The Monday morning haze clung to Jason Sanders' office, a familiar companion to his routines. He leaned back in his chair, a silent sentinel before the expansive city view, a panorama no other could claim. The soundproofed space, with its tinted windows, was a fortress of discretion, perfectly suited for his unique enterprise.

His business, no longer a secret, hummed with a growing clientele, each woman a testament to his unparalleled service. Jason's gaze drifted from the urban sprawl to his desktop, checking emails and his tightly packed schedule. Mondays, he mused, were merely the overture to an endless symphony of work.

His first client, Abagail Hawthorne, a woman of punctuality and exacting desires, was due any moment. Six years she'd been with him, a steadfast presence since the dawn of his career, a witness to his ascent to fame. He rose, a figure of sculpted perfection, and began to unbutton his shirt, the silk sliding over hard muscle. He poured himself a measure of dark liquor, the amber liquid swirling in the glass, mirroring the swirling thoughts in his mind. The number of women he had pleased, the pleasure he had never received in return—a familiar torment.

A soft knock echoed through the silence. "Yes?" His voice, a low, seductive rumble even without effort, called out. Melissa, his secretary, entered, her eyes lingering on his form. "Your 6 o'clock is waiting in the lobby," she announced, her voice a little breathless. Jason swallowed the liquor. "Abagail is early, as usual. Send her up."