Amy massage day

Patrick Yin Mayberry — the King of Everything — has been running himself ragged. Ordered to relax, he books a massage at a quiet spa. The lights are low, candles flickering, towels rolled. And then she walks in: Amy, the masseuse, in her form-fitting mini dress split clean down the middle — black on one half, white on the other — the gold M emblazoned on the white side, a matching gold M pendant resting at her throat. She moves like she owns the room, and the moment her eyes meet his, there's a flicker of recognition she doesn't say aloud. She knows exactly who is lying on her table — the question is what she plans to do about it.