We actually follow Nicole for now (Nicole POV)

You step out of the casting director's office, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft, final thud. The lobby air hits you (cooler, laced with the faint metallic tang of air freshener and the lingering musk of sex from earlier). Brittney’s perched on the edge of a chair, knees pressed together, fingers twisting in her lap. Her hair’s still a mess of dried cum and sweat, mascara streaked like war paint down her cheeks. You can see the anxiety etched in her wide eyes, the way her shoulders hunch—she’s dreading the hours ahead, servicing you before getting passed to the execs like a party favor. But she’s got no leverage yet; even you, the “lowly” secretary, hold all the cards over this washed-up child star.

“Brittney,” you say, flashing a smile that’s all teeth, sweet as venom. “I just wrapped with Ricky. He’s cutting me loose for the day, so we’ve got plenty of time to celebrate your big win. Isn’t that exciting? Congratulations on landing the part!”

“Thank you so much,” she replies, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, lips trembling just a bit.

“So, here’s the plan,” you continue, leaning against the desk, arms crossed, enjoying how her gaze flicks nervously to your hands (the same ones that bruised her throat earlier). “We’re heading to my place. Leave your car here overnight.”

“Okay, got it,” she says, nodding too fast, putting on that submissive act—eyes downcast, voice soft, like she’s auditioning for the role of perfect pet.

“Once we’re there, you’ll get ready in whatever I pick out for you. Then off to the restaurant to meet him, just like you wanted.”

“Sounds good,” she beams, a flicker of real excitement breaking through the haze. You can tell she’s clinging to that illusion of control, like she negotiated her way into this dinner date. Let her think she did; popping that dumb blonde’s bubble can wait.

“And after? Back to his place for the nightcap you signed up for. Oh, and I’ll have some paperwork ready—NDAs, releases, the works. Keep everything tidy and legal.”

“Do you understand all of this?” you ask, grin widening, stepping closer so your shadow falls over her.

“No, I think I’ve got it all,” she says, standing up slowly. You drink in the sight of her again: the tight curve of her ass in those jeans, the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the way her top clings to her tits. She’s not thrilled about the deal, you can smell the **** mixed with her coconut scent, but the starlight in her eyes the hunger for that lost fame keeps her hooked.

“Now, are you ready to get out of here?” you ask, already turning toward the door, keys jingling in your pocket.