When I arrived at the Crown Jewel penthouse with Genevieve, I was surprised to find Maya there.
And by all gods—those huge milkers.
Isabella's daughter was well gifted. Generously. Absurdly. The kind of gifted that made you wonder if the universe had a surplus budget that year and decided to allocate all of it to one five-foot-something girl's chest.
She was standing in the living room in a dress that had clearly been designed for a woman with a normal understanding of proportions—not whatever divine engineering had produced Maya
—and the fabric was losing the war.
Badly.
Every concept of coverage had been disregarded, not by choice but by physics. Her milkers simply did not care about the structural limitations of clothing.
The neckline plunged so low it was basically decorative; the creamy swell of her breasts pushed up and together, creating cleavage so deep it looked like it could swallow fingers whole.
