At exactly 3:00 p.m., the atmosphere in the indoor pool house was electric, thick with humidity and the scent of expensive chlorine. The room was a monument to Michael's success—soaring glass ceilings, Roman pillars, and a pool so vast it felt like a private lake.
The crew moved with silent, practiced efficiency. Sasha sat behind the main monitor, her headset on, looking every bit the commander of the set. She adjusted the mic on her loudspeaker, her eyes sharp and focused.
I stepped onto the heated marble, stripped down to nothing but a pair of tight black boxers. The air was warm, but the look Sasha gave me was ice-cold professional.
"Good to go, babe?" she asked over the speaker, her voice echoing slightly against the glass walls.
I gave a slow nod, my eyes fixed on the shimmering turquoise water. "I'm always ready."
