Assets Acquisitions The Silk Blueprint

The elevator was a silent, mirrored box that shot up to the top floor with a speed that made my stomach do a slow, heavy flip. When the doors finally slid open, I stepped out into a space that made my walk-up in LeDroit Park look like a dirty closet. It was massive—like, "I could fit ten of my apartments in here and still have room for a party" massive. The whole place was wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a view of the Potomac and the glowing monuments that felt so close I could almost touch them. Everything was marble, dark wood, and that kind of minimalist art that screams you have too much money to even care about comfort. It smelled like expensive cigars and a lifestyle I’d only ever seen on a screen.

"Make yourself at home, Zaya," Julian said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast room. He didn't bother turning on many lights, leaving the city’s neon glow to paint the walls in shifting shades of deep blue and gold.

I swayed over to the window, the emerald silk of my gown whispering against the cold marble floor. My heavy, expansive breasts felt even more weighted after the meal and the wine, heaving under the delicate fabric as I looked out at the city spread below us. I was hyper-aware of Julian moving behind me, the sound of glass clinking against stone ringing out like a challenge. I could feel the city pulse beneath us, but in here, we were above it all—literally and figuratively.

"I thought we’d finish the night with something special," he said, coming up behind me until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He handed me a glass of deep, blood-red wine. "Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. It’s a 1990 vintage. It’s widely considered the most expensive and exclusive wine in the world. I don't open this for just anyone, Zaya."

I took the glass, my fingers brushing his and sending a jolt straight to my core. I took a slow sip, and God, it was like drinking liquid velvet—dark, complex, and completely intoxicating. It was the kind of luxury that makes you feel like you've already won. "I’m starting to think you don't do anything like just anyone," I whispered, turning slowly to face him.

The move caused my breasts to swell and spill toward the edges of the plunging V-neck. In the dim light, the shadows between my cleavage were deep and dark, a provocative valley that Julian couldn't take his eyes off of. I could feel his gaze like a physical heat, lingering on the way the silk strained across my nipples, which were standing out like hard, dark points under the thin material. Every breath I took made my heavy breasts rise and fall, the emerald silk shimmering with the movement.

We stood there for a while, sipping the thousand-dollar-a-glass wine and talking about Zaya’s Silk. For the first time, when I talked about my hair-care empire, someone didn't just nod politely—they looked at me like I was a problem they were dying to solve, an investment they wanted to own. The more we drank, the closer he got, until the air between us was thick enough to choke on. I could feel the raw power he held, and I knew he could feel the magnetic pull of the body I’d spent years perfecting.

"You're a long way from folding hoodies on 14th Street, aren't you?" he murmured, setting his glass down on a nearby marble table without taking his eyes off mine.

"I never belonged there," I replied, my voice breaking slightly as I set my own glass down. The truth of it hit me hard—I belonged here, in the glow of the monuments, wrapped in silk that cost more than my car.

Julian didn't wait any longer. He reached out, his hands sliding around my narrow waist and pulling me flush against him. The contact was electric. My heavy, silk-wrapped breasts pressed firmly against his chest, flattening slightly against the fine wool of his suit. He leaned in and captured my lips in a kiss that was anything but polite. It was deep, hungry, and tasted of Romanée-Conti and raw, unadulterated desire.

My hands found their way into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss turned into a desperate battle of tongues. I could feel his arousal pressing hard against my thigh, a solid promise of what was coming next. Every breath I took was a ragged gasp, my chest heaving as he trailed his lips down my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right above my butterfly tattoo. He was marking his territory, and I was letting him.

"Zaya," he growled against my skin, his hands sliding down the emerald silk to the heavy, firm shelf of my ass, squeezing the rounded cheeks through the thin material with a possessive grip.

Before I could even think of an answer, he reached down and scooped me up. He didn't even break a sweat, his athletic frame handling my "slim-thick" weight like I was made of air. I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist, the emerald silk hiking up to show the powerful, honeyed swell of my thighs. I felt his hands dig into my backside as he held me, the friction of his suit against my bare skin making my toes curl.

He didn't say another word as he carried me toward the bedroom, the city lights reflecting off the dark ink of the roses on my arm. The blueprint was finally leading me exactly where I wanted to go, and as he kicked the bedroom door shut with his heel, I knew the price of my empire was about to be paid in full—and I couldn't wait to pay it.