The World Only Easter Egg

The sun was a reluctant smear of tangerine light struggling to pierce the perpetual chemical haze that hung over Los Angeles. But the city’s digital heart had been beating a frantic, lurid tattoo for hours. Dawn hadn’t broken the news; the news had broken dawn.

Inside a penthouse suite at The Starlight Regency, the air was cool and still, scented with expensive linen and the lingering, musky perfume of last night’s indulgences

The silence was a luxury. I reached for the chilled glass of water on the nightstand, the condensation beading and rolling onto my fingers. The coolness was a sharp, clean contrast to the warmth of the sheets.

“BRRRRR!! BBBBRRR!!!” That’s when my phone, set to only allow calls from a select few, buzzed. Not a ring, just a persistent, insistent vibration against the marble. It was Kate.

I swiped to answer, my voice a sleep-roughened murmur. “Kate. It’s early.”

“Early?” Her voice was a tight wire of controlled chaos. “Sael, it’s a circus. A three-ring, fire-breathing, shit-flinging circus. Have you seen the feeds?”

“I just woke up. I was… occupied.” A lazy smirk touched my lips. “What’s the disaster du jour?”

A holo-screen flickered to life from my phone, projected against the pristine white wall. It was a carousel of insanity.

CMZ, PopSugar, DailyScreen—every tabloid and entertainment outlet was plastered with the same garish, all-caps headlines.

[“MYSTERY GENIUS SAEL VT SPOTTED ON ROMANTIC DINNER WITH MARIAH KARI!”]

[“THE SOUND OF LOVE? THE DIVA AND THE MASKED MOGUL CAUGHT IN INTIMATE DATE!”]

A montage began to play. Shaky, grainy paparazzi footage from a restaurant two nights ago. There was Mariah, radiant and laughing. And there I was, the ever-present mask a smooth, black facade. The video showed us clinking glasses of wine, the crystal shimmering under the low light. Another clip, taken from a fan’s phone from a hundred yards away, zoomed in to a pixelated mess that supposedly showed Mariah brushing her fingers against my hand.

The commentary was the real masterpiece. On one show, they’d frozen the frame of the hand-brush.

“Did you see that?” a commentator gasped, as if witnessing the birth of a star.

“The micro-expression? The lingering touch? Our body language experts have calculated a 70% intimacy probability index!”

I snorted. “Seventy percent? They’re selling themselves short. I’d have gone for at least eighty-five.”

On another channel, a MeTube vlogger with neon-green hair was screaming into her camera, a screenshot of an old Chirper post of Mariah’s flashing behind her.

“GUYS! MARIAH KARI AND SAEL VT WERE SEEN TOGETHER—AND SHE’S OFFERING HIM HER BABIES! I REPEAT—HER BABIES!”

The screenshot was of a tweet from months ago, when I’d first agreed to produce her album. Mariah Kari:

{“If @SaelVT writes me a song, he can take 80% royalties. Hell, I’ll even have his babies if he wants 😩🎶💋.”}

The hashtags #SaelKari and #MeteorLoveStory weren’t just trending; they were all over the entire goddamn internet.

The montage continued, cutting to the morning show panels. They were dissecting a simple business dinner like it was the Zapruder film.

A sharply dressed host leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“Let’s be real. Is this love, or is this just the sound of pure, unadulterated business synergy?”

His co-host, a woman with a smile so bright it could power a small city, laughed.

“Oh, come on, it’s both! He’s the most enigmatic creator on the planet. She’s the queen of pop reborn. It’s a match made in marketing heaven!”

A third host, an older man with a wink, chimed in.

“Forget about the royalty checks, honey. She’s offering him royalty!”

The phone line was still open. I could hear the faint, frantic tapping of Kate’s fingers on a keyboard from her office back in Pussyville.

“Meteor HQ is getting flooded,” she said, her voice calmer now, shifting into problem-solving mode.

“Calls from every reporter on the planet. Brand deals for couple’s wellness products. A… a surprisingly large number of offers for baby clothes. Cassandra is monitoring it all. She’s… amused.”

I could picture it. Sunday in her digital presence probably sipping a virtual coffee while watching the human race lose its collective mind. I took a long sip of my own water, the chill of it sharp and clean down my throat.

“And what’s the word from our Sunday?” I asked, curious.

A new voice, dry as a desert wind, cut into the call. Cassandra.

“The word is ‘predictable.’ The populace’s need to fabricate romance from basic social interaction is a constant 94.7% probability. It is, however, excellent for engagement metrics. Our stock in associated gossip sectors is up 3 points.”

Of course it was. Noise feeds attention. Attention feeds profit. If we Let them dance, and let them speculate. It was at the end of the day free advertising, for me, Meteor Entertainment and also Meteor Studio as a whole.

Kate’s voice came back, tinged with a sliver of concern.

“They’re already photoshopping your mask onto wedding tuxes. Some are calling you the ‘Masked Husband.’ It’s getting a little out of hand…. Want me to crush the rumor? Release a statement?”

I looked out the panoramic window. Below, the city was waking up, utterly oblivious to the digital hurricane raging in its name. A hurricane over one dinner. One conversation about music trends and distribution models.

“No,” I said, my voice calm, final.

“Just Let them be… doing anything to them is basically useless….”

‘Let them have their fun. It keeps the spotlight bright. It keeps them looking at the mask, and not at the man behind it. And it sure as hell keeps my name on everyone’s lips.’ I thought it is good for a celebrity to always be visible.

Cassandra’s response was a soft, digital chuckle. “Predictable answer.”

The holo-screen split. One side showed a live feed from Meteor HQ. Kate was at her desk, a monument of organized chaos, her brow furrowed as she monitored multiple screens. In the background, I could see Amanda—Saiko—patiently directing a junior intern on how to filter the incoming madness into “Action,” “Ignore,” and “Laughable” folders.

The other side of the screen showed Cassandra’s interface—a serene, flowing cascade of data. Call volume graphs spiked into the red zone. Social mentions looked like a seismograph during a 9.0 earthquake. She was the calm, icy eye of our little storm.

“The analysis is fascinating,” Cassandra’s voice noted, devoid of judgment.

“The public’s narrative has bifurcated. 52% are invested in the ‘power couple’ fairy tale. 48% are convinced it is an elaborate PR stunt for Ms. Kari’s upcoming single. The remaining fractions of a percent are conspiracy theorists who believe you are an alien and the dinner was a mating ritual.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Tell the alien theorists they’re getting warm.”

Just then, my personal Chirper alert chimed—a special tone I’d set for one person. I minimized the corporate chaos and pulled it up.

It was from Mariah.

Mariah Kari: @SaelVT So… apparently, we’re having twins now? The news says it’s triplets, but I’m pretty sure I’d know. 😉 Hope I didn’t scare you off with all that baby talk.

I grinned. Her humor was one of the reasons I enjoyed working with her. She understood the game.

My fingers flew over the holographic keyboard.

Sael VT: @MariahKari Triplets? I must have missed that memo. The 80% royalty still stands. The babies… we’ll have to negotiate. My lawyer is terrifying.

Her reply was almost instantaneous.

Mariah Kari: @SaelVT Kate? She’s a sweetheart! I’ll bring her a coffee. A very expensive, non-threatening coffee.

I could feel Kate’s eye-roll through the phone line.

“I do not accept bribes in the form of caffeine,” she stated primly. “Unless it’s that rare Kona blend.”

The absurdity of it all was… enjoyable. This was the entertainment business, stripped down to its core. It wasn’t just about the music or the stories; it was about the mythmaking. The spectacle and media play with me right now, I was center stage.

I ended the call with Kate and Cassandra, leaving them to manage the empire. The real world called. The memory of last night was a pleasant phantom touch on my skin, but the city was awake, and there was more to do. More meetings, more music, more of the beautiful, chaotic noise.

Stepping into the shower, the hot water needling my skin, I replayed the “scandalous” dinner in my head. Mariah’s laugh, the clink of glasses, the discussion of chord progressions. So mundane. So normal.

And now it was a global phenomenon. I shook my head, a wry smile on my face as I lathered up. This world was insane. But damn, if it wasn’t fun to be the one causing the insanity. The mask hid my grin, but it couldn’t contain the low chuckle that escaped my lips, echoing in the steam-filled room as I get ready to head to Mariah Kari place.

*********************

From the serene, air-conditioned interior of the discreet SUV of my very own convoy, the paparazzi noise was just a distant, irritating hum. They couldn't breach the phalanx of severe-looking private security that formed a human wall across the access road. My credentials were checked, a heavy, gold-leaf gate whispered open on silent hydraulics, and the car ascended.

“They were everywhere…”. I muttered as I watched the army sized of paparazzi camping around Mariah Kari compound.

The paparazzi were a persistent, buzzing hive at the base of the hill, their long-lens cameras glinting in the hazy afternoon sun like the compound eyes of some giant insect.

“That is just how there were, Sir…” my driver replied to me, as we slowly drive into Mariah Kari mansion.

Mariah Kari’s mansion didn’t so much occupy the summit of the Hollywood Hills as it became the summit. It was a crystal fortress, a monument to maximalism. Water arced from baroque fountains, catching the light in shimmering rainbows. Pairs of meticulously carved marble lions stood sentinel, their expressions frozen in silent roars. The place was less a home and more a declaration of war on the very concept of subtlety.

If this is her idea of ‘humble,’ I thought, the corner of my mouth twitching under my simple black face mask, I’d genuinely like to see what she considers ‘rich.’ Probably a solid platinum castle on the moon.

The car crunched to a stop on the immaculate crushed-seashell driveway.

“Welcome, Sir” A man in a suit that cost more than my first car opened the door. The air up here was different—cleaner, smelling of jasmine and money.

“Thanks,” I nodded my thanks and stepped out.

Before I could even ring the bell, the immense double doors swung inward. And there she was.

Mariah Kari was a vision in liquid sapphire. A flowing silk robe, the color of a midnight ocean, draped over a form that was clearly dressed for something far more intimate beneath. Diamonds cascaded from her ears, catching the light with every slight movement of her head, scattering tiny, frantic rainbows across the marble entryway. Her makeup was flawless, her hair a cascade of artful curls. But her eyes, those famous, expressive eyes, held a flicker of something raw beneath the practiced glamour.

“Welcome to my humble home,” she said, her voice a calm, melodic purr that was nonetheless tinged with a nervous, almost girlish excitement. It was a fascinating contrast to the diva persona she projected to the world.

“Thank you for having me,” I said, my own voice a low, even counterpoint to the opulent surroundings. “It’s quite the… sanctuary.”

“Hah~” She beamed, the nervousness momentarily eclipsed by pride.

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.” With a dramatic, fluid gesture, she beckoned me inside. “Come, come. Let me show you around before we get down to business. A queen must give a proper tour of her castle, no?”

“Sure, lead the way,” I followed her, my sneakers making no sound on the polished marble. The interior was a sensory overload in the best possible way. It was a museum, but the only exhibit was Mariah Kari.

High, vaulted ceilings were adorned with frescoes that probably cost a fortune. A chandelier the size of a small car hung in the center of the foyer, its thousand crystals throwing fractured light across everything.

My eyes were drawn immediately to a grand piano placed artistically near a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city smog. It wasn’t just any piano. Its entire surface was encrusted with what had to be millions of Swarovski crystals, glittering with a cold, furious fire.

Mariah caught my gaze and let out a throaty, delighted laugh.

“That was a gift from an ex-president,” she said, waving a dismissive hand adorned with more diamonds.

“Naturally I kept the piano—not the man.”

“Quirky, haha~” I couldn’t help but chuckle. It was the first genuinely real thing she’d said.

“Smart choice. The piano’s less likely to start an international incident.”

“See? You get it!” she exclaimed, her posture relaxing a fraction. She led me deeper into the marble paradise, her silk robe whispering against the floor.

“People say I’m extra. I say, why settle for less when you can afford everything?” She gestured to the walls, which were lined not with family photos, but with framed platinum records. Dozens of them.

“It’s a philosophy I can respect,” I said, my smile hidden but present in my voice. “If you’re going to do something, do it all the way…. No half-measures.”

She glanced back at me, her eyes appraising. “Exactly. No half-measures.” She seemed to like that.

“This way. My favorite room.”

We passed a hallway lined with life-size portraits of her in various iconic outfits and a staircase that looked like it was trimmed with actual gold. She pushed open a set of soundproofed doors.

“My private recording studio. Built just for me. The acoustics are…” she trailed off, searching for a word grand enough, “…celestial.”

It was a technological marvel disguised in velvety opulence. State-of-the-art mixing boards, microphones that probably cost as much as a college education, all surrounded by plush divans and mood lighting. Further on, she showed me her infamous walk-in closet, which was less a closet and more a department store, complete with its own humidity and temperature control to preserve the fabrics.

Her nervous energy was making her talkative, and the boasting was playful, almost self-aware. It was endearing. The vanity was there, sure, but it was backed by a tangible, hard-won legacy. She’d earned the right to this shrine to herself.

Finally, we ended up in a sprawling living area, all white carpets and low, modern furniture that looked more like art than something you’d actually sit on. A bar stocked with glittering decanters dominated one corner.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked, gliding behind the bar.

“I have everything. Cristal? Whiskey? Something… stronger?” The offer hung in the air, laden with implication.

“Water is fine,” I said, leaning against the bar. “I like to keep a clear head when I’m working.”

“Hmmm~” She pouted playfully, but poured a glass of mineral water from a bottle that likely hailed from some mystical Alpine Spring. As she handed it to me, her fingers brushed against mine. The contact was electric, deliberate. The nervous excitement from the door had now been fully transmuted into a different kind of energy—sharp, focused, and intensely sexual.

“Make yourself at home, Sael…. The view’s the main attraction, anyway,” she said, her voice a low, melodic thing now, stripped of its earlier performative tremor.

She glided over to a minimalist bar that seemed to grow directly out of the floor, its surface a slab of obsidian. The clink of crystal was sharp and clean. She poured a deep ruby wine into two glasses, the liquid capturing the reflected city lights, making each glass hold a tiny, swirling galaxy.

I took the glass she offered. The stem was cool and delicate between my fingers. She didn’t retreat to a chair. Instead, she leaned back against the colossal window, the cityscape painting her silhouette in a thousand points of gold and white light. It was a calculated move, a masterclass in staging. The satin hugged every impossible curve, and the backlighting made her seem both ethereal and dangerously tangible.

She took a slow sip, her eyes on me over the rim of her glass.

“So,” she began, the word hanging in the air between us. “You really don’t care about all that noise outside? The vultures, the headlines, the speculation?”

I let my gaze sweep over the monstrous, beautiful city below. From this height, the squawking of the media feeds and the screeching of social commentators seemed like the irrelevant buzzing of insects. They were down there. We were up here.

“If I cared,” I said, bringing the glass to my lips. The wine was rich, complex, and probably cost more than my first car back on my original Earth.

“I’d have quit long before I ever got in the same room with you.”

A slow, genuine smirk touched her lips, a world away from the camera-ready smile she’d flashed for the paparazzi. It was sharper, more real.

“Good.” She raised her glass in a tiny toast.

“Because if you’re going to be in my world, Sael, you better have skin thicker than this glass…. That is how we as celebrity survive in this cutthroat world…right?” She tapped a manicured nail against the window with a soft tink.

I met her gesture, raising my own glass. “I agree…”

Clink.

The sound was small, a tiny, crystalline punctuation mark against the vast, silent backdrop of the city. It echoed softly, a promise made and accepted.

‘For all her glamour, her platinum records, and this fortress of solitude, ‘ I thought, watching the way her eyes held mine, not with hunger for fame, but with a searching intensity,

‘she’s still chasing something real…. Fame ages fast. It gets brittle. Good art doesn’t… And she knew I am able to give her an eternal art that can made the entire world remember here forever…. That’s what she senses… and she wants it...’

“So, now that you’re here…” she purred, circling around to my side of the bar, closing the distance. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—wrapped around me. “We’re here to work on my album. To… collaborate.”

“That was the agreement,” I said, my voice calm though my pulse was beginning to quicken. I took a slow sip of the cold water, watching her over the rim of the glass.

“Mmm. Collaboration requires… chemistry. A mutual understanding.” She reached out, her fingertips tracing a slow, daring line from my shoulder down my arm.

“Don’t you think?”

I set the glass down with a quiet, definitive click.

“I do…. But understanding doesn’t always require talking.”

A slow, devastating smile spread across her lips.

“Finally. A man who speaks my language.” Her hand came up, and her fingers hooked gently under the edge of my mask.

“May I? I’d like to see who I’m… collaborating with.”

“Should we?” I gave a single, slight nod.

She peeled the mask down with a reverence usually reserved for uncovering a masterpiece. Her breath hitched as my face was revealed. Her eyes traveled over my features—the youth that belied the age in my eyes, the calm certainty in my expression.

“Oh My,” she whispered, her voice husky. “The rumors didn’t do you justice.”

“I find rumors are usually disappointing,” I said, my hand coming up to capture hers. I laced my fingers with hers, feeling the cool metal of her rings against my skin.

“The reality is almost always better…. Right?~”

I used our joined hands to pull her closer. She came willingly, her body melting against mine. The silk of her robe was whisper-thin; I could feel the heat and the curve of her hip through it. She tilted her head up, her lips parting in invitation.

“Mmph♥ Chuuu♥ Lick” I didn’t make her wait. I dipped my head and captured her mouth with mine.

"Smack♥ Smack♥ Mmmwah!!! Kiss kiss…” It wasn’t a gentle, exploratory kiss. It was a claim. She moaned into it, a raw, hungry sound that vibrated through my entire body. Her free hand tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, demanding more. Her taste was like her champagne—bubbly, expensive, and intoxicating.

“Sllrrppp~ hah~” I broke the kiss, both of us breathing heavily. Her eyes were glazed with pure want.

“The studio…” she breathed. “The acoustics in there… they’re truly incredible.”

I grinned, a sharp, predatory thing. “I have a feeling we’re about to test them.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I slid my hands down her back, over the lush curve of her ass, and gripped her firmly. In one smooth motion, I hoisted her up onto the pristine, cold surface of the bar. Decanters shivered and clinked in protest.

"Ah!" she gasped, more in surprise than protest, her eyes wide with thrill.

I pushed her back, the silk robe falling open to reveal she wore absolutely nothing underneath. Her body was a masterpiece—toned, lush, and gloriously exposed. I drank in the sight, my blood roaring in my ears.

"People probably beg to worship you," I stated, my voice rough as I stepped between her thighs, spreading them wide. "They probably get on their knees and pray to this."

"Y-yes," she moaned, arching her back, offering herself.

"Good," I growled.

"But today, you're going to worship me." I grabbed her hips and yanked her to the very edge of the bar.

“Ah… Aahhh“ She yelped, a sharp, delighted sound. I didn't bother with foreplay. The tension had been building since I stepped through that door. I unbuckled my jeans, freeing my already rock-hard cock. I saw her eyes lock onto it, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

I positioned myself at her entrance, hot and dripping wet for me. I locked eyes with her. "Tell me you want it."

"I want it!" she begged, her diva composure utterly shattered. "God, please!"

“THUMP!! PAHH!!” I drove into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

"UUUNNHH! FUCK!" she screamed, her head snapping back, her nails scraping against the polished wood of the bar.

“Pah! Pah! Pah! “

The sound was glorious. It echoed through the vast, sterile room. I set a punishing rhythm immediately; each thrust a declaration. The slap of my skin against hers was obscenely loud in the quiet room.

"PAH! PAH! PAH!"

"You like that?" I grunted, hammering into her, watching her tits bounce with every movement. "You like my big cock, Mariah?"

"Aaahhh♥YES! Aaahhh♥ YES! HARDER! GOD, I LOVE YOUR GIANT FUCKING COCK!!!" she shrieked, her voice breaking. She was already unraveling, her eyes rolling back in her head.

"FUCK!!! It's so... deep! GUH! Ooooohhhhhh~♥♥~!"

“Slurp, mm, mmm.” I leaned over her, crushing her beneath me, changing the angle. I swallowed her cries with another savage kiss. The bar shook beneath us, glassware rattling a frantic percussion to our fucking.

I could feel her tightening around me, her inner muscles fluttering wildly.

"I'm... I'm gonna... AAHH!!! Ooh-Ooooohhhhhh ~! SQQUUIIIRRRTT!!! SQUIRT!!" she wailed, her body seizing up as a powerful orgasm ripped through her. Her walls clenched around my cock like a vise, milking me.

“THUMP!!! THUMP!! PAHH!! PAHH!!”

I fucked her through it, not slowing down, extending her pleasure into a sobbing, writhing frenzy. When her cries began to subside into whimpers, I pulled out abruptly.

She whimpered in protest, her body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. "hng? H-haah?! Wha... why..?"

"Turn over," I commanded, my voice leaving no room for argument.

"On your knees. I want to see that famous ass in the air. SLAP!!!” I slapped her ass, looking at her hungrily.

A fresh wave of lust flashed in her eyes. She scrambled to obey, presenting herself to me over the bar, her face pressed against the cold surface. I admired the view for a moment—the perfect, globes of her ass, reddened from my thrusts, her glistening folds exposed and begging.

I spat into my hand, slicked my cock, and plunged back into her soaking heat.

"OH, GOD YES!! Ahhnnn!! Ahhhnnn!!! Your cock feels so good!!!" she screamed, her voice hoarse.

I gripped her hips like handles, pulling her back onto me with every thrust. The new angle was even deeper, even more animalistic. The sounds were wetter, louder.

"THWAP! SCHLURP! PAH!"

"Who owns this perfect pussy?" I grunted, spanking her ass sharply.

"YOU DO! AAH! YOU DO!" she sobbed, completely lost in the sensation.

"Damn right."

“Pah! Pah! Pah! Pah! ~♥♥” I felt my own climax coiling tight in my gut. I pistoned into her, my rhythm becoming frantic, brutal.

"I'm gonna fill you up," I growled. "Gonna mark this perfect, pristine diva as mine."

"Yes! Breed me! Please!" she begged, pushing back against me desperately.

"SPLUUURT! SPLUUURT! SPLUUURT! SPLUUURT!"

That was all it took. With a final, deep roar, I buried myself to the hilt and came.

“Take everything!! Mariah!!!” I groaned, jet after jet of my cum painting her insides, my vision whiting out at the edges.

I collapsed over her, both of us a sweaty, trembling, panting mess on the expensive bar. The only sounds were our ragged breaths and the final, tiny clinks of settling glass. After a long moment, I pushed myself up. Mariah slowly turned over, her makeup smeared, her hair a wreck, a look of utterly satiated bliss on her face.

“For God’s sake, Sael… your cock was so big… I feels like I was stab in my pussy! Shit!” She looked more beautiful than she had in any of her portraits.

“Hahaha! Never cum this hard before...” She let out a breathy, incredulous laugh.

"Well," she purred, her voice wrecked. "The acoustics are definitely celestial."

I smirked, pulling my jeans up. "It is, and I loved hearing the sound of your scream… from my cock…".

“Oh I like that as well,” She reached for her robe, draping it over herself like a queen reclaiming her mantle, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the blissed-out daze in her eyes.

"Water?" she asked, her voice hoarse, gesturing to the bottle.

“Thanks…” I take the bottle and drank it. both of us wants it, we want to fuck and we both knew the second we got the moment alone, we would fuck.

Both of us were mature adult, even though my body were 17 I am old enough inside. And on this beautiful world what we were doing is not some taboo, or slighted upon. It was highly encouraged, and I am not going to back away if I can fuck my favorite childhood star, now I can confidently say that I have cross that item off my bucket list, another hot babe of Hollywood I fucked.

“Anyway~ now that WE both had calmed down, let’s continue to the next item on the tour~”. Mariah said jovially, like nothing had ever happened between us, and for me I just smiled like an idiot and followed behind her.

“Welcome to the main area, sweetie,” Mariah purred, gliding past me into the cavernous lounge. Her heels, deadly stilettos of crimson satin, made no sound on the plush, cream-colored carpet that looked deep enough to lose a small child in.

My eyes tried to take it all in at once and failed spectacularly. A double-height ceiling soared above, from which hung a chandelier that was less a light fixture and more a crystalline asteroid field, casting a million shimmering points of light across the vast space. The far wall was a single, seamless sheet of smart glass, currently displaying a live, silent feed of a pristine, turquoise ocean—a sight so alien to New San Antonio it was practically fantasy.

And the people. My God, the people.

They were everywhere, and they were all… flawless. It was like walking onto the set of a high-fashion photoshoot where the concept was ‘idle deities.’

A young man with the sharp jawline of a storybook prince was casually polishing the already gleaming grand piano with a microfiber cloth, his movements a languid dance.

A woman who could have been sculpted by a Renaissance master obsessed with perfection was curled on a divan, scrolling through a transparent data-slate, her brow furrowed in a way that was probably also perfect. They were all young, all devastatingly attractive, and all dressed in clothes that whispered of obscene wealth and impeccable taste. They weren’t serving; they were adorning.

Mariah watched me taking it all in, a knowing, feline smirk playing on her lips. She accepted a fresh glass of bubbling golden liquid from a passing blonde who moved with the serene grace of a ghost.

“You’ve got… quite a team here,” I finally managed, my voice a little drier than I intended. The words felt inadequate. ‘Team’ implied a group assembled for a task, like a plumbing crew or a basketball squad. This was something else entirely.

“They’re not my ‘team’ per se…”She took a delicate sip, the glass looking fragile in her hand. Her eyes scanned the room, a queen surveying her domain.

“They’re my company...”

“Hmm?” I raised an eyebrow, playing along even as my brain started connecting the dots.

“Company? As in, a corporate entity? Or as in… you enjoy their company?”

“Heh~” She let out a low, throaty laugh that was pure honey and mischief.

“Everyone needs companionship in this business, Sael…. The hours are long; the paranoia is real. Some people have pets… Lap dogs, hairless cats, those weird genetically-modified sugar gliders that cost more than a car.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“I prefer my lovers~…. They’re more entertaining. Better conversationalists. And so much nicer to look at.”

I couldn’t help it. I barked a laugh, the sound startlingly loud in the hushed elegance of the room. It was half disbelief, half pure, unadulterated amusement. The sheer, brazen honesty of it was refreshing.

“So basically, a harem. You’ve assembled a harem.”

Mariah didn’t even blink. She just winked, a quick, sly gesture.

“Don’t act so shocked, country boy… Half of Hollywood does it—they just pretend it’s for ‘networking’ or ‘creative energy’ or some other bullshit. They hold ‘salons’.” She said the word like it was a disease.

“I’m just honest about mine. I like beautiful things around me. It keeps me inspired. And… happy.”

As if on cue, a few of the ‘companions’ drifted closer. A young man with eyes the color of moss and hair artfully tousled offered a tentative smile.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sael…. We all loved Silent Hill… it was amazing.” His voice was as smooth as the jazz now softly emanating from the now-clean piano.

A woman beside him, her curves showcased by a simple but devastatingly effective black sheath dress, nodded, a blush creeping up her neck. “The horror was… just wow.”

I nodded back, a grin tugging at my lips.

“Thank you…. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

‘Wayne West had his crew of sycophants hoe’s and bodyguards, a fortress of grim-faced ambition, mixed with sexual escapades… But Mariah? she built her own personalized paradise.’ I thought,

To me this sort of sight made me learned that this world really doesn’t even try to hide its excess anymore. It polishes it, puts it in designer clothing, and teaches it to compliment your work.

“So, this is what happens when fame meets fuck-you money, huh…. Freedom looks… comfortable.” I chuckled softly, turning back to the queen of this particular hive.

Mariah laughed, a rich, musical sound that made a few of her ‘company’ look over and smile fondly. She reached out and clinked her glass against the one someone had silently placed in my hand. I hadn’t even noticed. The champagne was cold, the bubbles impossibly fine.

“Freedom is expensive, darling,” she corrected, her tone laced with experience.

“But it’s worth every single dollar.”

I took a sip. It tasted like victory and bankruptcy.

“You might be the first person I’ve met out here who actually admits that…. Everyone else is still pretending they’re ‘disrupting paradigms’ or ‘building communities’.”

For the first time, the unshakable glamour on her face flickered. The smirk softened into something more sincere, wearier. Her eyes, for a split second, looked a thousand years old. She looked out over her beautiful, languid court, but she wasn’t really seeing them.

“Because,” she said, her voice dropping half an octave, losing its performative edge, “I’ve already paid the price.”

The words hung in the perfumed air between us, heavy and real. It was a tiny crack in the satin-and-champagne armor, a glimpse of the machinery behind the fantasy. This wasn’t just a whimsical choice. It was a hard-won acquisition, purchased with whatever pieces of herself she’d had to trade to the industry machine.

I saw it—the brief shadow in her eyes, the subtle tightening of her jaw. It was a story I didn’t know, a receipt for all this breathtaking luxury. I noticed it, and I filed it away. But I didn’t pry any deeper, in this world, you earned those stories; you didn’t ask for them.

Instead, I offered a simple, understanding nod and raised my glass again in a silent toast. To the price paid. To the freedom bought.

She saw the gesture, and the mask of the glamorous diva slipped seamlessly back into place, but her smile, this time, held a trace of genuine gratitude.

“Now,” she declared, her voice regaining its commanding melody.

“Enough admiring the scenery. We have an album to make. My studio is this way…. Try to keep up.” She turned, her satin dress whispering against itself, and began to weave through her beautiful, human collection.

“I’ll keep up alright…. Just lead the way,” I followed, the cold champagne glass sweating in my hand, and my other hand rest comfortably on her rounded ass, as we were leaving the quiet scandal of her honesty behind me in the opulent, living room.