You wake up the next morning in your master bedroom, all alone in a bed big enough for four. The very first thing you do is check your phone to see if Ashley's answered you.
If you're still bumming it in your McMansion I might be down just to keep you company. What's the living sitch like?
You can guess she's really worried about the occupants, not the building. Clever girl. You can only imagine what lies her mother's told her about your love life.
Just me myself and I. And 10,000 square feet. And a swimming pool.
Her reply comes almost instantly. Which, given the time, means she's texting in school. Bad Ashley.
No lucky lady?
Would you consider yourself lucky?
you type out before thinking better of it. Witty, but too early and too forward. You delete in a hurry and send a simple nope instead. Ashley tells you she's thinking of coming over after school to check your place out. You answer with mild approval, not wanting to let on how enthusiastic you really are about the prospect.
Soon your arrangement is hashed in concrete terms. She's visiting at 3:30 with a friend in tow which gives you less than six hours to get the day's work done, clean up the house and ready one of the rooms near yours for her. You could be lazy and give her the first floor guest suite you prepared for yesterday's debacle. But what you really want is to keep her close, to get her as comfortable being around you as possible.
And you're type to move mountains to get exactly what you want.
________________________________________________________________
You save the housework for later in favor of your weekly check-in and lunch at Lucien's, your flagship. Not procrastination; you know the importance of first impressions. Catching you all sweaty in the middle of house cleaning would go a long way in reminding Ashley how down-to-earth you could be. Or at least approachable, compared to overbearing Jessica and her revolving door of servants and playthings.
"Lookin' sharp, boss."
Your spike-headed head chef returns to her kitchen and gives you a one-armed hug. Tammy's the only member of your empire inner circle you ever willingly spend time with outside of business. A devout lesbian and voracious connoisseur of fine young women herself, she's the closest you've found to a kindred soul for all your debauched appetites. You'd discovered her talent as a lowly prep cook ten years ago and five years later, promoted her to this vaunted position over more experienced and complacent applicants. That move, in addition to previous hires, had garnered your restaurant industry acclaim for running an exceptionally LGBTQ-friendly kitchen.
Not that you didn't, per se, but you definitely
did
run a tight ship of men with no interest in fucking your then-business partner wife, and women undistracted by thoughts of fucking you.
Tammy takes you to the table reserved for you on Thursdays, and the two of you sit down to a spread of plates all adapted from recipes you created for Lucien's over the years.
"So," she asks between bites. "How was your big day with poor little Melody? I have an ongoing bet with the wifey on how many times you made her pass out."
