Chapter 1

Amber Dayton lounged on the white leather couch in her sleek L.A. apartment, the late June sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting Instagram-worthy light across her flawless figure. At 25, she was a vision—long blonde hair teased into perfect waves, pouty lips glossed pink, a curvy body sculpted by yoga and a little Photoshop, her skin a golden tan from spray booths. She wore a cropped tank top and tiny shorts, her C-cup breasts perky, her ass tight, every inch curated for her million followers. Online, she was “AmberGlow,” all sweet smiles and “live your truth” captions, a gorgeous-but-relatable influencer raking in sponsorships—makeup, athleisure, detox teas. Off-camera, she was a vain, bitchy queen, snapping at anyone who dared dim her spotlight, her life a shrine to herself.

Jake, her boyfriend of six months, sat beside her, his sandy hair mussed, his fitness-vlogger biceps flexing as he scrolled his phone, oblivious to her eyeroll. He was smitten—always had been—gushing, “You look amazing today, babe,” his voice a puppy-dog whine.

She smirked, barely glancing up from her own phone, where she was tweaking a selfie’s filter. “Yeah, I know,” she drawled, her tone dripping with dismissal. To her, Jake was a prop—cute enough for couple pics, 200K followers to boost her cred, but otherwise a bore, another piece of her sculpted image. “You should’ve worn that blue shirt I picked—it’d match my vibe better,” she added, flicking her hair, her vanity a blade she wielded without care.

They’d been half-cuddling—his arm around her, her legs over his lap, a semi-intimate moment where a normal girlfriend might soften. Instead, Amber’s mind was elsewhere, her boredom palpable as Jake nuzzled her neck. “Wanna head to the bedroom?” he murmured, hopeful.

She sighed, loud and dramatic, but relented, dragging herself off the couch. In her minimalist bedroom—white linens, ring light in the corner—he stripped to his boxers, his decent body no match for her indifference. He fucked her missionary, a predictable grind—five minutes of shallow thrusts, his grunts more effort than skill, his dick average and uninspiring. She stared at the ceiling, faking a moan once, her pussy barely wet when he came, a weak spurt she didn’t feel.

“That was great, babe,” he panted, rolling off, smitten as ever.

“Sure,” she muttered, already reaching for her phone, her boredom a lead weight.

Mid-cuddle—Jake spooning her, her pretending to care—she scrolled Instagram, her million followers a dopamine hit. A DM popped up from Ebony Ascent’s verified account: “$50K sponsored post—join our app, match with an elite guy, hype it live. Exclusive invite attached.”

She scoffed, her bitchy side surfacing. “What’s this ghetto shit? Some dating app scam?” But the cash—$50K for a quick post—tempted her, her vanity whispering she could spin it into clout. She sat up, shoving Jake’s arm off. “Get up, I need to film an unboxing for this dumb app invite,” she snapped, her tone sharp.

He blinked, confused. “Now? We’re kinda in the middle of—”

“Oh my God, Jake, stop whining,” she cut him off, rolling her eyes. “My camera girl’s not here, so you’re filming. Move.”

Jake protested, his voice small, “But, babe, I just wanna—”

She turned, her glare icy. “You’re my boyfriend, Jake, so do it. It’s content, not your funeral.”

He wilted, annoyed but well-trained, grabbing his phone as she switched gears, her face morphing into her on-camera persona—sweet, wide-eyed, a giggle bubbling up. “Hey, lovelies!” she cooed, posing with the digital invite on her phone screen. “I got this super exclusive invite from Ebony Ascent—ooh, it’s giving luxury vibes! Let’s open it together!”

Jake filmed, his jaw tight, as she accepted the invite, the app loading sleekly—black and gold, promising “elite encounters.” She matched with Tyrell—6’4”, rugged, tank top straining over a sculpted body, bio blunt: “I break bitches and beds.”

On-camera, she giggled, “He’s kinda hot, right? Oh my god, they’re offering a free curated encounter at a Malibu beach villa—yes, please!” She winked, adding, “Jake won’t mind, he’s the best boyfriend ever,” her sweet lie flawless.

They finished, and Jake set the phone down, his voice tight. “You’re making a date with another guy? For real?”

She spun, bitchy again, her sweet mask gone. “Don’t get your dick out of joint, Jake—it’s a social media play, means nothing. God, you’re so needy.”

He flinched, mumbling, “Okay, fine,” his pussy-whipped surrender clear as she smirked, already texting Ebony Ascent to confirm. Her mind flicked to the cash, the clout, not the “thug” she’d matched with—yet her pussy twitched, a faint curiosity she buried under her scoff.

Tyrell stood in the steamy gym locker room, toweling off after a brutal workout, the air thick with sweat and metal. At 6’4”, he was a hulking figure—dark skin gleaming, muscles rippling under the fluorescent lights, veins popping like cords across his arms and chest. He’d just benched an obscene 500 pounds, reps that left the puny white boys in the gym gaping, their dumbbells trembling.

The Panthera Helix serum—his latest injection still fresh from a week ago—coursed through him, turning him into a machine, strength and stamina jacked beyond human limits. He popped a follow-up pill from a small black vial, a maintenance dose prescribed to keep the edge sharp, swallowing it dry. His massive black cock twitched in his shorts, a beast barely contained, the serum’s side effect kicking his libido into overdrive.