The penthouse suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel looked like a crime scene. Empty champagne bottles lined the marble counter, diamond chokers scattered across the floor like fallen stars, and a phone buzzed nonstop for the past hour. Morning light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting harsh shadows across the wreckage of last night's shoot—discarded lingerie, makeup palettes spilled across the vanity, and the lingering scent of expensive perfume mixed with something darker.

Bella ignored the incessant notifications, choosing instead to paint her nails blood-red while perched on the edge of the California king bed, silk robe barely clinging to her shoulders. The crimson lacquer caught the light like fresh wounds, each stroke deliberate and hypnotic. She'd always been good with her hands—it's what made her famous.

Three weeks. Three weeks since she'd looked her partner in the eyes and sworn on her mother's grave that she was done with solo collaborations. Done with the secret shoots, the behind-the-back bookings, the lies that tasted like ash in her mouth. She'd meant it too, in that moment, when her partner's voice had cracked asking if Bella even wanted to be with her anymore. Had felt something fracture in her chest, something she'd thought already broken beyond repair.

But intentions were cheap currency in Los Angeles, and Bella had always been terrible with money.

The nail polish brush trembled in her fingers as another text lit up her phone screen. "Studio's booked for tomorrow, can't wait to finally meet you IRL 😘 - Zoe" The preview was visible from across the room, bold and damning against the black screen. Below it, another message: "Should I wear the red set you liked? Or surprise you? 🔥"

"Блять," (fuck) Bella whispered, the Russian curse slipping out like a prayer to gods who'd stopped listening years ago. She should delete the thread, cancel the shoot, pretend this momentary lapse in judgment never happened. But the validation already coursed through her veins like heroin—a new face, a fresh audience, another chance to prove she was still the undisputed queen of this sick little kingdom they'd built together.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd built an empire selling fantasies of lesbian love, and now she was destroying the real thing one lie at a time.

The bathroom door opened with a soft click, and Bella's pulse spiked. Her partner emerged in nothing but a towel, hair damp from the shower, skin flushed pink from the steam and glowing in the morning light. Beautiful. Devastating. Everything Bella wanted to keep and couldn't stop trying to lose. Water droplets clung to her partner's collarbones like diamonds, and Bella felt her mouth go dry despite herself.