Joan's husband calls Mokuba's phone.

Mokuba awoke to an unfamiliar number with a 510 area code lighting up his phone. He picked up. "Hello?"

"Dude, what the fuck happened last night?" a masculine voice raged.

"I'm sorry, you are?" Mokuba asked.

"Joan's husband, dumbass. Michelle." Sarcasm dripped from Michael's pseudonym.

"Shit." Mokuba sat bolt upright and shook Joan's shoulder to wake her.

"Shit is right, you crazy motherfucker," Michael agreed.

Mokuba fought rising panic. "Joan's here. I'm putting you on speaker." Mokuba deftly tapped the screen and held the phone level between himself and Joan.

Joan sat up and yawned, breasts popping over the covers. "What's up?"

Michael's voice filled the room. "Marc called me. Said he couldn't get ahold of you. Facial recognition software or something has you plastered all over Facebook. And there's this big headline: CEO Falls in Love with Whore."

"Ugh." Joan fell back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

"First of all, is it true?" Michael asked.

"He didn't say it in so many words, but yeah, it was written all over his face," Joan admitted.

"Shit." Michael fell silent for a moment. "We could both lose our jobs over this. I don't want to have to beg my mom for money again, and I'm sure your mom is going to explode when she finds out. Are the rich boys still paying you?"

"Yes." Joan's cheeks flushed as she met Mokuba's eyes, realizing she'd assumed before asking.

"Definitely," Mokuba confirmed. Not wanting to get between Joan and her husband again, he went mute and merely observed the beautiful woman he'd shared a bed with. No rings adorned her fingers. How was he supposed to know that she was married? Did it even matter? Michael hadn't threatened Mokuba, but he had issued a crude insult. While technically Seto was the crazy one, under the circumstances, Mokuba couldn't argue.

Michael took a deep breath and let it go with a shudder. "All right. We'll get through this. We'll be fine. Are you still doing Seto tonight?"

"Yeah, I think. Um, I need some things. Do you think you could make it out here?"

"Shit, Linda was going to pick me up from work, but this whole thing . . . are you OK? Do you need me right now?"

Joan searched Mokuba's face. There was comfort but not familiarity. "Kinda."

"I can ask Linda to make a detour. Wait, that's probably going to be way later than you have in mind."

Sensing an opportunity to make a good impression, Mokuba broke his silence. "We can send the limo out to you."

"Very cute, rich boy," Michael commented, "I guess it's the least you could do."

They exchanged logistical ideas until they found a satisfactory compromise. In lieu of Roland, Mokuba would pay handsomely for two Hyatt security officers to fend off reporters on their travels. Joan would wear some of Seto's clothes until Mokuba bought her a new dress, or five, as Michael suggested. They would then drop by the club, where Joan could retrieve her purse and Mokuba could retrieve his car. Mokuba would then drive his car home, leaving Joan to forge on without him. She could spend some time with her husband and then collect her things from home.

After everything had been settled, Mokuba emerged from the bedroom to grab Seto's clothes. "What, I can't see my whore naked?" Seto grumbled as Mokuba passed a black silk shirt, a pair of leather pants, and a KC belt through the bedroom door.