Jeff's office smelled like paper and coffee and the faint chemical tang of fabric samples. He leaned back in his leather chair, a binder open on the desk in front of him, the show's lineup spread across three pages in a grid of times and names and dress changes. His assistant, Monica, stood at his shoulder, a red pen in her hand, the same pen she'd been clicking for the last ten minutes.

"The lighting cue for the finale is still off," she said, circling something on the page. "And Marco wants the second walk to be ten seconds longer, says the crowd needs time to process the red piece."

Jeff grunted, flipping a page. "Marco can process his own red piece. Tell him we're on a schedule."

"He said you'd say that. He also said to tell you that your schedule means nothing when the collection is mid."

Jeff looked up at her. She was twenty-six, efficient, and never flustered. He liked that about her. "Tell Marco his collection is mid. That's what I pay him for."

Monica clicked the pen again. "You want me to actually say that?"

"No. Give him the extra ten seconds. But tell him we're cutting the ambient transition. He'll bitch about that for an hour and forget about the red piece."

She nodded, making a note. "One more thing. The VIP section has a seating conflict. Two of the investors' wives want the same front-row spot, and their husbands both donated the same amount."

Jeff rubbed his face. "Put them on opposite ends. Tell them it's for visual balance."

"They'll know."

"They always know. But they'll pretend they don't because it sounds better than admitting they're fighting over a chair." He closed the binder. "Anything else?"

Monica hesitated. "The fruit arrangement in the green room. Someone ordered it with pineapple. Jessica's allergic."

"Then tell someone to pick the fucking pineapple out."

"It's a centerpiece. It's carved into a swan."

Jeff stared at her. "Then tell Jessica to not eat the swan."

Monica's mouth twitched. She wrote something down. "I'll handle it."

His phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced at it. Bella's name lit the screen.

He picked it up, swiped to answer. "Hey, baby. Miss me already?"

"Always." Her voice was warm, a little distracted. "Hey, I need to tell you something."

He leaned back, the leather creaking. "Tell me."

"My mom called. She's... she's not doing great. Some health stuff. Nothing serious, but she asked me to come up for a few days. Help her with appointments, keep her company."

Jeff's stomach tightened. Not from concern. From something else. Something he didn't want to name. "How long?"

"A week, maybe. I'll fly out tonight."

He made his voice softer. "That's rough, baby. I'm sorry."

"I know. I hate leaving. Especially after..." She trailed off. He knew what she meant. After the panties. After the confession. After the promise he'd made in that bed.

"Hey," he said, leaning forward. "Your mom needs you. That's what matters. I'll be here when you get back."

"You promise?"

The word hit him in the chest. "Yeah," he said. "I promise."

She was quiet for a moment. "I love you, Jeff. I know that's fast. I know we're not there yet. But I feel it."

He closed his eyes. "I know, baby."

"I'll text you when I land."

"Do that."

She hung up.

He set the phone down on the binder and stared at it. A week. Seven days. Bella in another state, her mother sick, her heart soft with trust, and Jeff already feeling the familiar hunger uncoil in his gut like a snake waking up.

He'd promised her. No other women in that bed. He'd sworn it with her body against his, her skin still warm from the night before. He'd meant it. He'd meant every word.

But a week was a long time.

Monica cleared her throat. "You okay?"

He looked up, and the mask slid back into place. "Fine. Bella's mom is sick. She's going upstate for a week."

"That's rough. You going with her?"

"No. She needs to do this alone." He stood, straightening his jacket. "I've got the show tonight anyway."

"Right." Monica gathered the binder. "I'll send Marco the update. And I'll deal with the pineapple."

"You're a saint."

"I'm paid like one." She walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.

Jeff stood alone in the office, the city glittering through the window behind him. He picked up his phone again, scrolled through his contacts. Christian's name was there. He almost called him. Almost told him about the hunger stirring in his chest.

But Christian was different now. Christian had found something. Someone. Sofia. The girl with the quiet voice and the virgin blood on his sheets. Christian had stopped running.

Jeff wasn't sure he knew how to stop.

He put the phone in his pocket and walked out.

The show ran like a well-oiled machine. Jeff stood backstage, watching the models move through the light, the fabric catching the strobes, the crowd's energy building with each walk. Marco had gotten his ten extra seconds, and the red piece had drawn the exact reaction he'd wanted—a ripple of murmurs, phones raised, the kind of buzz that meant the collection would sell before the night ended.

Jeff should have felt satisfied. He'd built this. From nothing, from a borrowed warehouse and a stack of cash that barely covered the first season, he'd turned it into a machine that printed money and made girls famous. Every face on that runway owed him something. Every body in those bikinis had been chosen by him, positioned by him, lit by him.

He felt nothing.

The hunger was already there, waiting in the dark spaces between his ribs. Bella was on a plane somewhere over Florida, her hand probably in her lap, her phone in her bag, thinking about him. Trusting him.

He pushed the thought away and walked toward the green room.

The door was open. Voices spilled out—laughter, gossip, the high-pitched energy of models riding an adrenaline crash. He stepped inside and scanned the room. Girls in robes, girls in street clothes, girls touching up makeup in handheld mirrors. The pineapple swan sat on the center table, untouched, a monument to Monica's efficiency.

And then he saw her.

Lena.

She was leaning against the far wall, a glass of champagne in her hand, her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder. She wore a white sundress that stopped mid-thigh, and her body—that body—was exactly as he remembered it. Full. Curved. The kind of ass that made men forget their own names. She was twenty-three now, maybe twenty-four, and she'd only gotten better with time.

She caught him looking. Her mouth curved into a slow smile.

"Jeff." She pushed off the wall, walking toward him, the crowd parting around her like she owned the room. "I was wondering if you'd be here."

"Lena." He kept his voice easy. "How long has it been?"

"Two years. Maybe three." She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral, something sweet, something that made his blood move faster. "You look good."

"So do you." He let his eyes drift down, then back up. "You always did."

She laughed, a low sound that brushed against his skin. "Still the same Jeff. Still looking at a woman like she's a meal."

"Some women are worth eating."

Her eyes sparkled. "Is that an invitation?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The air between them had already shifted, the old rhythm clicking back into place like it had never stopped. They'd dated for six months, three years ago. She'd been nineteen, fresh off a runway in São Paulo, and he'd been the first man to take her seriously. He'd taught her things. She'd learned them well.

"Who's your friend?" he asked, nodding toward a girl standing near the table—younger, maybe twenty, with the same dark hair and the same full figure. She was watching them with obvious interest.

Lena glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. "That's Dani. She's new. I've been showing her the ropes."

"She looks like she learns fast."

"She does." Lena's smile widened. "She's also very curious about you."

"Is that right."

"I told her stories." Lena stepped closer, her voice dropping. "She didn't believe me. About the size of you. About what you can do with it."

Jeff felt the heat stir in his groin. "Sounds like she needs a demonstration."

Lena tilted her head. "Maybe she does."

The show ended forty minutes later. Jeff made his rounds—shook hands with investors, accepted congratulations from Marco, smiled for photos with the models who wanted their moment with the boss. All of it was automatic, muscle memory, the performance he'd perfected over years of doing exactly this.

But his mind was already elsewhere. Already in the car. Already on the drive home.

Lena found him by the exit, Dani at her side.

"Ready?" Lena asked.

He looked at them. Two women. Young. Beautiful. Hungry for what he had.

Bella's face flickered through his mind. Her voice on the phone. I love you, Jeff.

He pushed it down.

"Let's go."

The ride to his penthouse was short. Lena sat in the front, her hand on his thigh, her fingers tracing lazy circles through the fabric of his trousers. Dani sat in the back, watching the city lights slide past, her knees pressed together, her hands in her lap. She was nervous. He could see it. The kind of nervous that made a girl quiet and obedient, the kind that melted into something else once the clothes came off.

The elevator doors opened into his apartment. The glass walls glowed with the city's reflection, the bay stretching dark and infinite beyond the terrace. He walked in, and they followed.

Lena turned to face him, her hands finding his chest. "Same rules as before?"

"Same rules." He looked at Dani, who was standing by the couch, her arms crossed, her eyes wide. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I just... I've never—"

"You've never been with two men?"

"No. I've never been with a man who..." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing.

Jeff smiled. "Who what?"

Lena answered for her. "Who's as big as you. I told her. She didn't believe me."

Jeff unbuttoned his shirt, slow, letting them watch. "She'll believe you soon enough."

He took them to the bedroom. The same bedroom where Bella had slept. The same bed where he'd promised her no other women. The sheets had been changed that morning, crisp and white, the pillows fluffed, the room smelling of linen spray and the faint salt of the ocean through the open window.

He didn't think about Bella. He didn't let himself.

Lena undressed first, her sundress pooling at her feet, her body bare and golden under the dim light. She was still perfect—full breasts, a narrow waist, the curve of her hips flaring into thighs that could grip a man's head and hold him there until he drowned. She stepped out of her heels and walked to the bed, her eyes on him.

Dani moved slower. Her hands trembled as she unzipped her dress, letting it fall. She wore black lace underneath, the kind a girl buys when she wants to feel grown-up. Her body was softer than Lena's, younger, less sure of itself. She stood with her arms half-covering her stomach, her gaze darting between Jeff and Lena.

"Come here," Jeff said, his voice low.

Dani walked to him. He took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. Her eyes were dark, wide, her lips parted. She was scared. She was excited. She was exactly what he needed tonight.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he said. "But if you stay, you do what I say. Understood?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

"Good girl."

He kissed her. Soft at first, then deeper, his tongue finding hers, his hand sliding down her back to the curve of her ass. She gasped against his mouth, her body pressing into his. Lena moved behind him, her hands sliding over his shoulders, her lips finding the back of his neck.

He had them both on the bed within minutes. Naked. Open. Waiting.

He took Lena first—the familiar heat of her, the way she arched into him, the sounds she made when he pushed deep. She was loud, demanding, her nails raking down his back as she rode him. He let her have her moment, let her take what she wanted, because he knew what came next.

When he pulled out, Lena was breathless, her chest heaving, her thighs slick. She rolled onto her stomach, presenting herself, and Jeff looked at Dani.

"Your turn."

Dani's eyes were wide. She'd been watching, her hand between her own thighs, her fingers moving in slow circles. She looked at Lena, then at Jeff, then at his cock—still hard, still wet, the size of it making her breath catch.

"I don't know if—"

"You'll take it," Jeff said. Not harsh. Firm. "I'll go slow. But you'll take it."

She nodded, her throat working. She crawled to him, positioning herself on her hands and knees, her back arched, her ass raised. She was trembling. He could see it in the shake of her thighs, the way her fingers gripped the sheets.

He guided himself to her entrance, felt her flinch at the first touch. He pushed, slow, watching the way her body resisted, then yielded, inch by inch. She gasped, a sharp sound, her fingers clenching in the fabric.

"Breathe," he said.

She exhaled, a shaky breath, and he pushed deeper. Her body opened for him, the heat of her pulling him in, and when he was fully seated, she let out a sound that was half-moan, half-sob.

He fucked her like that, slow and deep, while Lena watched, her hand moving between her own thighs, her eyes dark with hunger. Dani's sounds changed as she adjusted, the fear bleeding into something else, something hungrier. She started to push back against him, meeting his thrusts, her body learning the rhythm.

Jeff closed his eyes. For a moment, he let himself feel nothing but the heat, the friction, the sounds of two women taking what he gave them.

For a moment, he didn't think about Bella at all.

It lasted an hour. Maybe two. He lost track of time, lost himself in the rhythm of it—Lena's mouth on him, Dani's body under him, the two of them trading positions like they'd rehearsed it. He came in Lena's mouth, then in Dani's ass, the second one pulling a scream from her that echoed off the glass walls.

When it was over, they lay sprawled across his bed, the sheets tangled, the city glittering beyond the window. Lena was asleep within minutes, her arm thrown over Dani's waist, her breath slow and even. Dani was still awake, her eyes on the ceiling, her hand resting on her stomach.

Jeff got up. He pulled on his boxers and walked to the balcony, sliding the door open. The night air hit his skin, cool and salt-tinged, and he leaned against the railing, looking out at the water.

He heard footsteps behind him. Lena. She came out, wrapped in a sheet, her hair wild, her lipstick smeared.

"That was fun," she said, leaning next to him. "I missed that."

He didn't answer.

She looked at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit." She tilted her head. "You fucked us like you were trying to forget something. What is it?"

He took a breath. "I'm seeing someone."

Lena's eyebrow rose. "Seeing someone. You?"

"Yeah. Me."

"Since when?"

"A few weeks." He looked at the bottle of beer in his hand. "Her name's Bella. She's..." He stopped. "She's different."

Lena was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed, a soft sound, not unkind. "Jeff Wulkan, in a relationship. I never thought I'd see the day."

"Neither did I."

"Does she know you just fucked two girls in her bed?"

The question landed like a punch. He didn't answer.

Lena studied him. "You're going to hurt her, Jeff. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"And you're going to do it anyway."

He looked at the water. "I don't know how to stop."

Lena was silent for a long time. Then she reached out, her hand finding his, squeezing once. "I'm not going to judge you. I'm not the one who gets to. But if you really want her—if she's really different—you're going to have to figure out how to be different too."

He didn't have an answer for that.

She let go of his hand and walked back inside, the sheet trailing behind her. Jeff stayed on the balcony, the beer growing warm in his hand, the city humming below him.

His phone was on the table inside. He thought about calling Bella. Thought about telling her the truth. Thought about the sound her voice would make when she found out.

He didn't pick it up.

He stood there, alone, the hunger inside him quiet for now, the emptiness waiting to fill it again.