April 24, 2026. The Atlanta evening felt almost smug, the sky a deep indigo with streaks of orange from the setting sun, the kind of twilight that made even the traffic below look poetic. David had kept the condo intentionally minimal for the night: soft lighting from a single floor lamp, the king bed made with fresh white sheets, a chilled bottle of water on the nightstand, and the balcony doors slightly open to let in the faint hum of the city and the cool post-rain breeze. No group planning. No spreadsheets. No empire metrics glowing on the big screen.
Just Lauren.
She arrived at 8:04 p.m., the navy silk slip dress clinging to her like it was painted on, the fabric so thin her dark nipples were already standing at attention, no bra, no panties as instructed. Her long dark hair was loose and slightly tousled, lips glossy, eyes carrying that familiar mix of hunger and the quiet thrill of sneaking away from her husband.
