Chapter 4

The coffee shop hummed with late-morning chatter as Zara Cole slid into a booth across from Naomi Ruiz, the air between them thick with tension. Naomi had texted her—We need to talk—and Zara had come, though her green eyes flickered with defiance, not regret. She wore a tight cropped t-shirt, the low neckline scooping to flaunt her full C-cup breasts, the fabric clinging to her slim waist and ending just above her navel. Skin-tight yoga pants hugged her firm ass and long legs, the black material glossy under the light, drawing stares from every man in the place—baristas, patrons, a guy in a suit pretending to read his phone. Zara felt their eyes, their eye-fucking, and smiled—small, flirty glances tossed their way, her dark, straightened hair swishing as she ate up the attention, her plush red lips curling with a thrill she couldn’t hide.

Naomi sat opposite, her mousy bob limp, her beige cardigan sagging over her stocky frame, her warm brown eyes hard behind chunky glasses. Her freckled face was set, her coffee untouched as she leaned in, her voice low and urgent. “Zara, what are you doing? I saw Liberty and Legs—you got crushed on pay gaps, floundering while Rex ran circles around you. And that outfit? He’s got you dressing like a slut—parading you around like some trophy. He’s using you, and you’re letting him.”

Zara’s smile faltered, her green eyes narrowing as she sipped her latte, her rebuttal half-assed. “Using me? Come on, Naomi—I’m co-hosting a top show now. I did fine, just ... adjusting. And I like how I dress—it’s my choice.” She flicked her hair, catching a guy at the next table staring at her cleavage, and winked at him, her nipples stiffening under the t-shirt as his gaze lingered.

Naomi’s jaw tightened, her voice rising slightly. “Your choice? Bullshit—it’s Rex’s game. You’re not debating, you’re eye candy. That pay gap stuff? You had data—82 cents, systemic bias—and you sputtered like an idiot. He’s turning you into a joke.”

Zara shrugged, her tone airy, dismissive. “Whatever. I’m making way more money than I did with our little podcast—ratings are through the roof. I’m winning, Naomi.” She leaned back, crossing her legs, the yoga pants stretching tight, and flashed a smile at a bearded guy by the counter who couldn’t peel his eyes off her ass.

Naomi’s freckles darkened against her flush, her hands gripping the table. “More money? You’re still making less than Rex—he said it on-air! How can you be content with that? After everything we fought for?”

Zara’s green eyes glinted, her smile turning smug as she twirled her hair. “There are other benefits to the job, Naomi. It’s not just cash.” Her voice lilted, suggestive, and she bit her lip, remembering Rex’s cock in her mouth, his praise, the way he’d cum for her—validation hotter than any paycheck.

Naomi’s eyes widened, horror dawning as the implication sank in. Her coffee cup rattled as she shoved it aside, standing abruptly, her voice a hiss. “Oh my God—you’re fucking him, aren’t you? You’re a slut, Zara—a cheap, pathetic whore, sucking dick for a gig! I can’t believe you!”

Zara’s smile vanished, her plush lips curling into a sneer as she stood too, her cropped t-shirt riding up, her yoga pants taut. “Fuck you, Naomi,” she spat, her words bitter, cruel. “You’re just a jealous, dumpy cow—look at you, all lumpy and sad. No wonder you’re pissed—you could never get a real man like Rex. He’d never touch your flabby, ugly ass!”

Naomi’s face crumpled, fury and hurt flashing as she grabbed her bag, her glasses fogging with unshed tears. “You’re disgusting,” she choked, turning to leave, her sensible flats thudding on the floor as the coffee shop went quiet, every eye on them.

Zara stood tall, her green eyes blazing, her chest heaving under the t-shirt as she tossed her hair, smirking at the men still staring. “Run along, tubby,” she called after Naomi, her voice dripping venom. “Cry into your kale while I’m winning.”

The beauty salon buzzed with the hum of blow dryers and the sharp scent of bleach as Zara reclined in a plush chair, her long legs stretched out, her green eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. A stylist worked behind her, brushing a thick paste onto her dark hair, section by section, turning it a stark platinum-blonde that shimmered even half-done. Her roots were gone—her old self fading—and she loved it, smirking at her reflection in the mirror.

At the foot of the chair, a manicurist knelt, filing her nails with a nervous deference Zara barely noticed. She wore a tight cropped tank top, her full C-cup breasts spilling out the sides, and high-waisted leggings that hugged her firm ass—casual, but every inch screamed sex. Her phone buzzed with Liberty and Legs stats—ratings soaring—and she tossed it aside, her plush lips curling as she launched into a tirade, her voice loud, bitchy, cutting.

“God, the show’s killing it,” Zara bragged, flicking her half-bleached hair as the stylist winced at the tug. “Top podcast now—millions of downloads, and I’m raking in cash hand over fist. Naomi’s so jealous—she can’t handle me winning. She invited me for coffee last week, whining about how I’m being ‘used,’ like, get over it, loser.” She rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with scorn. “Her new show? Unfiltered Truth or whatever the fuck. Total flop—just her droning on about data like some bitter nerd. Proves she’s a petty hag, stewing ‘cause I’m hotter, richer, better.”

The stylist—a wiry woman with purple streaks—nodded absently, brushing on more bleach, while the manicurist, a quiet brunette, kept her head down. Zara didn’t care; she barreled on, a bitch on wheels now, her entitlement oozing. “I mean, look at me—sexy face, banging body—Naomi’s got nothing on this. She’s all frumpy and fat, like a sad sack nobody wants. I’m the star—guys can’t stop staring, and I’m giving them what they want. She’s just mad ‘cause she’s invisible next to me.”

The stylist forced a smile, murmuring, “Uh-huh, you’re gorgeous,” as she sectioned more hair, but Zara barely heard, her green eyes glinting with smugness. “Damn right I am,” she snapped, inspecting her reflection. “Naomi’s a jealous troll—always has been. Her show’s tanking ‘cause she’s too ugly to sell it. Me? I’ve got Rex—he knows how to play the game.”

The manicurist glanced up, hesitant. “Rex Tanner, right? What’s he like to work with?” Her voice was soft, but Zara pounced, gushing like a schoolgirl, her bitchiness melting into infatuation.

“Rex? Oh my God, he’s amazing,” she cooed, her plush lips parting in a dreamy grin. “So hot—those muscles, that jawline, ugh, I could stare at him all day. He’s great to work with—tolerates my little mis-steps, like when I flub a point, ‘cause he’s the brains, right? But he’s always telling me how sexy I am, how I’m killing it. We’re a team—he’s the tough guy, I’m the hot one, and it’s perfect.” Her voice dipped, suggestive. “He’s got this way of looking at me—makes me feel like the only girl in the world. Total stud.”

The stylist smirked faintly, brushing bleach onto the last section, while Zara prattled on, spoiled and oblivious. “I mean, I’m living the dream—big money, big show, and Rex. Naomi can’t touch that—she’s too busy crying into her kale, the lumpy bitch. I’ve got designer bags now, my own driver—Rex even got me a bonus last week, said I earned it for ‘looking the part.’ She’d die if she knew.”

The manicurist finished filing, holding up a tray of polishes. “What color for your nails?” she asked, her tone neutral, but Zara barely glanced, too busy sneering about Naomi.

“Hmm,” Zara mused, tapping her chin, her green eyes scanning the options with a diva’s disdain. “Red’s too basic—maybe a deep one, like blood? No, too goth. Pink’s cute—hot pink’s fun, but...” She paused, spotting a bright shade, her lips curling into a smug grin. “Bubblegum pink—perfect. Sweet, sexy, totally me. Naomi’d hate it—she’d say it’s ‘tacky,’ but what does that cow know? She’s got no style, no game, no man like Rex to drool over her.”

The manicurist nodded, brushing on the bubblegum pink, while the stylist rinsed the bleach, revealing Zara’s new platinum-blonde locks—long, straight, a peroxide crown for her bitchy throne. “Gorgeous,” the stylist said, and Zara preened, tossing her hair, her cropped tank top riding up as she admired herself.

“Obviously,” she snapped, her voice sharp again. “Naomi’s rotting in her dumpy little world while I’m on top—hotter, richer, fucking unstoppable. She can choke on it.”