Chapter 3

Ethan Caldwell adjusted his tie, his Tesla idling outside his startup’s San Francisco office. The investor pitch had run long, a grueling two hours of defending his AI analytics platform’s projections. His smartwatch buzzed—7:45 PM. The condo board cocktail party started at 7:30, which meant Krissi was already at the rooftop lounge. He’d texted her to meet him there, trusting the sleek, black sheath dress he’d approved would keep her in check. After the restaurant twerking and happy hour lap dance, he’d made a rule: no more surprise outfits. She’d pouted, insisting her leopard print and neon crop tops made everyone “happy,” but agreed to his pre-approval policy. He smirked, proud of outsmarting her tacky streak, and sped toward his condo building.

The rooftop lounge glowed with string lights, the San Francisco skyline glittering beyond. The condo board—wealthy residents who held Krissi’s move-in fate—mingled with martinis, their chatter drowned by soft jazz. Ethan stepped from the elevator, scanning for Krissi. His stomach dropped. There she was, center stage, a sequined halter dress hugging her curves, its silver fabric catching every light like a disco ball. Rhinestone hoops dangled from her ears, a matching choker sparkled, and platform heels—six inches, at least—made her toned legs endless. Her fake tan glowed orange, blonde hair with dark roots cascading in waves, a wad of gum snapping as she raised a shot glass.

“To Miss High-Class and the whole fancy board!” Krissi’s West Virginia drawl boomed, her shot of tequila sloshing. “Y’all, I’m gonna pimp Ethan’s pad with some sparkle, make this buildin’ the hottest spot in town!”

“Miss High-Class”—Lillian Wentworth, a 60-year-old socialite with a pearl choker and a permanent sneer—stiffened, her gin martini trembling. Lillian, the board’s chair, owned half the city’s art galleries, her sleek gray bob and tailored Chanel suit screaming old money. Her husband, a retired banker, chuckled at Krissi’s toast, his eyes glued to her plunging neckline. The male board members—a surgeon, a tech founder—grinned, charmed by Krissi’s energy, while their wives shot icy glares, clutching purses. Ethan’s neighbor, a rival startup CEO named Greg, smirked, already typing on his phone, likely drafting a snarky text.

Ethan weaved through the crowd, his face burning. Krissi spotted him, her hot pink lips splitting into a grin. “Big Daddy! Look at this party—ain’t it classy?” She thrust a tequila shot into his hand, her rhinestone anklet jingling as she bounced.

“Krissi,” he hissed, pulling her toward a corner near the bar, “where the hell did you get that dress? I approved the sheath!”

She blinked, snapping her gum. “Oh, sugar, that black thing was borin’ as hell. I’m a way better shopper than you! I hit up Glitz Galore at the mall—used your card, ‘cause you said it’s for movin’ stuff, which, like, this is, right? Got this dress, these heels, all of it for a steal! You should be proud—I’m lookin’ like a million bucks for your fancy board!”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. His credit card. He’d given it to her for “moving expenses,” naively trusting her hustle wouldn’t extend to a tacky mall spree. “Krissi, this is serious. The board has to approve you living here. Please, just ... behave. No stripper stories, no twerking, nothing.”

She pouted, tossing her hair. “I don’t see the problem, Big Daddy. Them guys love me! But fine, I’ll be your good girl.” Her fingers brushed his crotch, a teasing promise, before she sashayed back to the bar, calling for another round. Ethan grabbed a scotch, downing half in one gulp. It was going to be a long night.

For twenty minutes, Krissi stuck to her promise, mostly. She chatted with the surgeon about his yacht, her gum-snapping and “sugar” nicknames keeping things just shy of scandalous. Ethan hovered, nursing his second scotch, fielding Lillian’s pointed questions about Krissi’s “background.” He mumbled about her “entrepreneurial spirit,” dodging her past stripping at the Pink Pony. Then Krissi’s laugh rang out. Ethan looked over to discover she’d spiked the punch bowl with rum from a flask in her purse, giggling as the tech founder took a swig and coughed.

“Everybody loves a party, sugar!” Krissi giggled, swirling the punch bowl with a ladle as the tech founder choked, his face reddening from the rum’s kick. Ethan hurried over, his scotch sloshing, and grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the table. The board’s eyes followed, Lillian Wentworth’s sneer sharpening.

“Krissi, stop,” Ethan whispered, his voice tight. “These people decide if you can move in with me.”

She blinked, snapping her gum, her sequined dress shimmering. “I know, Big Daddy! That’s why I’m makin’ sure everybody’s havin’ a good time! Ain’t no one votin’ me out if they’re buzzed and happy.”

Ethan groaned, rubbing his temple. “Just ... behave. Please. No more stunts.”

Krissi bristled, crossing her arms, her rhinestone choker glinting. “Fine, I’ll be borin’ if that’s what you want.” Her tone was sharp, but she turned back to the bar, ordering a soda with an exaggerated sigh.

For half an hour, Ethan dared to hope she’d listen. He worked the room, smoothing over Lillian’s questions about the punch—”Just a mix-up with the catering”—while keeping one eye on Krissi. She stuck to her soda, chatting with the surgeon’s wife about nail polish, her gum-snapping subdued but still audible. Ethan’s third scotch burned his throat, the tension easing slightly. Then Krissi’s laugh rang out, loud and brassy, cutting through the jazz.

He spun around. Krissi stood near the rooftop’s edge, her platform heels clicking as she gestured wildly to Marcus Tate, the retired venture capitalist on the board. Marcus, a burly 65-year-old with a silver goatee and a Rolex glinting under his cufflinks, leaned in, his eyes locked on Krissi’s plunging neckline. She twirled a blonde lock, batting her lashes, her drawl thick with flirtation.

“So, my Hot Tub Haven resorts, Marcus, they’re gonna be the hottest thing since Vegas!” Krissi’s voice carried, drawing stares. “Every room’s got a heart-shaped hot tub, neon-lit pools, and a Stripper Spa with glitter massages. We’ll have foam parties, bikini contests, and my Hottie Bootcamp to teach girls to strut like me. It’s pure luxury, sugar!”

Marcus chuckled, his hand grazing her arm. “Fascinating. Where’d you get the idea for this ... unique vision?”

Ethan hurried over, his heart pounding, but Krissi was already in full swing, oblivious to his panic. “Oh, from my days at The Pink Pony, this dive bar back in West Virginia. One night, this biker gang rolls in, right? Big ol’ dudes, leather vests, the works. I’m dancin’, workin’ the pole, and their leader—Hank, with this epic beard—says he’ll tip me a hundred bucks if I can make his whole crew cheer louder than the jukebox. So I crank up some AC/DC, do this wild flip on the pole, land in a split, and shake my ass right in their faces. The place goes nuts, beers flyin’, and Hank hands me two hundred ‘cause I ‘brought the thunder.’ That’s when I knew I could make any party epic!”

Marcus roared with laughter, his eyes gleaming. “You’re a natural, Krissi. Call me—we’ll talk funding.” He slipped a business card into her hand, his fingers lingering, and excused himself with a wink.

Ethan stepped in, his face flushed. “Krissi, what are you doing?”

She tucked the card into her cleavage, snapping her gum. “What? You promised to get me fundin’ for my businesses, Big Daddy. It’s been a whole week, and nothin’s happened! I’m just networkin’.”

Ethan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “These things take time. Can you please just control yourself? The board’s watching.”

Krissi’s face fell, her hot pink lips pursing. “You don’t really care about me, do you? I’m tryin’ to make somethin’ of myself, and you’re just embarrassed.”

His chest tightened. “Of course I care, Krissi. I love you. But I need you to behave so you can get approved to move in. Please.”

She crossed her arms, her rhinestone hoops swaying. “Okay, fine.” Her voice was flat, her eyes glinting with hurt, but she nodded and turned away, grabbing another soda with a huff.

Ethan stood beside Krissi, his scotch glass sweating in his hand, as they chatted with Dr. Raymond Holt, the surgeon on the condo board. Raymond, a wiry 50-year-old with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual squint, kept his eyes glued to Krissi’s cleavage, her sequined halter dress barely containing her perky breasts. It wasn’t unusual—men always stared—but at least Krissi wasn’t egging him on. She stood stiffly, snapping her gum, her boredom palpable as she nodded through Raymond’s droning about his latest laparoscopic technique. Ethan leaned in, whispering, “Just suffer through this, Krissi. You want to move in, right?”

She rolled her eyes but muttered, “Yeah, yeah, Big Daddy,” keeping her tone neutral. For once, things felt ... manageable.

Then a low rumble interrupted the jazz, the freight elevator grinding as it opened at the rooftop’s edge. A massive wooden crate, eight feet tall and wide as a car, rolled out on a dolly, pushed by two laborers in coveralls. The board members froze, martinis mid-sip, exchanging confused glances. Lillian Wentworth’s pearl choker gleamed as she squinted, murmuring, “Who ordered that?” Marcus Tate raised an eyebrow, while Raymond adjusted his glasses, still sneaking peeks at Krissi.

Krissi’s face lit up, her platform heels clicking as she strutted toward the crate, her rhinestone hoops swinging. “Oh, that’s mine, y’all!” she called, her drawl cutting through the murmurs. “My gift to the buildin’!” She posed beside the crate, one hand on her hip, the other tossing her blonde hair, her sequined dress catching the string lights as she preened. Her long, toned legs flexed, her fake tan glowing, drawing every eye—male residents grinning, their wives scowling. She spun, giving the crowd a teasing twirl, her ass jiggling just enough to spark whispers.

The laborers pried open the crate with crowbars, wood splintering as the front panel fell away. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Inside stood an enormous pink flamingo statue, seven feet tall, its feathers coated in glitter that shimmered like a neon sunrise. Its beak was painted gold, one leg bent in a sassy strut, and a rhinestone crown perched on its head. Krissi clapped, bouncing on her heels. “Ain’t it gorgeous? This baby’s goin’ right in the lobby—real high-class stuff! Every fancy buildin’ needs some sparkle, right?”

Ethan groaned, his stomach churning. He stepped toward Krissi, ready to yank her away, when a gruff voice stopped him. “Mr. Caldwell? Need your signature for the delivery.” The foreman, a stocky man with a clipboard, thrust it forward. “Ninety grand, due on receipt.”

“Ninety thousand?” Ethan sputtered, his voice cracking. “For that? Can you take it back?”

The foreman shrugged. “No returns once it’s here. Sign or we leave it anyway—your card’s on file.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened, his mind racing to Krissi’s secret mall spree. Another credit card hit. He opened his mouth to argue, but a blast of trap music—thumping bass and snares—jerked his attention back to the statue.

Krissi’s phone, propped on the crate’s still-erect side wall, blared a club banger, her hips already swaying. She’d climbed onto the flamingo, straddling its glittery back like a rodeo queen. One hand gripped its neck, her fingers splayed over the gold beak, while the other waved like she was lassoing the crowd. Her sequined dress rode up, flashing a sliver of her bedazzled thong, her toned thighs flexing as she rocked her hips. Her breasts bounced, barely contained, jiggling with each thrust against the statue’s spine. Her blonde hair whipped, dark roots stark under the lights, as she shook her ass, the glittery flamingo glinting beneath her.

“Yee-haw, y’all!” Krissi whooped, her drawl thick with glee. “This is how we party in West Virginia!” She arched her back, grinding harder, her platform heels digging into the flamingo’s flanks for balance. Her hot pink lips parted, tongue flicking out as she laughed, oblivious to the board’s stares. Glitter dusted her fake tan, sparkling as she rode, her body a blur of sequins and curves.

The crowd split in reaction. Marcus Tate clapped, chuckling, his Rolex flashing as he raised his glass. The tech founder hooted, nudging his buddy, both grinning like frat boys. A few younger male residents cheered, one whistling, their phones already out, filming. But Lillian Wentworth’s face was a mask of horror, her martini glass trembling as she whispered to her husband, who looked torn between amusement and fear. Raymond’s wife, a severe woman in a navy blazer, hissed, “Disgraceful!” The surgeon himself stared, mouth agape, his squint forgotten. Female residents clutched purses, muttering about “trash” and “standards,” their glares sharp enough to cut.

Ethan’s phone buzzed, his smartwatch vibrating. He glanced down, heart sinking. Twitter was exploding. A video, posted by a board member’s teenage son—pimply, smirking, holding his phone like a trophy—showed Krissi riding the flamingo, her ass shaking, thong flashing, the trap music tinny but unmistakable. The caption read: “#PenthousePartyCrash - Ethan’s stripper turning our lobby into a circus!” It had 200 retweets in two minutes, the thread filling with laughing emojis, “#TechTacky” tags, and jabs at Ethan’s “low-rent girlfriend.” Greg, his rival next-door, texted: “Your stripper’s tanking your property value. Good luck with the board.”