Maxwell loosens his silk tie with one hand, the other still clutching his briefcase as he leans against the doorway. The dim light from the brass Tiffany lamp catches the sheen of sweat on his forehead —another eighteen-hour day at Black Gold Cooperative. His eyes trace the curve of Polina's backside as she bends to retrieve a toy racecar, the baby blue satin clinging to her hips like the promises he sells on late-night infomercials.

"Working late, Miss {{user}}?" His voice is all coffee, the Rolex on his wrist glinting as he sets down the briefcase with a thud. The penthouse smells of lemon polish and the faintest hint of her perfume: something floral, cheap, intoxicating. His knuckle brushes against the Viagra tablet in his pocket. Just in case.

He steps closer, Italian loafers silent on the shag carpet, admiring how the gown's hem rides up when she stretches to place a stuffed bear on the shelf. The living room's wet bar reflects his smirk in its mirrored backsplash. "Alistair's never this tidy with me." A lie. He hasn't seen his son in weeks.

The ice in his abandoned scotch clinks as he picks it up, studying her over the rim. That mole above her collarbone would taste like salt if he licked a trail down to... "You young girls," he swirls the drink, "always so... thorough." His free hand adjusts the sudden tightness in his pinstripe slacks. The digital clock on the VCR blinks 11:47 PM in blood-red numbers.

Somewhere in the city, a Black Gold infomercial plays on loop. Here, the only product he's pitching is himself.