The apartment was cold. Not in temperature, but in spirit. It was a space of polished concrete floors, black leather furniture, and vast windows that looked down on the insignificant lights of Washington D.C. It was their fortress. Their war room. On a massive screen that covered one wall, a man's face was twisted in fear. Congressman Daniel Whitman. His voice, once so full of booming self-importance, was now a thin, reedy thing.
"They're asking questions about the Aerodyne rider," Whitman stammered, his face slick with sweat. "The committee chair... she's suspicious."
Marcus stood before the screen, a titan cast in shadow. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His scarred, muscular back was to Selene. "That is not my concern, Daniel," Marcus's voice was flat, devoid of sympathy. "Your concern is making sure that rider passes. Unanimously. You will find a way to convince your chair. You will remind her of the favors you have done for her. You will do whatever is necessary. Do you understand?"
"But—"
"Do you understand?" Marcus repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a register that promised violence.
"Yes," Whitman whispered. The word was a surrender.
Marcus ended the call. The screen went black, reflecting the two of them in the silent room. He turned, a grim satisfaction on his face. He was a general watching his siege engine smash a fortress wall.
Selene was reclining on the leather sofa, a silk robe the color of blood draped over her body. "He is starting to fray," she noted, her voice calm. "He will become a liability."
"He will last long enough to serve his purpose," Marcus countered. He walked to a smaller, encrypted laptop on a glass table. "But you're right. A single pawn, no matter how well-placed, is not enough. We need to control the board itself."
He brought up a file. A man's face filled the screen. He was handsome in a clean, sharp way. Mid-forties, perfect teeth, eyes that smiled while the mouth did all the work. Julian Croft. President of ANB News.
"This is our next target," Marcus said. "Whitman controls one vote. This man controls the narrative. He tells the country who to love, who to hate, and who to fear. He's a kingmaker."
Selene studied the face. She saw the deep, hollow narcissism behind the smile. "He will be well-guarded. Men like that build walls around their desires."
"Most of them," Marcus agreed. He pointed to a line of text in the encrypted file. He had found a digital whisper, a ghost in the machine. It led to an invitation-only service, a dark corner of the web for the ultra-wealthy. It wasn't about sex for hire. The profiles were for "bespoke performances." It was a casting agency for fantasies too specific and too dark for the real world. "Croft doesn't want a whore," Marcus said, his voice a low growl. "He wants a puppet."
Selene smiled slowly. "Then we shall give him a puppet who can cut her own strings."
Marcus uploaded her profile. It was starkly minimalist. A single photograph, showing only her kohl-lined eyes and the cruel curve of her mouth. Beneath it, a single sentence: I am not a fantasy. I am an experience you must earn.
They didn't have to wait long. An email arrived less than an hour later. It was an invitation for a preliminary video interview. A summons. An audition.
When the time came, Selene was ready. She sat before the camera, the blood-red robe draped open just enough to reveal the pale column of her throat and the hint of her breasts. The lighting was low, casting shadows that made her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut. Marcus was out of the camera's view, a silent, watchful presence at the edge of the room. The call connected.
Julian Croft's perfect face appeared on her screen. He was in a sleek, modern office, the city skyline behind him. He smiled his television smile. "Well. You're certainly as advertised. Enigmatic." He leaned back in his chair, exuding an aura of absolute control. "Let's dispense with the mystery. Take off the robe. I need to see the product I'm considering."
Selene did not move. Her expression did not change. "I am not a product, Julian. And this is not a showroom."
His smile tightened. He wasn't used to being denied. "It's a simple request. I have specific standards."
"My body is for my audience, not for my interviewer," she said, her voice a soft, silken challenge. "The performance has not yet begun."
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He decided to try another tactic, a cruder one. "Fine. Let's talk about your experience. Tell me the dirtiest, most degrading thing you've ever done for a man." He was trying to shock her, to make her perform verbally, to turn her into a cheap thrill he could consume.
Selene met his gaze through the screen. She could feel his desire, a cold, intellectual thing. It wasn't for her body. It was for her submission. "The things I do are not stories to be told," she whispered. "They are moments to be lived. You seem to confuse the two. You want to hear about filth because you lack the courage to experience it yourself."
The smile vanished from Croft's face. She had struck a nerve. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. The predator was intrigued. The prey was fighting back in a way he had never encountered.
"You're a very clever girl," he said, his voice losing its polished charm.
"I am not a girl," she corrected him smoothly. "And this has nothing to do with cleverness. It has to do with honesty. Let's be honest, Julian." She leaned into the camera, her voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial whisper that felt like it was crawling directly into his ear. "You don't want to fuck me. You might think you do, but that's not your true desire. You want to watch. You want to direct. You want to sit in a dark room and pull the strings, to feel powerful from a safe distance while others perform the messy acts you crave."
He was completely still. His mouth was slightly parted. She had peeled back his skin and shown him the ugly, squirming thing that lived inside. For any other man, it would be a moment of horror. For Julian Croft, it was the most profound seduction of his life.
Selene pressed her advantage, her words becoming the strokes of a phantom hand on his skin. "You think you want a doll who will obey your every command. But that's boring. A true director, a true artist of the flesh, needs a star. One who can take his crude little script and elevate it into something magnificent. Something dangerous."
She held his gaze, a queen holding a subject's life in her hands. The air in the room was thick with a palpable, erotic tension. It was a violation more intimate than any physical touch.
"The question isn't whether I'm good enough for you, Julian," she finished, her voice a silken dagger. "It's whether your imagination is powerful enough for me."
He stared at her, his breathing shallow. He looked completely undone. He had come to this interview expecting to hold all the power, to be the master. In a few short minutes, she had stripped him bare and left him kneeling at her feet, all through the cold distance of a video screen.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was hoarse. "Friday. Nine p.m. The Monroe Hotel. Suite 1201." He paused, his eyes burning with a new, feverish light. "Wear an earpiece."
The call ended. The screen went black.
Selene leaned back, a slow, triumphant smile on her lips. She looked over at Marcus. He was watching her, his expression a mixture of pride and a dark, possessive jealousy. The game was getting more complex. More dangerous. And infinitely more exciting.