Taken for a Ride

Three weeks later, the city was still reeling.

The mayor’s scandal had exploded across every platform—from political think pieces to viral TikToks, from congressional hearings to OnlyFans breakdowns. The video, now permanently etched into internet infamy, had been dubbed The D.C. Triple Penetration. Commentators called it everything from “the fall of a hypocrite” to “the climax of fourth-wave feminism.” The mayor’s press secretary resigned, citing “irreconcilable moans.” His wife filed for divorce during a live press conference. His reelection campaign was quietly scrapped.

The footage—five angles, one man, three legends—had been archived by over a million viewers before the takedown attempts even began. Too late. It was everywhere now. And the HeartSnatchers? They weren’t running. They were thriving.

Savannah bought a waterfront condo in Miami—paid in full, anonymously wired. Her legal podcast, “Consent & Consequences,” had become a cult hit overnight. Guests ranged from divorce attorneys to porn stars to dethroned politicians. Every episode ended with her signature sign-off: “Next time, remember who’s really in power.”

Jade vanished into the Tokyo nightlife circuit. Rumors swirled about a masked dominatrix filming underground docuseries for the wealthy and morally bankrupt. Her calls came in at strange hours, usually with laughter echoing in the background and the sound of latex being peeled off skin. She always signed off with the same purr: “Tell Maya she owes me a round. And a mayor.”

Maya? She stayed in D.C.—for now. Her nursing degree sat framed, untouched. But she’d launched a wellness brand—“Slick Recovery”—offering luxury massage oils, post-breakup care kits, and empowerment toys. Her Instagram bio read: “Savior by day. Destroyer by request.” She was last seen entering the Capitol Building in a white power suit and a sheer blouse, leaving lawmakers stammering.

The HeartSnatchers hadn’t just wrecked one man’s career. They’d detonated an entire system of silent indulgence and selective outrage. They hadn’t been caught. They hadn’t been canceled. They’d gone viral… on their terms.

And somewhere—maybe a hotel suite, maybe a penthouse, maybe the gala of a presidential candidate—the game was beginning again.

Because pleasure was power.

And the wreckening? Was far from over.