The next morning, John was still crashed out, half-asleep, half-drifting in a haze of yesterday’s massage. Catherine’s skin—soft, warm under his hands—kept repying, her scent—sweat and that faint, sweet musk—sticking in his head. Not a damn thing about it let his morning wood fade; it stood stiff, throbbing, as he pictured what might’ve gone down if Chloe hadn’t barged in st night—his hands sliding lower, her moans getting louder, that wet heat he’d sparked in her leggings spilling free.

  And a heavy hammering on the door snapped him awake—bang bang bang—sharp and pissed. “Log! Get out here! I need to talk to you!” Chloe’s voice sliced through, shrill and bossy as hell.

  John groaned, rolling over, yanking the bnket over his ears. Sleep still gripped him tight, and fuck, he wanted to sink back into that fantasy—Catherine’s quaking tits, her shaky “keep going”. It's all just perfect. He didn't want to deal with this crap with Chloe.

  Catherine’s voice drifted in from the hall, softer, trying to cool it down. “Chloe, please don’t do this—John meant well.”

  “Stay out of it, Mom—go clean up or something!” Chloe barked, brushing her off quick. Then louder at the door, “Log fucking John, get your ass out here—I need to talk!” Her foot smmed the wood—thud—shaking the frame like a damn drum.

  That did it. John’s drowsy buzz burned off fast—his morning heat swapped for a red-hot stab of rage, lust gone, sleep trashed. He shot up, voice roaring through the house like a fucking quake, “Stop that fucking kick, you fucking dickhead—I’m awake now! Kick again, and I’ll chop that fucking leg off and shove it up your fucking asshole!” He didn’t lose it often. Besides stealing his women, only two things set him off this bad: getting ripped out of sleep or starving with no grub in reach.

  The banging quit—dead silence. Chloe froze out there, spooked, her bravado cracking. After a beat, she muttered, quieter, “Meet me outside—I’ve got things to say. I’ll wait at the door.”

  John shuffled out of his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and caught Catherine staring at him—her gaze weird, spooked, like she’d just seen a bear wake up roaring. Clearly, it was all because of his earlier blowout. He dipped his head, voice low and real, “Sorry, Mom—got too pissed back there.” No act, no bullshit—just a sincere apology. Catherine paused, mouth twitched a bit as if she was gonna say something, then waved him off—it’s fine—before turning back to the chores. John’s eyes flicked down—those Jimmy Choo heels hugged her feet, sleek and bck, clicking faint on the tile. Well, that’s it. That’s what Chloe wants to talk about.

  What a bossy chick, he sneered inside, all this over a pair of fucking heels.

  Didn’t rattle him, though—shit like this was coming anyway, and hell, he might need to have a good chat with this bossy pain-in-the-ass anyway. From his chat with Camil, John now knew Bryce’s Vitacore Pharma hookup was Charles Vanderbilt, the big shot straight from HQ, not some local employee, which meant his stepsis Chloe wasn’t even close to touching big deals like BigMart, so she was clean enough to trust now. That made her his st piece to knock Bryce down—worth a shot. He lit up a cigarette, pacing to the door, steps slow, mind churning on how to py the game next.

  “You start smoking when?” Chloe stood at the doorway, eyeing this cloud-puffing John, his earlier rage still echoing in her head. Who the fuck is this guy now?

  “Since I got outta the hospital,” he said, shrugging loose, smoke trailing from his lips. “Science says it helps lose weight—I mean, look at me now, works pretty good.” His face stayed bnk, unbothered. “But you didn’t drag me out for this, right? You want to talk about Mom’s new shoes.”

  Chloe’s jaw damn near hit the floor—shocked, not at what he said, but how he said it. This John was aggressive—maybe not that mean, but damn bold as hell, grabbing every talk by the throat. Old John barely took the initiative to start a conversation, and would ignore half her questions too, but this one wanted to own the talk.

  “What’d you call Catherine?” Chloe snapped, eyes squinting hard.

  John rolled his eyes so far they nearly vanished, “Mom—duh. What else you think I’d call her? What—you want me to call her ‘honey’ so you can call me ‘daddy’?” His face twisted like she’d asked the dumbest shit on earth.

  “Fuck you—quit mouthing off,” Chloe snapped, jabbing a finger right at John’s nose, her voice booming, “Just fucking tell me. Why’d you get Mom shoes without asking me first?” Her arm swung wild as she yelled—long, straight purple hair whipping side to side, glinting under the light. Her chest heaved with every word, those big breasts bouncing hard under her shirt, jumping up and down like they were pissed off too, straining the fabric with each sharp jerk.

  John stared down this stepsister—hot as fuck but unreasonable as hell, so used to pying boss at her company, and she thought the world bowed to her. But John wasn’t giving her a damn inch. “Didn’t ask for your opinions about getting the shoes, so what? I didn’t ask you for opinions before calling you a stingy fuck either,” he shot back, voice ft, cutting deep, no mercy.

  His pn was dead simple: a chick like her, comfy ordering everyone around, had to get dragged out of that cushy spot. If John wanted this talk to go somewhere, he had to stamp this idea in her head—she wasn’t his fucking boss.

  Chloe—grown-ass Chloe—hadn’t been hit with words like that since she was a kid. Rage fred up, face red-hot, her chest heaving wilder now—shirt buttons stretched tight, creaking like they’d pop any second, her big tits damn near jumping out. “You on your fucking period or something? Think buying a pair of shoes makes you the bigger shot than me now?”

  That's it. She's gonna snap soon—John figured if he kept poking her, those tits would bust right out of her shirt, buttons flying. Fuck, he’d kill to see that, but business came first—tits can wait.

  Bigger shot than her? What a nasty trap. Say yes, and he’d have to expin—Chloe’d just snort “yeah right” and shoot him down, flipping her shock at his new edge back to mockery and scorn. Say no, then what the fuck was he strutting around for, shoving shoes in without her damn permission?

  John cracked up, loud and sharp, “What, big sis? Got fucked over by some dude ‘up there’ with a bigger dick than you at work? And now you’re out here bitching about who’s the bigger shot?” Straight to the gut—big corpo truth spttered bloody on her face. Not just for a comeback, though—he’d spin this “fact” into his next move soon.

  Chloe went dead quiet, fury ready to snap—she looked half a second from swinging at him, fists clenched white. John pulled his cigarette pack, slid one out, and held it over with a friendly, squinting grin, “Sis, take a smoke—chill out.”

  She did need it—snatched the ciggy, lit it fast, and sucked deep, forcing her breath to steady. Her straight purple hair fell forward as she leaned in, one arm crossed tight under her chest, the other elbow propped on it, cigarette dangling between her fingers. The pose squeezed her breasts up—big, firm, jutting out harder, damn near popping the shirt open as smoke curled from her lips.

  “Hey, big sis,” John said, lighting another for himself, tone dropping soft, “Truth is, you’re way tougher than me, and I get it—but that doesn't matter much to be honest.” He exhaled slow, smoke swirling thick. “What matters is we’re both fucking pawns—just getting fucked by different dickheads, people ‘up there’.”

  Chloe’s eyes flickered—curiosity cutting through the haze. What’s this John gonna say next? She took another drag, holding it, watching him close, her chest still puffed out from that crossed-arm grip.

  “But we’re missing the real thing here,” he went on, leaning in a bit, “Why waste time fighting each other when we should actually team up, fuck over those guys above you? Then you wouldn’t lose your shit over some shoes—a grand or two—pissing at me like this. Problem ain’t me or you overspending—it’s you’re underpaid as hell.”

  Sly bastard John—flipped the whole fight onto her, not another word about that “stingy fuck” shit anymore, pying her teammate, and leaving her steaming at her own game.

  Fair as it sounded, Chloe wouldn’t really buy this “team up” shit easily. “Did you even hear yourself when you talk, log?” She scoffed, smoke curling from her lips. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t want it—breaking free, calling her own shots—but reality was a cold bitch. She’d cwed her way up to where she stood, and only to find out that climbing up further or shaking Vitacore Pharma’s top dogs were just pin impossible—she knew it too well.

  “I’ve got a pn,” John cut to the chase, voice hard and straight. “One that gets you a fat stack first, then sets you up to go solo—total cut from your company’s leash.”

  Chloe’s eyes flicked up, a spark fshing—solo? She’d dreamed of it plenty. Her whole Nexis City research crew had whispered it: go indie. But cash? There was just no way to get that start-up money.

  “I’ve heard you compining about it at dinner many times,” he said, leaning in, smoke trailing from his cig. “Your team cooked up a new drug—side effects way lighter than Vigorex, safety check, or whatever the other checks all cleared. But Vitacore’s sitting on a pile of Vigorex stock, so it’s been shelved, collecting dust—right?” This was John’s ace, his bargaining chip—shit he’d known forever but couldn’t py ‘til now.

  Chloe blinked—how the hell could they make use of this drug and turn it into anything? Vitacore Pharma locked down every unch, every approval tighter than a vault. Without the company’s green light, profiting off it was a pipe dream. “I see your angle,” she said, voice tight, “you want me to sneak this new batch out, hook up with some big distributor—BigMart, Hensley’s Haul, whatever—then skim commissions and kickbacks, right? Sure, VP’s top dogs pull that shit all the time, but only when the head office okays the sale. And even if they did, that pie ain’t getting sliced my way. People ‘up there’, remember?”

  “You got to be fucking kidding me, sis—you are plotting to screw ‘em over with me right now. And you believe we still need to py by their rules?” John smirked—in that split second, Chloe’s naivety almost looked cute. “Course won’t give it to us. We just need to steal the whole damn batch.”

  “Steal?” Chloe’s jaw tightened, her flicker of hope curdling into anger and disappointment. “So your fucking grand pn to fuck over the big shots is stealing? Stop fucking kidding me, okay? Where you gonna hide and sell? You think VP won’t hunt us down once you do it? We won’t get much money from your little “drug dealing”. And I’ll lose my job, because I lost the stash, and our whole family’s fucked!”

  John got her panic—no snapping back this time. He leaned in, calm and steady, “First, we don’t hide—Hensley’s Haul gets it, exclusive deal, we rake commissions and kickbacks. Second, on the surface, I swear VP won’t come after us—that means you get to keep your job, not that you really need it anymore, but they just wouldn’t fire you. They won’t even admit they lost the stash. If the owner says nothing’s gone, what’s a theft? What’s their excuse to mess with us?”

  Chloe frowned, still lost, so he kept going, “It’s simpler than you think, big sis. Leak a whisper to the media—word on the street says Hensley’s Haul’s got this new drug, stolen from VP, same kick as Vigorex but way less side effects. VP’s been sitting on it to milk Vigorex cash before rolling it out. All true, every word—but you think VP’s gonna cim that drug’s theirs with that shitstorm? They do, then they are admitting they are fucking their customers in the ass—might as well tell ‘em to bend over and take it again.”

  Chloe’s eyes softened, gears turning—she leaned toward him, half-convinced, sizing him up like he was some slick new beast. Her shirt colr gapped as she tilted in, fshing a sliver of cleavage—deep, soft—and the white edge of her bra peeked out, stark against her skin, teasing the curve of her breasts.

  John clocked it—he’d hooked his stepsister. Time for the kill shot to seal it. “And think about this, sis—since VP won’t own up to the drug, you pull your research team out, start making it yourself. That drug’s yours—ripped straight from VP’s mouth. Ain’t that fucking them over for real?”

  Chloe was sold—damn pleased with John’s answer. She crossed both arms tight under her chest, smirking at him, pyful but sharp, “Guess it’s a deal then, John.” First time she’d said his name straight, no bite. “But—why you doing this?”

  John’s eyes dropped—her arms squeezed her tits up, big and packed, straining that shirt like a dare. Woman, you gotta stop crushing those tits, he thought, but bit it back to answer, “Lots of things—money of course, maybe for fun too? And for now, this pn can shut you the fuck up about those shoes. Just a pair of heels—let Mom have ‘em, you stingy fuck.”

  Chloe cracked a ugh, his words tickling her, but she faked a scowl, joking hard, “John, if this pn flops, I’m kicking your ass outta this house—you’ll never bug me and Mom again.”

  He caught the tease in her tone, but saw a chance to flip it for a perk. “And if it works?” he shot back, eyebrow cocked. Chloe shrugged, grinning loose—go ahead, name it.

  John’s smirk widened, finger jabbing toward her chest, “Then I have a good py with your tits.”

  Chloe’s gut screamed, What the fuck? But then she shrugged it off—he’s just a log, even if he wins this bet, a couple grabs ain’t shit. She held her cocky, daring look, “Fine, I’ll let you py with ‘em.”

  What she didn’t know? John wasn’t stopping at “a couple grabs”—not by a long shot.

  “And one more thing, John,” Chloe said, flicking her cigarette, her mind snagging on his earlier blowout. “You said if I kicked again, you’d chop my leg off—did you mean it?”

  John swapped his edge for a warm grin, the chat’s good vibe letting him py nice. “No way—you nuts? I’d hack off both my own legs before touching yours—I mean, look at those killer legs.” His first sweet-talk of the day, smooth as hell, and Chloe cracked up, ughing loud and loose.

  Talk done, John yanked out his phone, firing a text to Tammy fast. “Tam, use your mole gig—leak to Bryce that Hensley’s Haul’s selling VP’s new drug. Tell him to stop buying up their stale Vigorex stock!”

  With that, every piece to torch Bryce’s game was locked and loaded.