt. You seen your mama?”

(Maya beams at the camera.) “Yeah, she looks like a pin-cess. She got tattoo on her hands, and flowers in her hair...”

(She falls back onto the bed, kicking her feet in glee. Joel turns at the sound, a smile creeping over his face.)

“Well, now I gotta see her.”

(From off-frame, a calm voice answers, warm and amused—)

“Look no further.”

(The camera swings again, a little too fast, before it steadies—catching Leela standing in the doorway. She’s radiant in a simple flared white dress, tea-length with delicate lace sleeves. Her long braid is swept over one shoulder, tucked with tiny wildflowers. A string of pearls graces her neck, and white heels click softly on the floorboards as she steps in. She’s not done up like a fairy tale—she’s real, alive, smiling, glowing like one.)

(She smooths a hand down her stomach.) “Is it fine?”

(Joel doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares. His brow softens. One hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, the way he does when words fail him.)

“You look...” (He exhales a short breath through his nose, still watching her like she’s walked out of a dream.) “Yeah, darlin'. Yeah, you look... more than fine.”

(Then he snaps his fingers at Tommy without breaking eye contact.)

“Out. Take baby girl with you.”

(Tommy groans.) “Aw, c’mon, Joel. Get a grip.”

“Get. Out.”

(Maya squeals as Tommy dutifully scoops her up. The camera jostles a little. A final glimpse of Joel reaching for Leela’s hand before the door begins to close.)

(Maya, off-camera, giggling) “Bye, Mama! Bye, Daddy!”

(Just before the recording cuts, there’s a quiet moment—Leela stepping close, Joel’s hand brushing along her waist, his head dipping against hers, and the soft click of the door behind them.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #51

[The tape clicks on—there's a fuzzy hum of silence, then the creak of a stool. Maya exhales. She’s clearly resting her chin in her hand, voice small and low.]

M.M (quietly): ...you're tuned in with me, Maya, where the stars are out and everyone else is asleep. Except me. And maybe that one rooster that doesn’t understand how time works.

[A pause. The chair creaks again. She exhales, this time longer. Her voice grows softer—almost like she’s talking to herself now.]

M.M: No one came down here tonight. Not even... Carter. And he said he would. Boys are so dumb. (Then quickly:) Also, he's not my boyfriend! I hate his stupid guts!

[A long silence. Just the faint sound of a wire humming. Then, her voice, low and a little sad—]

I guess... if anyone’s still listening… thank you. [Her voice tightens. She’s holding something back. Then—] Okay. That’s enough sadness. Up next is the sound of me flipping through my songbook until I find something good.

[Just as she starts to rustle the pages, there’s a knock. Soft, deliberate. Her head lifts slightly. Another knock. Then Joel’s voice—]

J.M. (off-mic, gentle): Hey.

M.M (muffled, burying her face in her arms): Hi.

J.M.: How'd it go today?

M.M: Super. No one came. Or called.

J.M.: I came.

MAYA: You don’t count.

[A beat. The floor creaks as he steps inside, sits beside her. A long silence between them—companionable. Then—]

J.M: Well. You sure do like talkin’, huh?

[Maya mock gasps—like he’s insulted her most grievously.]

MAYA: Dad. Talking is important.

J.M. (teasing): Didn’t say it wasn’t. Just wonderin’... you ever run outta words?

MAYA (proudly): Nope. Never. Not even once.

[Joel lets out a low chuckle.]

J.M: Alright. But why the radio? What is it, your diary?

[Pause. Her tone pivots—still Maya, still full of sunshine, but now there’s a thoughtfulness underneath. Like she’s been waiting for someone to ask.]

MAYA: No. Because it’s... magic. You talk... and the words go somewhere. You don’t know where or who’s listenin’. But it’s out there.

[Beat. The chair creaks as she swings her feet.]

Mama said sound keeps goin’ even after we stop hearin’ it. Maybe it bounces off the sky or floats forever in space.

[She lowers her voice now—a hush, like telling a secret.]

So what if someone’s out there in our town, and what if they’re sad and alone... and then poof, they hear my voice. They know I’m real.

[Joel doesn’t answer for a second. You can hear the emotion get caught somewhere between silence and breath.]

J.M. (soft): That’s a mighty big heart you got.

MAYA (shrugs): It’s just talking.

J.M: Nah... ’S more than that.

[A rustle—Joel moves closer, maybe rests a hand on her head. His voice lowers.]

J.M.: Why don’t I answer your question tonight?

[A soft shuffle—maybe she’s lifting her head just slightly.]

MAYA: You will?

J.M: Shoot.

MAYA (a little more awake): Um... today it was: if you could say one thing to someone or something you lost… what would you say?

[Joel doesn’t answer right away. The mic hums gently. When he speaks, it’s soft—like he’s not sure she should hear it, but says it anyway.]

J.M: I’d say… I’m still here. Still tryin’. Doin’ better. And I’d say I love you very much. Took me a while to come back. (A pause.) That’s all.

MAYA (humming): Was it… a person? Or your guitar?

J.M (snorts softly): Ain’t the guitar.

MAYA (after a beat): Then I think I know who she is.

[He doesn’t deny it.]

J.M.: You got a song picked out?

MAYA: Not really.

J.M. (with a little smile): Well, you know mine.

MAYA (grinning): Future Days?

J.M: Mind if I play it?

MAYA: Well, no one's listening to put up with your singing anyway. Go ahead.

J.M: Smartass.

[He reaches for the old guitar case he brought with him—the latch clicks faintly. The strings hum as he tunes without thinking, hands practised, voice low.]

J.M. (gravel-voiced, playful): “This next one’s for the late-night crew. All one and a half of you.”

MAYA (giggles): Hey!

[He starts to play. A few soft, familiar chords. The mic catches it, carries it. Maya leans into his side. You can hear the soft brush of her hair against his jacket. Her voice, sleepy now.]

MAYA: Thanks for coming down here, Daddy.

J.M (quietly): Always will, darlin’.

[The song fades in.]

X

PHOTO LOG — SPRING | “Unwedding” Filed: L. MILLER, personal archive Roll #03, camera serial A-081 [TRIPOD RECORDING – VIDEO & STILL INTERVAL] CAMERA: ACTIVE

Frame 001

JOEL & LEELA, centre frame. They’re standing side by side in front of the big white house. Leela holds a handful of clipped sunflowers from her garden, stems wet and crooked. She’s smiling widely, the grin still growing. Joel gives the camera a suspicious look, then manages a half-smile, awkward, slightly off-centre.

ELLIE (offscreen, yelling): Joel, your face looks like you just stepped on a nail. Try smiling like you love her!

JOEL (grumbling): I do love her.

ELLIE: Then tell your dumb mouth.

Frame 002

JOEL & LEELA, closer. Joel’s arm slips around her waist, tugging her toward him. She stumbles into him, laughing, and the sunflowers drag a streak of yellow pollen down the front of his jacket. He scowls. She looks up at him, still laughing.

LEELA (cowboy accent): Guess I done marked you there, partner.

JOEL: Been doin’ that since day one.

Frame 003

JOEL, LEELA, & ELLIE. Ellie jumps into the frame, arms around their shoulders. She’s in a wrinkled black suit with a bright red tie, hair slicked back in a ponytail. Leela clutches Ellie’s hand with a smile that softens her whole face. Joel’s attention has shifted—he’s not looking at the camera anymore, just at Ellie, and there's something proud and bone-deep in the way he’s smiling down at her.

Frame 004

JOEL, TOMMY, LEELA, & MARIA. They’re bunched close, like they’re about to break into a group prayer or a brawl. Maria has her arm around Leela’s waist. Joel stands slightly behind, one hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy’s got his eyes closed like he’s already regretting whatever Joel’s about to say.

JOEL (murmured): Don’t you dare put your scaly ass lips near my wife again.

TOMMY (winking at Leela): I got one more kiss left in me.

LEELA (laughs): Me, too.

JOEL: Don't encourage him, honey.

MARIA: Shut the fuck up and smile.

Frame 005

MAYA. She stands in the front lawn by her swingset, a sunflower tucked behind her ear, grinning so wide her cheeks nearly touch her eyes. She frames her chin with her little hands, posing like someone’s taught her pageantry. Her gaze is angled up—someone tall, probably Joel, is just off-frame.

Frame 006

JOEL & TOMMY. They're in a mild standoff, both half-turned toward each other and toward the camera, bickering with their eyebrows.

TOMMY: You go left. I go right.

JOEL: You ain’t ever been right.

Frame 007

MARIA & TOMMY. Maria’s head is thrown back in a real laugh, eyes crinkling. Tommy’s kissed her cheek mid-frame, smug. His tie’s crooked. Her blouse is wrinkled. They look like the only people who didn’t try and still somehow got it right.

Frame 008

TOMMY & MAYA. He crouches beside her, both of them duck-pouting for the camera. Maya quickly throws up bunny ears behind his head just as the shutter clicks.

TOMMY (growls): Little nightmare. C'mere, I'll yank your nose out. Can't have one good photo.

[MAYA squeals, running off.]

Frame 009

ELLIE & MAYA. Ellie lifts Maya up at the waist, both laughing like they’ve just shared a secret. Maya’s braid is lopsided now. Ellie's hair is blown upward by the wind. They don’t care; they erupt into laughter.

Frame 010

JOEL, LEELA, & MAYA. The final frame lingers. Joel holds Maya in his arms, her small hands looped loosely around his neck, her cheek tucked against his shoulder. His other arm is around Leela, drawing her in without hesitation. She leans into him, one hand resting gently over his heart, holding it there, the wood-and-gold ring twinkling in the sun. Joel doesn’t smile often, but he does here. It’s lopsided and big. It took a long road to arrive at this moment.

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #117 October 3rd, 10:12 P.M.

(Soft click. A breath. Fabric rustles. Distant sound of wind chimes, maybe a creaky chair.)

“Okay. Six years, four months.”

“Maya asked me today if the sky always looked this old. And I didn’t know what to tell her.” (She laughs.) “I am still thinking about it. She is absolutely incredible. Now I know how my parents felt.”

“She’s... sharp lately. Surpasses me in all ways. Picks up on patterns faster than I can redirect her. Her brain is restless—it wants to devour everything. Maps. Fire. Roots. Words she’s not ready for. Words I wasn’t ready to hear her say.”

“Transcend. Refract. Exquisite. And, ugh, gross. Which she gets from Ellie.”

“She is Joel’s mirror. Her eye-roll, the little tilt of her head, the way she leans. She wears his old shirts, tucked into her jeans, sleeves all rolled up. She still bolts out the front door at exactly four every afternoon, barefoot if I don’t catch her, just to meet him halfway, and grabs his bag like it’s hers to carry. She sings with him now, plays guitar with him, little fingers on the frets. She even talks with that same Texas drawl of his.”

“She’s started naming weather. Not just clouds, but moods—“grump-storm,” “whisper rain,” “sun that’s pretending.” I think it’s how she handles the chaos. Which makes sense. It’s how I handled mine.”

(A beat passes.)

“I have decided that this is the last one. The last log. Not because she’s finished—well, she’s just getting started—but because I think she’s moving beyond me. And that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“My brilliant baby girl doesn’t need me to define her anymore. She’s learning what kind of person she wants to be. All I ever wanted was to get her this far. Alive. Unbroken. Curious. Aspiring. And so damn beautiful.”

“I think… I think I did that.”

(A brief rustling, a soft clink of glass—maybe a whiskey. Quite out of character for Leela.)

“As for me...” (She clears her throat. A chair creaks as she leans back.)

“I’m still working. I finished my notes on the zeta convergence problem last week—well, finished for now. There’s a ceiling I keep hitting, but I’m trying to trick myself into thinking it’s just another kind of symmetry.”

“I never thought I’d leave anything behind of mine own that mattered. But lately, I’ve been helping Jackson map our winter grid—energy storage with the lightning battery, food supply routes, even water rationing patterns. We’re building a resilience plan that doesn’t rely on luck anymore. A bunch of futurists here.”

(She exhales.) “I drew up the town’s first curriculum guidelines last month—basic logic, analytic equations, geometry... Maria says we’re going to turn the old sawmill into a school next year. Joel says if I make him teach fractions, he’ll fake his own death.”

(A small laugh. She lets it fade.)

“But I think he’s proud. Quietly. Of me.”

(And here—she gets a little softer, thoughtful, speaking more to herself now.)

“I don’t know if any of this will last. The world still breaks more than it builds. But maybe we leave behind, um... enough blueprints. Enough questions. Enough people who believe something good is possible.”

(Silence, just the faint hum of wind outside. Then—)

“I keep the hard math separate from the home stuff. Thanks to my handy chore chart. Usually. But sometimes—like today—I sit at the window with my pen, and I think about proof, and beauty, and entropy, and how somehow we still made this little family work. Even after everything.”

(Beat. She takes a sip. The glass touches the table again.)

“I mean, I still get the nightmares. Can't stop it. Not every night, but some. Sometimes I wake up with the scream still stuck in my chest. Sometimes I can’t get near my daughter's room without remembering what was done to me. What I survived.”

“But I’m doing better than I ever was. I don’t flinch as often when Joel touches me. I like taking walks around Jackson with Maria. I like to listen to people talk. Sometimes I visit Joel at the contracting yard, just to wake him up a little. I still freeze when I smell bleach, but I tell myself I’m safe, Maya is safe, and sometimes it even works. And when it doesn’t... he holds me through it. No questions or pushing. Just waits for me to fall asleep, and is awake before I am to reassure me that I didn't disappear.”

(Her voice softens here—full, held together like something precious she doesn't want to break just by saying it aloud.)

“Being with Joel is... loving a faultline. It is too silent, too deep, and it waits there. Ancient. Worn. Presence over promise. There’s something in him that bends toward my grief without being afraid of it. He just knows it’s there.”

(A soft breath, like she’s amazed by her own truth.)

“I think I love him more now because I know he’s seen the worst of me. And somehow he still leaves coffee by my nightstand every morning and kisses me like I’m his gift.”

(A faint, amused exhale—almost a laugh. She sniffles.)

“God, I sound so corny. He’d tease the hell out of me for this.”

“I never thought I’d have this. But then Joel knocked on my door one night, and everything began again. I’m... still learning how to let myself have that. Which is the hardest goddamn part. Belonging.”

(She sighs.) “Anyway... that’s the... my everything for now.”

“Joel’s downstairs—hinge number six. Maya’s his shadow, as always. I’ll go to them in a minute.”

“If I never say anything else—let this be the one that stays. I'm still here. I’ll hold onto this as long as the world lets me.”

[Click.]

X

© damneddamsy

I think it took me a really long time to post this because I had to say goodbye. To everyone who made it this far, thank you. What a wild journey this has been! Round two starts here -> FALLING masterlist Or if you're interested in something else, it's here -> DAMS main masterlist

{taglist (my literal family) 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

[damneddamsy]

I'm imagining Harry Castillo x thief!reader who steals that mad expensive emerald ring of his at the wedding, and he is just so impressed and down bad and tempted to buy 3 more just to let her steal again because he supports women's rights and women's wrongs

romcom is romcomming...

WHAT IF HUH? WHAT IF I ALREADY HAVE A MOODBOARD READY?

update: i did it!!! DEAR DESPERADO -> if you would like to read it!

[damneddamsy]

I’m begging my fellow sexual assault survivors, please read this before you see Materialists:

There is a 20+ minute segment about one of Dakota’s clients being raped. They drag out the aftermath. Enormous emotional upheaval. Client blames dakota when it’s not her fault.

And then later on, they revisit it again when the victim is about to be revictimized and she calls dakota for help because the police won’t come help her and he is at her door and you can hear him banging. Dakota is an hour drive away and the tension is AWFUL. I fought off a panic attack, and nearly ran out crying. Had to do tapping exercises on my face for half the drive home, to keep from having a full breakdown.

Please, please take care of yourselves and think twice before seeing Materialists. 💕💕

[damneddamsy]

PEDRO PASCAL as Mayor Ted Garcia EDDINGTON 2025 | dir. Ari Aster

[damneddamsy]

FALLING. RATING Explicit (18+ only) PAIRING Joel Miller x BIPOC OFC (Leela) FORMAT & SETTING Joel's POV & Post-TLOU Jackson AU WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER approx. 12,000+

SUMMARY It is said that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. Now, Joel Miller wasn’t looking to be a saint. Trust was a liability. Love, a memory too painful to keep. But if a sinner like him still had some future, and if that future starts with one night—a baby’s relentless cries cracking through his walls and breaking him open—then maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t lost everything yet. Against all instincts, he steps into that big, white house across his street. Nothing drives Joel to linger, but he does. For the baby at first—nascent Maya, with her bright eyes and fistfuls of Joel’s collar. Then, the strange new mother. What begins as an uneasy coexistence grows into something deeper, which neither of them dares name. Haunted by a narrative she never chose, brilliant but reclusive, Leela’s mind runs into the theoretical—proofs, patterns, chasing solutions to an unsolvable equation—while Joel’s hands are scarred by the practical: protecting, killing, enduring. When that peace becomes fleeting, when a fragile hope in the shape of a mathematical discovery begins to bloom, and the world, as always, threatens to take it away, Joel confronts what it means to fall—not just into the impossible, but into love, into hope, into the fragile rhythms of Leela and Maya’s life, and their quiet home that becomes a rare thing in this decaying tomorrow: a reason to stay. This is a story of healing, found family, and the abnormal, slow math of love—how we factor grief, multiply hope, balance the unknowns, it never adds up but somehow makes perfect sense.

INDEX (might be subject to change as the story progresses.)

part i -> EVENT HORIZON

part ii -> MICROFRACTURE

part iii -> FALSE EQUILIBRIUM

part iv -> MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE

part v -> RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM

part vi -> LIMIT APPROACHES GRACE

part vii -> FREEFALL FUNCTION

part viii -> SOFT INFINITY

part ix -> STITCH THEORY

interlude

part x -> DECOHERENCE

part xi -> ZERO CROSSING

part xii -> THEOREM OF BECOMING

part xiii -> HEURISTIC BLOOM

part xiv -> THE FINAL INTEGRATION

epilogue

FALLING MOODBOARD (a huge bear hug, thank you and shoutout to the incredible @jolapeno !!)

FALLING MOODBOARD (2) (so many kisses and so much love to the talented, sweet @mrsmando !!)

AUTHOR'S NOTE Have loads of fun with this masterlist! took me a while to think up a different way to potray these chapters, I'm so glad it came through so great!

TAGS your (ultimate) fix-it fic, The Dad™️ Joel, softest Joel you've ever seen, he is also an old yearner cuntstruck hardass, Joel being down bad for a teeny baby girl, OFC is arabic, OFC being an academic nerd and STEM girlie, the cutest baby (Maya) ever, baby is an actual character, Miller family dynamics, Tommy-Joel-Ellie hooliganisms, life in Jackson town, Ellie being the generally awesome older sister, neighbours-to-lovers trope, found family, slowburn, a lot of math references, lotsa door metaphors, epistolary interlude.

CONTENT WARNINGS eventual smut (the whole kaboodle), big griefs, depression, unbearable angst, violence, gore, blood, alcoholism, substance abuse, post-natal depression, the pains of motherhood, mentions of rape and suicide, childbirth.

[damneddamsy]

hello dams!!! in response to your post, i just wanted to share how much i adored — in particular — the passage you wrote in falling describing joel looking at maya asleep in her crib before he leaves her and leela to deliver leela’s work. it’s so profound; so moving, the way he takes in all her tiny details, everything she’s done to his heart. it made me cry & will stay with me forever ♥️

mimi, my love - you are incredible🌻🦋 I'm so touched by your response, thank you so much!

Okay, I am so glad you caught this. This particular scene was really hard for me to write, too, solely because I remember how it was not just about the physical act of leaving her—it’s about all the small things that matter when you’re so in love with your child. I wrote a version of this, and deleted it pretty quick, where Maya would wake and ask him to stay, yet it didn't feel as visceral as Joel watching Maya asleep, so unaware, so fleeting in that moment—how small she still is, how much she’s changed him, and how he’s truly been shaped by his love for her.

That’s why I focused on the little things, her tiny fists, what she's wearing, the way she’s curled up or the sounds of her breath. Those fragments of childhood felt important in the larger picture of his departure.

Just pure pain.