Chapter 4

Ethan Caldwell sat in his corner office at NeuralNet Analytics, the sleek glass walls reflecting the San Francisco skyline. His desk, a minimalist slab of polished oak, held a triple-monitor setup displaying code, investor emails, and a live dashboard of his AI platform’s performance. At 32, Ethan had built a $240M empire, but his mind wasn’t on neural networks today. It was on Krissi-May Johnson, his 23-year-old former stripper girlfriend, who’d turned his life into a glitter-dusted tornado in just six weeks.

He leaned back in his ergonomic chair, rubbing his temples, and thought about the chaos since Krissi strutted into his world at The Pink Pony. First, the dinner with his college friends, where her twerking and wine-chugging went viral. Then the tech happy hour, where her lap dance for a coder cost him $300K in PR fixes. Most recently, the condo board cocktail party had been a disaster—Krissi’s sequined halter dress, rum-spiked punch, and that godawful seven-foot pink flamingo statue she’d gifted the building. Ethan winced, recalling her straddling the glittery monstrosity, thong flashing, as the board’s teenage son filmed it for Twitter. Vanessa Steele, his PR fixer, had swooped in, bribing the board with $350K in “anonymous donations” to approve Krissi’s move-in. They’d rejected the flamingo, though, leaving it crated in the condo’s storage.

Since moving into his penthouse, Krissi had been restless. Ethan’s 70-hour workweeks left her bored, pacing the glass-walled apartment in her platform heels, snapping gum and doodling neon truck designs on napkins. She’d begged to start stripping again, craving the stage’s spotlight. Ethan, uneasy but desperate to keep her occupied, relented. She’d picked up shifts at The Velvet Veil, a high-end strip club catering to San Francisco’s elite. Krissi loved it—her toned legs and perky breasts drew fat tips—but griped to Ethan nightly about the owner, Vince, and manager, Tony.

When she’d first told him she had a problem with the manager and owner, Ethan had braced for a story of sexual harassment or worse. But the had truth turned out to be much less alarming and much more ... Krissi. “They’re so borin’, Big Daddy,” she’d pouted, sprawled on his leather couch. “I told ‘em we need glitter cannons and a hot tub stage, maybe a ‘Miss Thong’ contest, but they’re all, ‘No, Krissi, that’s tacky.’ Can you believe it?”

Ethan had hired Amelia Voss, a 42-year-old interior designer with a Vogue feature and a client list of tech moguls, to integrate Krissi’s belongings into his minimalist penthouse. Amelia, with her sharp cheekbones and tailored silk blouses, was a safe bet to curb Krissi’s gaudy taste. Ethan had sat Krissi down, begging her to defer to Amelia. “No leopard print, no neon signs, okay? Let her do her job.”

Krissi had sulked, tossing her blonde hair, roots peeking through. “Fine, Big Daddy, but I got killer ideas—like a heart-shaped mirror over the bed, a velvet Elvis rug for the livin’ room, and a pole for practicin’ my moves. What’s wrong with that?” Ethan had sighed, kissing her forehead, hoping Amelia’s professionalism would prevail.

Amelia had mentioned that a lifestyle vlogger, Sophie Lin, shadowing her for a design magazine profile, livestreaming the penthouse visit while Ethan was at work. Curious, Ethan pulled up Sophie’s stream in a corner of his monitor, the audio low. He was waiting for Sanjay, his lead coder, to debug a neural net glitch, and the distraction felt harmless.

The stream showed Amelia in his penthouse, her auburn hair pulled into a chic bun, gesturing at his Eames chair and neutral-toned walls. “We’re aiming for cohesion,” she said, her voice crisp. “The client’s partner has ... eclectic tastes, but we’ll refine them into something sophisticated.” Sophie, a petite 20-something in a pastel jumpsuit, nodded, her phone rig capturing every word. Ethan relaxed. Amelia was in control.

For thirty minutes, the stream was a masterclass in restraint. Amelia suggested a textured throw for the sofa, a muted abstract painting for the dining area, and a sleek bar cart to replace Ethan’s bare shelves. Sophie’s chat buzzed with praise: “Amelia’s a genius!” and “This penthouse is goals.” Ethan smirked, imagining Krissi’s stuff—her bedazzled thongs, her rhinestone anklets—tucked discreetly into drawers. Then the penthouse door slammed open on the stream, and Ethan’s stomach dropped.

Krissi strutted in, hauling a leopard-print beanbag in one hand and a glowing neon sign reading “Krissi’s Krib” in the other. Her bedazzled crop top barely covered her perky breasts, and her denim cutoffs rode high, exposing her tanned thighs. Her fake tan glowed orange, her platform heels clacked, and her gum snapped loudly. “Hey, y’all, I’m the design boss!” she announced, dropping the beanbag on Ethan’s linen rug. “This place needs my trailer fabulous touch to class it up. Ain’t that right, Sophie?” Amelia’s jaw fell, her pen frozen mid-note. Sophie, eyes wide, kept filming, her chat exploding: “Who’s THIS?” and “LMAO, is this a prank?”

Krissi launched into her vision, oblivious to Amelia’s horror. “We need a heart-shaped mirror in the bedroom—super sexy, right? And a velvet Elvis portrait for the livin’ room, ‘cause he’s the king! Oh, and a glitter chandelier, all sparkly, to make Ethan’s boring bachelor pad pop!” She spun, her cutoffs flashing her butterfly tramp stamp, and pointed at the balcony. “And a hot tub out there, like in my Hot Tub Haven pitch. I told Ethan it’s fancy!”

Amelia stammered, “Miss Johnson, we’re aiming for ... subtlety.”

Krissi laughed, tossing her hair. “Subtle’s for losers, sugar. I’m makin’ this place Krissi-fied!”

Ethan’s phone buzzed with a text from his neighbor, Greg, a rival founder: “Your stripper’s on a livestream trashing your penthouse. #TackyTakeover.” Panicking, Ethan turned up the stream’s audio. Krissi was now pitching a pole-dancing stage in the living room, citing her Velvet Veil shifts. “I’m a pro, y’all—I’d kill it on a pole right here! Sophie, you ever try one?”

Sophie, flustered but sensing viral gold, giggled, “Uh, maybe later!” The chat went wild: “Stripper decor?!” and “This is iconic.” Ethan’s heart raced.

Ethan’s fingers trembled as he yanked his phone from its dock, the livestream still glowing in the corner of his monitor. Krissi’s voice blared through the speakers, her West Virginia drawl pitching a “glitter chandelier” for his penthouse. His colleagues, Sanjay and Tim, glanced up from their laptops in the open-plan office, eyebrows raised. “Emergency,” Ethan muttered, grabbing his Tom Ford blazer. “Gotta run.” He bolted for the elevator, ignoring Sanjay’s “Everything okay, boss?” The doors slid shut, and Ethan pulled up Sophie’s livestream full-screen on his phone, his heart pounding.

The stream showed Krissi in his penthouse, her bedazzled crop top sparkling under the recessed lights, denim cutoffs riding high on her tanned thighs. She waved her neon “Krissi’s Krib” sign like a trophy, while Sophie Lin, the vlogger, leaned in, her phone rig capturing every word. “So, Krissi, tell us more about your vision for Ethan’s place,” Sophie said, her voice dripping with calculated excitement. “What’s next for this ... trailer fabulous vibe?” The chat exploded: “This chick’s WILD” and “#TackyTakeover is my new fave.”

Krissi snapped her gum, tossing her bleached-blonde hair, roots stark against the dye. “Oh, sugar, we’re just gettin’ started! I’m thinkin’ a leopard-print couch—real plush, like at The Velvet Veil, where I dance. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, y’all,” she cooed, winking at the camera. “And a mirrored bar with pink LED lights, so it’s all sexy when we’re sippin’ Patrón. Oh, and a giant disco ball over the dinin’ table, spinnin’ sparkles everywhere!”

Sophie’s eyes gleamed, sensing viral gold. “Disco ball? Bold! Any other ... unique touches?”

Amelia Voss, her auburn bun unraveling slightly, stepped into frame, her silk blouse crisp but her smile strained. “Miss Johnson, perhaps we could focus on timeless elegance—maybe a neutral palette?” Her voice was polite but sharp, like a teacher corralling a rowdy kid.

Krissi laughed, dropping the neon sign on Ethan’s linen rug. “Neutral’s for funerals, Amelia! Ethan’s pad needs my sparkle to shine.”

Ethan reached the garage, the livestream’s audio echoing off the concrete. He slid into his Tesla, the leather seat cool against his tailored slacks, and propped his phone on the dashboard, the stream still playing. The car hummed to life, and he peeled out, tires squealing, as Sophie’s next question hit like a punch. “Krissi, your style’s so bold—any fashion tips for our viewers to match this decor?”

Krissi grinned, twirling to show off her rhinestone anklet. “Y’all, it’s all ‘bout poppin’! Get you a fake tan—orange is hot, trust me. Layer on them lashes, long as a Cadillac’s fins. And pink lipstick, glossy, to make your lips scream ‘kiss me.’ Oh, and bedazzled thongs—Ethan goes wild for ‘em!” She winked, and the chat went berserk: “She’s iconic” and “Ethan’s one lucky dude.”

Sophie egged her on: “Thongs, huh? Any makeup brands you swear by?”

Krissi rattled off drugstore names—Wet n Wild, Maybelline—while Amelia tried again, her voice tighter. “Krissi, let’s pivot to furniture. Perhaps a sleek console table?”

Krissi ignored her, grabbing Amelia’s arm. “Hold up, sugar, you need to loosen up! Lemme teach you a booty pop—it’s how I own the stage at The Velvet Veil.” She pulled out her phone, blasting trap music, the bass thumping through the livestream. Krissi bent slightly, her cutoffs riding up, and twerked, her ass bouncing like she was back at The Pink Pony. “C’mon, girlie, shake it! It’s fun!”

Amelia yanked her arm free, her cheeks flushing. “This is highly inappropriate,” she snapped, smoothing her blouse. “We’re here to design, not ... dance.” Krissi pouted but redoubled her efforts, circling Amelia like a cheerleader hyping a rookie. “Aww, don’t be a grump! Try it—just pop that booty once, and you’ll feel like a queen!” She grabbed Amelia’s hips, guiding them in a clumsy sway, her own body grinding to the beat. Sophie kept filming, her chat screaming: “Krissi’s teaching her to TWERK?!” and “This is reality TV gold.”

Ethan’s Tesla roared onto the highway, his knuckles white on the wheel. The livestream showed Amelia pulling away, her composure cracking, while Krissi gyrated, oblivious to the vlogger’s scoop-hungry grin. His phone buzzed—another text from Greg, his condo rival: “Your stripper’s turning your penthouse into a circus. Check Twitter, it’s trending.” Ethan’s stomach churned. He floored the accelerator, the San Francisco skyline blurring, knowing he had to stop Krissi before she trashed his home—and his reputation—on a global stage.

Ethan’s Tesla screeched into the condo garage, his phone still blaring Sophie’s livestream. Krissi’s voice filled the car, now slurring slightly as she rambled about her “Hot Tub Haven” resort. “Y’all, it’s gonna be epic—heart-shaped hot tubs in every room, neon pools, a Stripper Spa with glitter massages! I got tons of ideas like this, just need a little capital to make it pop!” Sophie’s encouraging giggles and the clink of glasses punctuated her pitch. Ethan’s jaw clenched. He killed the engine, grabbed his phone, and sprinted for the elevator, the livestream showing Krissi waving a cocktail, her bedazzled crop top askew.

Inside his penthouse, the scene was chaos. Krissi stood by the kitchen island, mixing drinks—tequila, grenadine, and Red Bull—in crystal tumblers, her fake tan glowing under the pendant lights. Sophie, perched on a barstool, sipped a pink concoction, her phone rig still filming, her chat ablaze: “Krissi’s a MOOD” and “#HotTubHaven sounds lit.” Amelia Voss stood rigid, her auburn bun fraying, clutching a notebook. A tumbler sat untouched in front of her, condensation pooling. “Miss Johnson, I must insist we focus,” Amelia said, her voice icy.