*** Before you begin , I need to clear something. I have said again and again, this is a mc who is different from my usual. It's supposed to be a new experimental work practicing different style.
He is not a good guy, perfect, always 2 moves ahead like he is Aizen. He was a broken and rather shitty man, and old habits don't magically vanish. Plus there's not much of a world to build , everyone knows that stuff.
You guys saw what kinda dude he was in past life. You want him to be magically perfect and everything goes his way, that's full on fantasy wish fulfillment with no logic, which I don't write. If most of the readers here are looking for another brainrot, I can only apologize and find something better to do with my time.
some of you expected him to cruise through life easily with no drama or troubles. I mean, how else to develop a Character in a non fantasy setting!
It's like people are in a buffet. I want this, don't want that, it's icky, that's wacky. Allergic to that. Don't think that looks good to eat but 30 minutes later literally eating ass đź’€
Then there's those Threatening to drop a story if I add something . Mf this ain't no airport, you don't gotta announce your departure.
If someone's first comment on a story is saying I'll drop it if you do this or that, I don't think they ever cared to read at all. They are a karen who like to feel important when I don't give a rats ass about them. It's not my job to write.
A dude literally wrote a free content for your entertainment wasting his valuable time after working all day. Don't like it , that's fine.
But don't force your personal taste on others. many don't even read story description before starting! I'm pretty sure some just thought this would be all banging chicks and making money, and showed up with baby oils.
That's why I posted this 2 chapter as one along with this disclaimer, so I can observe the audience and see if it's worth my time. I got plenty other stuff to work on. I know some will get pissed reading this one and miss the hints I dropped for future plot. That's life.
Maybe finish up the other stories I couldn't work on due to writing this. The time I wasted doing research for this didn't pay off.
And for those who didn't support the story since begining at all, and just here to spread negativity because their life sucks, and being an online troll is the best they can amount to, may Diddy find you at night and Rip you a new ass.
Btw, I have blocked the ltrolls, so even if they say shit , I won't see it. So let's get some honest, constructive and actual feedback. See if this should be continued or not. If majority says nah, it's shit, good for me, less work.
*****
David found himself nursing his 3rd bottle of whiskey at the Sunset Room, one of those upscale clubs where the lighting was dim enough to feel anonymous but bright enough that everyone could see who mattered.
He'd been there for two hours, replaying the morning's disaster in his head like a broken record.
His phone buzzed again. Harvey again. He just replied he is not in a good mood, and unless it is very important, he trusts him to deal with it.
Harvey replied immediately, telling him to keep his head cool, go home, and not get into any trouble. David smiled at Harvey's concern. He set the phone face-down on the bar and gestured for another drink.
David appreciated the lack of questions.
But silence never lasted long in Hollywood.
"Well, well, well," came a high, artificially sweet voice from behind him. "If it isn't the man of the hour. Nice to meet you again , David. I was actually planning to find out why you never called me back."
He looked up at the familiar voice, and immediately wished he hadn't.
Paris Hilton stood there in a dress that barely qualified as clothing—electric blue, sequined, cut so low that it left almost nothing to the imagination. Her platinum blonde hair fell in perfect waves around her shoulders, her makeup flawless under the club lights, her smile sharp as broken glass.
Behind her clustered a small group of scantily dressed women, all beautiful, all polished, all wearing expressions that reminded David of sharks circling prey. Typical rich girl and her groupies.
But one of them caught his attention more than the others. She was darker-haired, tanned skin with striking features and curves that would stop traffic. When she caught him looking, she smiled warmly , bending slightly to offer a glimpse of her assets,and winked.
Kim Kardashian. He recognized her instantly, though she was years away from the empire she'd eventually build. Right now, she was just another struggling stylist trying to claw her way up the Hollywood food chain, clinging to Paris's coattails like a life raft.
She hadn't become famous yet, but she will soon, after she decided to sell her dignity , using her body and the famous sex tape.Â
"Hi Paris, good to see you again. My bad for not calling. I was busy and didn't have time to hang out. I was actually about to leave before you showed up." David said neutrally, turning back to his drink.
David met her about a month ago in a party. She was drunk as usual and almost fell down, but he was there to catch her. They talked a little and David was not surprised to find her personality rather vain and arrogant.
But somehow, she actually took interest in him and chatted until David had to fake an emergency to escape her. But not before she gave her number to him, to hangout with her and her friends later. David just said maybe if he finds time and left.
He really couldn't tolerate the smug types that act they are better than him. Plus David knew she was troublesome with her drugs and parties. He didn't want to go back to that life again.
Paris laughed, and slid onto the space right next to him without waiting for an invitation. Her perfume and smell of alcohol hit him immediately—expensive, overpowering, designed to announce her presence from across a room.
"Oh, don't be like that, It's going to get better now that I'm here." she purred, trailing one manicured nail along the edge of the bar. "I heard about what happened today. That whole thing with the reporters? Absolutely brutal. They can be so annoying sometimes."
David's grip tightened on his glass. "I'm not in the mood to talk about media crap, Paris. Can we not go there? Trying to relax here."
"Of course you're not," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "That's why I'm here to cheer you up. Now turn that frown upside down handsome." She gestured to the bartender. "Champagne. The good stuff. And keep it coming."
Kim slid onto the space on David's other side, rubbing against him, effectively boxing him in.
Up close, she was even more striking—full lips curved in a practiced smile, dark eyes assessing him with the kind of calculation that came from years of learning how to read powerful men. And the dress revealed much more than it should.
But David knew behind that charming face, lies a personality that's rotten. He didn't blame her life choices, everyone was free to do as they please. As long as it didn't affect him.
"Hi, David. Nice to meet you finally. Paris said a lot about you." she said softly, extending a hand. "I'm Kim. Kimberly Kardashian. I loved your songs. You are even more handsome in person. " She smiled seductively.
David shook her hand briefly, noting how long her fingers lingered against his palm, stroking subtly. "David Harper. Nice to meet you. Glad you liked my work. I like your dress." Of course he would since he could feel the fabric and her generous breasts pressing against his arm.
"Thanks," she said, her smile widening. "Everyone knows who you are. 'Thanks For The Memories'? That song is incredible. I listen to it all the time."
"Thanks," he said, extracting his hand and reaching for his drink. He took a long gulp, wishing they would both just leave. He wasn't in the mood to entertain. Nor was he looking fuck around with them, knowing the find out won't be pretty.
But Kim continued, her voice dropping lower, more conspiratorial. "So what's a famous rockstar doing drinking alone on a Friday night? Where's your girlfriend? Scarlett, right? I've seen pictures of you two everywhere."
David felt a flash of irritation cut through the alcohol haze. "She's working."
"Working?" Paris repeated, accepting her champagne from the bartender and taking a delicate sip, her expression suggesting that she found the concept of work vaguely distasteful.
"On a Friday night? That's so sad. I mean, if my man was having a terrible day like you obviously are, I'd drop absolutely everything to be there for him. That's what a good girlfriend does."
"She's filming a movie," David said flatly, his voice carrying a warning edge. "It's called having a career. Professional obligations."
Paris laughed again, that same crystalline sound."Oh, please. She's in some indie movie that probably nobody's going to see. It's not like she's a real movie star or anything. Not like..." she paused, gesturing to herself with mock modesty, "...well, not like people who actually matter in this town."
David's jaw clenched. "Paris—"
"I'm just saying," she interrupted, reaching out to place her hand on his forearm, her touch light and deliberate, "You deserve someone who prioritizes you. Someone who understands what it means to be at your level." Her fingers traced small circles against his skin.Â
David looked down at her hand, then back up at her face. She was pretty—objectively, undeniably beautiful. And she made her interest clear to him.
But there was something hollow behind her eyes, something calculated in every movement, every word, every practiced gesture. Looking at her was like looking at an expensive mannequin, perfect on the outside, empty on the inside.
"I think you've had enough to drink, you should head home like I am about to." he said carefully, removing her hand from his .
Paris's smile didn't waver, but something cold flashed in her blue eyes, something predatory. "Don't be ridiculous, silly. The night's just getting started."
She gestured around the club, at the pulsing lights and writhing bodies. "This is Los Angeles. This is what we do. We have fun. We forget about stupid drama and boring obligations and we just... live."
She stood up, smoothing down her impossibly short dress, and extended her hand toward him. "Come on. Dance with me. I guarantee it'll improve your mood. Dancing always makes everything better."
David didn't move, just looked at her outstretched hand. He knew what she was doing—could see the game being played as clearly as if she'd laid out all the cards on the table.
The touches, the compliments, the suggestions. The way she and Kim had positioned themselves on either side of him, creating a situation that was designed to overwhelm, to seduce, to trap.
"Nah, I'm good here," he said calmly.
But Paris either didn't hear him or chose not to. She grabbed his hand before he could pull away, her grip surprisingly strong, and tugged. "Oh, come on. Don't be boring. You're a rockstar! You're supposed to be fun!"
Kim watched the exchange with carefully concealed interest, her dark eyes moving between David and Paris like she was calculating odds, weighing possibilities.
David sighed, looking at Paris's expectant face, her bright smile, the way she was already pulling him toward the dance floor. He could cause a scene—pull away hard, tell her to fuck off, make it clear that he wasn't interested.
But he was tired. Tired from Evelyn, from the interview, from the constant pressure of fame and media and expectations.
And maybe, just maybe, she was right. Maybe dancing, losing himself in the music and movement for a few minutes, would help clear his head.
It was a mistake, and he knew it even as he stood up. But he was just drunk enough, just tired enough, just desperate enough for a distraction that he did it anyway.
"One song," he said firmly.
Paris's smile turned triumphant. "One song," she agreed, though they both knew she was lying.
Kim remained at the bar, watching them head toward the dance floor. She sighed quietly, her shoulders slumping just slightly.
For a moment, her practiced smile fell away, and David caught a glimpse of genuine disappointment in her expression.
She'd been hoping to make a connection, he realized. To use him as a stepping stone to whatever greater fame she imagined for herself. With Paris claiming him, that opportunity slipped away.
Then the smile was back in place, and she turned to order another drink, already calculating her next move.
On the dance floor, the music was deafening, some remix that David didn't recognize, all pounding bass and synthesized melody. Bodies pressed in from all sides, the air thick with sweat and alcohol and expensive perfume.
Paris immediately pressed herself against him, her movements practiced and deliberate, her body moving in ways that were designed to provoke, to seduce. Her hands found hishis chest, fingers trailing with clear intent. "Come on, loosen up a little."
David kept his own hands neutral, resting lightly on her waist, maintaining enough distance that it was clear he was dancing with her, not grinding against her despite her best efforts to close the gap. "Yeah, I'm good."
She leaned in close, her lips brushing against his ear as she shouted over the music. "You know, you're even hotter in person than in tv! And that's saying something!"
"Thanks, you too." David said mechanically.
"You must get this all the time!" Paris continued, her hands sliding up his chest. "Girls throwing themselves at you! It must be exhausting!"
"It's fine."
"I bet Scarlett hates it!" Paris laughed, her breath hot against his neck. "All those groupies, all that temptation! It would drive me crazy if my boyfriend had women hitting on him constantly!"
David didn't respond, just continued moving to the music, counting down the seconds until the song would end and he could extract himself from this situation.
But Paris kept talking, kept touching, kept pressing closer with every beat.
"You know," she said, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, "if you ever get tired of the whole 'serious relationship' thing, you should call me. I throw the best parties. Very exclusive.
Just a few close friends, lots of fun, no cameras. What happens there stays there, if you know what I mean."
David felt his jaw clench. He knew exactly what she meant. "I'll think about it."
The song finally ended, transitioning into something slower, more sensual. Before David could step back, Paris wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself flush against him, her blue eyes locked on his face.
"One more song," she purred. "Please? I'm having such a good time."
"Paris, I am tired."
"Unless you want to get out of here?" she suggested, her voice dropping to something husky and intimate. "Go somewhere more private? My place isn't far. We could relax, have some drinks, really talk without all this noise..."
David gently but firmly removed her arms from around his neck, taking a step back. "I should go. My girlfriend's probably worried about me." He could accept her offer, but he wasn't interested in getting involved with problematic characters.Â
Paris's expression flickered—surprise, then confusion. "Seriously? You're actually going to leave?"
"Yeah," David said simply. "I am."
"But—" Paris looked genuinely bewildered, like this was a scenario she'd never encountered before. "You can't be serious. Your girlfriend isn't even here. She's off shooting some meaningless movie, and I'm right here, right now, offering—"
"I know what you're offering," David cut her off, his voice cold. "And I'm not interested in becoming one of your boytoys. Specially when you are already with a poor sucker."
He had done his research after getting here. Although some of the people were non existent and some things had changed a lot, he had a general idea about this world.
And Paris was even more wild in this world, openly doing drugs and causing scenes, going through men faster than the media could catch up.
And She was apparently rather chummy with Ghislaine Maxwell, from someone he wanted to stay 100 miles away .Â
He turned to walk away, to get the hell out of this place before he did something stupid. He burst out into the cool evening air, his hands shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He walked towards his car, and got in.
But apparently, She wasn't done with him. She followed him to his car and got inside, grabbed his arm, her manicured nails digging in hard enough to hurt.
"Wait a second," she said, her voice losing some of its practiced sweetness. "Let me make sure I understand this. You're turning me down? You do realize who I am, right?"
"I have a girlfriend," David said simply.
"So?" Paris laughed, but there was an edge to it now. "Half the guys in this city have girlfriends. That's never stopped them before."
David looked down at her hand on his arm, then back up at her face. Her expression had transformed completely—the sweetness gone, the seduction abandoned, leaving only arrogance and disbelief.
"Yeah," he said with a shrug. "But I am not like them."
"Are you insane?" Paris's laugh was sharp, ugly. "Do you have any idea who I am? What I could do for your career? I'm rich. I'm connected. I could open every door in Hollywood for you with one phone call. She can't do any of that. She's a nobody! "
"She's not nobody, she's my woman." David said, his voice taking on a dangerous edge.
The alcohol and exhaustion and accumulated rage from the day suddenly coalescing into something sharp and furious. "And for the record? I don't need anyone to open doors for me. I'm doing just fine on my own."
"Fine?" Paris let out a harsh laugh. "You think one hit album makes you special? Makes you untouchable? Please. I've seen a hundred guys like you come and go in this town. You're flavor of the month, and trust me, the month is almost over."
David felt his temper begin to snap. "Get out of my car, Paris. You are probably drunk and high, so I have tolerated your bullshit till now."
He got out of the car, figuring she would finally see some reason. Maybe some fresh air would help.
But she didn't. Instead, she walked over to him, grabbing his collar. Her eyes bright with genuine anger now, all pretense abandoned. "You know what I think? I think you're scared. Scared that if you were with someone like me, someone actually at your level, you'd realize how mediocre your little actress girlfriend really is. How boring. How utterly ordinary."
"Paris, I'm warning you—"
"She's just using you," Paris continued, her voice sharp and cruel. "Can't you see that? She's clinging to you because you're the hot thing right now.
Because dating a rockstar gets her attention she could never get on her own talent. She's a leech, and you're too stupid to realize it. While I don't need anything, and can offer everything."
"That's enough," David said, his voice shaking with barely controlled fury.
But Paris was on a roll now, months or years of unchecked entitlement pouring out in a venomous stream. "I could end her career with one phone call. One call to the right people, and she'd never work in this town again. Maybe that's what I should do.
Maybe that would teach you not to embarrass me in public. Not to reject me in public like I'm some—"
Smack!
The slap happened before David fully registered what he was doing.
His palm connected with Paris's cheek—not hard enough to really hurt her, but hard enough to shock them both. The sound seemed to echo through the quiet section of the parking lot.
Paris stumbled backward, her hand flying to her face, her eyes wide with genuine disbelief.
"You—" Paris's voice came out small, shocked. "... hit me. You bastard! Youactually hit me!?"
David's hand was still raised, trembling slightly, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it over the music.
He stared at his own hand like it belonged to someone else, rage and anxiety warring in his chest. Although it was satisfying, this would cause him problems even if there are no witnesses.
"Don't you ever," he said, his voice low and shaking, "threaten her again. Don't say her name. Don't even think about her. You don't get to talk about her like that."
Paris slowly lowered her hand from her face. Even in the club's dim lighting, David could see the red mark blooming on her pale cheek, could see the mascara starting to smudge at the corners of her eyes.
Her expression cycled through shock, humiliation, fury, and finally settled on something cold and calculating that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"You're going to regret that," she said softly, her voice carrying threat. "You have no idea what you just did."
"Stay away from me and my girlfriend," David said, already turning toward the exit.
"You think your lawyer can protect you from this?" Paris called after him, her voice rising. "You think Sony cares about you enough to go against me? You just assaulted me ! You're finished!"
David didn't respond, didn't look back.
 He'd just hit a woman. Actually raised his hand and struck her face.
It didn't matter that she'd deserved it, that she'd been threatening Scarlett, that she'd pushed and pushed until something snapped.
He fumbled for his phone, pulled up Harvey's number, and this time he pressed call.
He answered on the second ring, speaking drowsily. "David, I told you before, before sleep it's me time, no business. Why Aren't you at home, sleeping? "
"Harvey, I fucked up," he said, his voice rough.
There was a pause. "What happened?"
"Can you meet me at home? I'll explain everything. I need to speak face to face."
"I'm on my way," He said immediately, then joked. "I'm charging you extra though, for ruining my sleep."
David smiled despite the situation. "You're a lifesaver Harvey. Thanks"
He ended the call and started his car, his mind already racing through the consequences of what he'd done.
Paris Hilton wasn't the type to let something like this go. She'd retaliate. And knowing her, she'd make sure it was public, humiliating, and effective.
****
Meanwhile, back at the club...
Paris stormed back into the club, her cheek still burning from the slap, her vision blurred with tears of rage and humiliation. People stared as she passed—some with shock, others with poorly concealed amusement—and that only made the fury burning in her chest grow hotter.
She made her way to her private booth in the VIP section, the one she kept reserved year-round whether she was there or not. The bouncer recognized her distress and quickly ushered away the people who'd been sitting there, leaving her alone in the dim leather sanctuary.
Paris collapsed onto the seat, her hands shaking as she pressed one palm against her burning cheek. She could feel it swelling already, could imagine how it would look in the morning—red, puffy, a visible mark of her humiliation.
Her purse sat beside her on the table. She grabbed it with trembling fingers, digging through the contents until she found what she was looking for—a small silver case, elegant and discreet.
She glanced around quickly, but the booth was positioned perfectly for privacy. The music was loud enough to cover any sound, the lighting dim enough to hide what she was doing.
Paris opened the case and pulled out a small mirror and a razor blade, her movements practiced and efficient despite her shaking hands. She tapped out a line of white powder, perfectly measured, and leaned down.
The cocaine hit her system immediately, sharp and clarifying. The rage didn't disappear—if anything, it crystallized into something clearer, more focused, more dangerous.
She sat back, wiping her nose delicately, and stared at nothing as her mind began to race.
David Harper. That fucking bastard. Who did he think he was? Rejecting her. Embarrassing her. Choosing that nobody actress over her.
And then—and then having the audacity to actually hit her. To leave a mark on her face where everyone could see.
She wanted to destroy him. Wanted to see him broken, bankrupt, his career in ruins, that smug confidence shattered into a million pieces.
But how?
He was rich, not Paris-rich, but rich enough that money wouldn't be a weapon against him. Sony Music was protecting him like he was their golden goose, which he probably was given how his album was selling.
And she'd heard stories about his lawyer, Harvey Specter, a shark in an expensive suit who ate other lawyers for breakfast.
Going after him legally would be a nightmare. Going after him through the industry would be tricky with Sony's backing.
Going after him through the media like his mother... well, she could try, but he could probably spin it as her being a scorned woman, especially with witnesses who'd seen her throwing herself at him first.
She needed something bigger. Something that would destroy not just his career, but his relationship, his reputation, everything he cared about.
Paris pulled out her phone and scrolled to Kim's number, typing out a quick text: Come to my booth. Now.
A few minutes later, Kim appeared, sliding into the booth with practiced grace. Her eyes immediately went to Paris's cheek, widening slightly at the visible redness.
"Paris, are you—"
"Sit," Paris said curtly, and Kim obeyed immediately.
There was a moment of silence as Paris studied her—Kimberly Noelle Kardashian, struggling stylist, wannabe celebrity, desperately clinging to Paris's coattails in hopes of catching some reflected fame.
Ambitious. Hungry. And willing to do whatever it took to get ahead.
Perfect.
"Kimmy," Paris said, her voice taking on a deceptively sweet tone, "you want a break in Hollywood, right? A real break. Not just styling B-list actresses for red carpets. Real fame. Real money. Real power."
Kim's eyes lit up, her entire body leaning forward slightly. "Of course," she said eagerly. "You know I do. I'd do anything for that chance."
"Anything?" Paris repeated, her lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Anything," Kim confirmed, nodding vigorously.
Paris reached for her vodka glass and drained it in one gulp, the alcohol burning down her throat, mixing with the cocaine in her system to create a reckless, dangerous clarity.
"Good," she said, setting the glass down with a sharp click. "Because I'm going to set something up for you. A opportunity. But I need you to help me ruin that bastard who just humiliated me."
Kim's eagerness faltered slightly, confusion crossing her features. "Ruin David? How?"
Paris leaned forward, her voice dropping to something cold and calculating. "I'll get him to come to my private clubs or a party. One of the exclusive ones, no press, no cameras, very private.
I'll say on media that although something happened between us, I want to reconcile, be the bigger person. Or I'll get him through his friends or whatever, it won't be hard.."
Kim looked hesitant. "Then?"
Paris smirked. " Then, I'll make sure his drink is... properly enhanced. Something strong enough that he won't be thinking clearly. Won't be able to make good decisions or control his body."
She paused, watching Kim's face carefully. "And then you're going to fuck him. Although you have to pretend you are being forced. You know, the usual. "
Kim's eyes widened. "What?"
"You heard me," Paris said, her voice hardening. "You're going to seduce him, fuck him, and I'm going to capture the whole thing on camera. Every single moment."
"So, like a sex tape? But Rapey" Kim caught on to her plan.
Paris nodded and continued,"And then," her smile turning vicious, "we're going to accuse him of rape. We'll have the footage showing him with you, clearly intoxicated, clearly taking advantage of a crying girl. We'll go to the media. We'll go to the police. We'll destroy him."
Kim sat back, her face nervous. "Paris, are sure this will work? And what if... he hurts me while drugged?"
"That's more perfect," Paris finished. "He will also get caught hitting woman. I want to see how his precious girlfriend likes it when everyone thinks her boyfriend is a rapist and hits women.
I want to watch his reputation crumble. I want Sony to drop him. I want his lawyer to drown in legal fees trying to defend him. I want him bankrupted, destroyed, finished."
She leaned back, examining her manicured nails with false casualness. "And you, Kimmy, you'll get your shot at fame. The woman who brought down David Harper. The victim everyone will rally around.
Talk show appearances. Magazine covers. Maybe even a book deal. You'll be famous overnight. You just have spread your legs and listen to what I say.
And don't tell me you don't like that, you were basically begging him to take you out in the backroom and fuck your brains out tonight. Don't think I see through your schemes, Kimberly."
Kim's hands were trembling slightly. "But if there's a video of me like that, how will I make it into the elite circles? They would look down on me."
"Don't you want this?" Paris asked, her voice sharp. "Don't you want to be somebody? To matter? Or are you content spending the rest of your life as a nobody, begging for scraps?"
Kim bit her lip, clearly torn between ambition and fear of being seen by the whole world intimately. "He doesn't seem like the type to be seduced easily," she said quietly. "He literally just rejected you. What makes you think he'd be interested in me?"
Paris's smile turned cruel. "Leave that to me," she said softly. "I know exactly what to use. How to make sure he's too far gone to say no, too confused to remember clearly. And definitely more... compliant to his needs. By the time I'm done setting it up, he won't stand a chance."
She pulled out her phone again, already scrolling through her contacts. "I have a party coming up in a few months. Private. Can't be too sudden, or he might sense it. Let him cool off a little and get comfortable. Then, I'll make sure he gets an invitation. Make sure he comes. And then..."
She looked up at Kim, her eyes cold and bright with malice.
"Then we destroy him. And His girlfriend, I got plans for her. A pretty little thing, my friend would like her working under her."
Kim sat in silence for a long moment, her mind clearly racing. Paris could see the war playing out behind her eyes—the desire for fame, for recognition.
And she knew how deep her influence was. Kim might act sweet and innocent, but Paris new her friend well. She was a cunning snake, just like her.
Finally, Kim took a deep breath and smirked.
"I'll do it. Let's hope he's good in bed, and doesn't cum before we get the camera rolling."
Paris's smile widened, sharp and predatory.
"That's my girl," she purred. "Now, let me explain exactly how this is going to work..."