Prologue

“What’s this really about, Kevin?” Darren asked, eyes narrowing over the rim of his water glass.

Kevin smiled — a little too innocently. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t spring for lunch at a place like this just to catch up. So cut the small talk. What’s going on?”

There was a brief pause as Kevin mentally rehearsed his pitch one last time. Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to signal discretion without drama.

“There’s been… noise,” he said. “About OpticDeck.”

Darren waved a hand dismissively. “Bullshit rumors. Every company gets them.”

Kevin didn’t flinch. “I heard a name.”

Darren stilled.

“Phan,” Kevin said quietly. “Nicolette Phan.”

The color drained from Darren’s face so fast it made the linen napkin in his lap seem brighter. “Where the hell did you hear that name?” he asked, voice low and sharp.

Kevin shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that if it’s true — if there’s a real problem — I might be able to help.”

Darren leaned in now, wary but intrigued. “How?”

“I’ve started working with someone,” Kevin said. “She’s... unconventional. Not the typical fix-it type. Think off-book. Outside the box.”

Darren raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering me a hitman?”

Kevin laughed. “Christ, no. I’m a lawyer — still in good standing, thank you very much. But she is a problem-solver. Extremely effective. Very discreet. Very... persuasive.”

“And you think she can handle this?”

“I don’t think,” Kevin said. “I know.”

Darren hesitated, then nodded once. “When can I meet her?”

“Tomorrow. Late morning. I booked a meeting room at a hotel on West Santa Clara. I’ll text you the details.”

Chapter One: The Panic Industry

The coworking space smelled faintly of coconut LaCroix, second-hand ambition, and the kind of regret that usually came laminated in startup slogans.

Zara Zest stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of PlinkoLabs Collective Workspace, her gaze drifting over the city with the relaxed detachment of someone who’d once signed a seven-figure nondisclosure agreement in the back of a strip-mall frozen yogurt shop. She sipped a tiny, bitter espresso — hand-pulled by a former improv comic now moonlighting as a barista-philosopher — and let the silence wrap around her like an expensive shawl. The kind you pretend not to care about, right up until someone spills wine on it.

In another office behind her, two founders were loudly pivoting their entire business model in real time, arguing over whether the word “disruption” needed to be capitalized in their Instagram bio or just implied through vibes. Someone else was trying to meditate using a VR headset that had clearly crashed mid-mantra. A ping-pong ball bounced once and never came back — like it had made better life choices.

It was, in other words, perfect… perfectly adequate. For now.  A habitat built on hubris and cold brew. Zara fit in like a scandal at a fundraiser.

Her current “office” was a glass cubicle with no door, no soundproofing, and one sad, folding chair that let out an undignified groan every time she lowered herself into it. The furniture was temporary, the wifi unreliable, and her inbox mostly empty. But on the wall behind her, in matte black vinyl lettering, was a logo that made her smile every time she saw it.

ZEST Strategies.
Discreet Solutions for Indiscreet Problems.

It was audacious. Possibly idiotic. Almost certainly bait for every op-ed columnist who still thought of her as a punchline. But it was also hers — hers in a way Clarity Holdings had never been, hers in a way the adult industry never quite allowed. This wasn’t a reinvention. It was an escalation.

Kevin had told her to go bland. He'd recommended a soft name — something with “Solutions” or “Global” in it, preferably vague, definitely forgettable. She'd smiled politely, promised to think about it, and then immediately ordered business cards with her mugshot faintly watermarked behind the logo. On the back, in raised lettering, they read: You already know who I am.

Zara adjusted a framed certificate on the wall — not a diploma, naturally, but a novelty plaque that read “Crisis Manager of the Year – Self-Appointed.” She didn’t hang it ironically. She believed in claiming your own awards when no one else would.

Her new office still smelled like paint and untamed potential. Her desk was too clean, the kind you pick up at a discount furniture store and try to make look important by covering it with odds and ends. She opened the top drawer and dropped in a burner phone and a couple of unmarked flash drives, letting them clatter softly against the wood. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d need for this new incarnation of her career — but if life had taught her anything, it was that burner phones and flash drives were like condoms and fake lashes: not always necessary, but when you needed one, you really needed one.

A Polaroid of her with Sasha Deep, Vicki Spread, and Derrick Dickhard at a Vegas VIP booth went on the shelf behind her. The place needed personality — and a warning.

As if summoned by the energy of that photo, the first interruption of the day arrived.

She was halfway through arranging her desk clutter by usefulness and orgasm count when a knock tapped against the open cubicle wall. A man in a too-tight blazer and scuffed loafers leaned in with the misplaced confidence of someone who thought watching porn made him sexually enlightened.

“Hey, uh, my name is Mitch. Sorry to interrupt,” he said, wearing the kind of smirk that usually came with bad cologne and unsolicited DMs. “Just thought I recognized you. You’re Zara Zest, right? From, uh…”

Zara didn’t blink. “The congressional hearing? Or the slip ’n slide orgy?”

He chuckled like he got the joke. He didn’t. “No, I just think it’s cool you’re, like… doing normal stuff now. Real-world work. Super grounded.”

She nodded slowly. “Thanks for your brave support of gainfully employed sluts.”

Still not catching on, he pressed forward. “I’ve got a rooftop patio if you ever wanna wind down. Good view, full bar. Great for... letting off steam.”

Zara raised an eyebrow. “Careful — say the right thing and I might bend over the railing and let you disappoint me.”

Then — in a move so bold it almost looped back to tragic — he dropped his pants. No buildup. Just dick, out, in broad coworking daylight.

She gave it a once-over. Then a twice-over, just to confirm it was real and not some cursed optical illusion.

“Honey,” she said, calm as ever, “when you’ve done a DP with Tayshaun Biggs and Kareem Thrillz on a rotating crane rig, you’re gonna need more than a mid-tier startup dick and weekend CrossFit quads to impress me.”

He froze. The smirk died on his face like a bug under glass.

Zara turned back to her desk. “Close your pants on the way out. And maybe your mouth, too.”

She waited until she heard him scuttle off in shame before adjusting the novelty plaque on her wall by a quarter inch. She liked being recognized — but hated being predictable.

Then she sat back, letting the chair tilt just slightly, and looked out the window at the half-fogged skyline. It felt good to be back in charge. Independent. A reputation like bad wiring. But free.

Clarity Holdings Inc. had been her last official employer, if you could call it that. It started with Evan — poor, sweet, overmatched Evan Banks from the IRS, who she’d convinced, disarmed, and ultimately distracted just long enough to keep them out of federal shutdown territory. The man had walked into their office with a checklist of tax code violations and walked out with a dazed look and pants that didn’t quite fit right anymore.

It worked — they were in the clear — until the other executives decided to launch Clarity Coin: a half-baked cryptocurrency built on fake hype, investor desperation, and very real wire fraud. The rug pull was swift, stupid, and loud. The FBI raided them six months later. The headlines practically wrote themselves.

The entire C-suite got ten years apiece in federal prison.

But Zara found Kevin Donahue, a great appellate attorney looking to take one last case before he moved on to something new. He found grounds for appeal based around two things: a total lack of digital asset activity — she hadn’t bought or sold a single Clarity Coin — and an airtight defense strategy centered on her own spectacularly bad accounting. A paper trail so disorganized, it suggested incompetence, not conspiracy. The cherry on top? Kevin argued she’d missed the key trading window because she was in a meeting with an IRS agent. That blowjob saved her from ten years in a federal pen — and the agent was all too happy to testify, under oath, that she had her hands full at the time.

Sometimes, timing really was everything.

At 10:15 a.m., her phone buzzed.

SUBJECT: Possible Discreet Opportunity

From: [email protected]

Meet me at 11 over at the Velvet Finch. I booked a meeting room. I have a live one. He’s panicked. Don’t be late.

–K

She locked her screen with a flick of her thumb and exhaled, not with relief or excitement, but with the focused composure of someone who’d been waiting six months to be underestimated again.

Grabbing a tube of red lipstick and a burner phone loaded with the contact info of a dozen investors, a disgraced senator, and two A-list actors who still owed her a favor, she stood, adjusted the collar of her vintage blazer, and strode past a weeping UX designer like it was just another Wednesday.

The elevator made a sad little noise as it opened. Zara stepped in and didn’t look back.

By 11:00 a.m., she was striding through the understated lobby of a boutique hotel in the Financial District — the kind of place where everyone wore smart shoes, ordered overpriced green tea, and didn’t ask too many questions. The air smelled faintly of citrus, wealth, and curated discretion.

Kevin was already in the lounge, surrounded by leather armchairs, half-empty espresso cups, and the low hum of people pretending not to overhear each other’s business calls. He looked up from his tablet when she approached.

“How’s the new office?”

“Like a haunted WeWork colonized by failed TEDx speakers,” she said, dropping into the chair across from him. “Wait 'til you meet Mid-Tier Mitch. Walked up to my doorway and introduced himself by dropping his pants. Bold strategy.”

“We need to get you a door.”

“Or coworkers with bigger dicks.”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “But you’re settling in?”

She smoothed a wrinkle from her slacks with one hand. “Like mold in a neglected jacuzzi.”

He gave a small laugh — the kind he tried to suppress when she got too close to the bone. “You know you don’t have to be quotable all the time.”

“I do, actually. It’s either that or scream into a pillow until the building manager files a noise complaint.”

He gave her a look — that wary, half-impressed expression men wear around women who might torch the place and trademark the ashes.

“So,” she said. “Who is this guy? What’s his story?”

“Darren Fribble,” Kevin replied, pausing before choosing the word carefully. “An old... acquaintance.”

“Good guy?”

Kevin considered. “Okay guy.” That seemed accurate enough.

“His company’s called OpticDeck. They’re in trouble — shedding cash, scrambling for investors, desperate to plug the holes before the whole thing sinks.”

“Sounds like he needs a banker. Not an ex–porn star turned... what exactly am I now?”

“Consultant,” Kevin said, not missing a beat. “The kind with bite.”

“Charming,” she muttered. “So what’s the play?”

“There’s an employee — Nicolette Phan. Quiet harassment claim, nothing formal yet. But she’s sitting on files, threatening to go public. They offered her cash and put her on sick leave to buy time, but the rumors are already spreading. If she leaks what she has, it’ll bury the company.”

Zara nodded slowly. “And Darren knows you’re pitching me to fix it?”

Kevin hesitated.

“Not exactly,” he said carefully. “I’ve been... vague.”

“So we’re blindsiding him.”

“He’s nervous,” Kevin said. “Really nervous. I told him I had someone who could help — someone who knew how to solve problems without leaving fingerprints.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t sell me as a hitman, did you?”

Kevin smiled. “No. But I might’ve implied you had a very particular set of skills.”

Zara made finger guns. “Should I suck him off, then?”

“Zara,” Kevin winced. “Please don’t.”

She smirked. “Kidding. Mostly. Did you at least tell him I’m radioactive?”

“I told him you’re the best at fixing problems,” Kevin said. “I just left out the part where you caused most of them.”

She leaned back, considering. “Flattering.”

“What’s the damage?” she asked after a beat.

Kevin flipped a page in the folder. “Still internal. Just whispers online. But OpticDeck’s desperate for investors — if those whispers get any louder…”

Zara made a soft whistling sound, mimicking a bomb drop, then opened her fingers with a mock explosion.

“Exactly,” Kevin said.

She nodded. “How do you think he’s going to react to me?”

Kevin exhaled. “Like anyone would when their best hope turns out to be a former porn star who just dodged ten years in federal prison.”

Zara raised an eyebrow. “So I’m the twist ending.”

Kevin leaned forward slightly. “You know I’m on your side.”

“Of course.”

“Until your reputation gets a little polish, I’m going to have to blur a few lines to get you in the room.”

Zara held his gaze, then gave a rare, serious nod. “I appreciate it, Kevin. Really.”

“Bring your A-game,” he said. “Charm offensive. Don’t let him dwell on who he thinks you are — make him see the version he’d pay to make his problem go away.”

Zara picked up her coffee, eyes gleaming over the rim. “Perfect,” she said. “That’s the version of me I like to bring to brunch.”

The two made their way to the second floor — Meeting Room 204b — where Darren was, in all likelihood, pacing the carpet in a cold sweat, half-convinced the door would open at any moment to reveal the SEC, his ex-wife, or both. Comparing notes.

Outside the door, Kevin paused and turned to Zara.

“One last thing,” he said quietly. “Don’t bullshit him. It’ll spook him. Whatever he asks — put it all on the table. Transparency earns trust. His desperation will handle the rest.”

Zara nodded. “Got it. Radical honesty. How very Goop of us.”

Kevin gave her a look, then opened the door.

He stepped inside first, extending his hand far too early — his wrist hovering midair like a startup founder pitching NFTs to a dog. Zara followed close behind, almost — but not quite — using Kevin as a human shield.

Darren was already on his feet. His expression collapsed the moment he saw her.

“Oh for the love of Christ, Kevin. You want me to hire a fucking porn star?”

“Ex–porn star,” Kevin said calmly.

Zara didn’t flinch. “I’m Zara,” she said, stepping fully into the room with a smile that was half-charm, half-threat. “And you must be the crisis.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?” Darren asked, his tone somewhere between accusatory and faintly terrified.

“Oh, I was,” Zara said brightly, like she was talking about a spa weekend. “But I got out early.”

Darren blinked. “How?”

“I fucked the judge.”

Kevin made a choking noise — half cough, half gasp — and slapped a hand to his chest like he’d just watched a small car crash unfold in slow motion.

“Zara,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

She rolled her eyes. “What? I’m being transparent.”

He gave her a look — the kind that said that’s not what I meant by transparency and please, for the love of God, stop talking.

“Okay, fine. I fucked the judge and sucked off the DA,” Zara said, holding her hands up in mock surrender — clearly misreading Kevin’s face entirely.

Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to keep what was left of his legal credibility from leaking out through his ears. Darren, for his part, looked like he might faint or throw up — possibly both — and neither option seemed far off.

Zara tapped a manicured nail against the tabletop, casual as ever.

“Technically, there was also a threesome in the DA’s office. Hard to say who was who — maybe an investigator, maybe support staff. Honestly, I don’t remember. It was a stressful week. Oh, and one of the jurors. But that was after the trial. Sort of a... celebration.”

Darren had gone pale, the kind of pale that made his tie look suddenly garish.

Kevin leaned forward, speaking quickly — the verbal equivalent of throwing a tarp over a flaming car.

“You see? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. Zara gets results. She’s strategic, she’s relentless, and she’s not constrained by, you know... traditional thinking.”

“Or ethics,” Darren muttered.

“Exactly,” Kevin said, without missing a beat.

Darren turned back to Zara, who was now smiling like she’d just offered him a cupcake laced with arsenic.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, tapping her lip like she was trying to remember where she parked. “There was a bailiff who recognized me. Big fan. Married, though — didn’t want to cheat. So I let him finger-bang me while he sucked on my nipples. Totally unrelated to the case. He was just cute.”

Darren blinked, visibly trying to process the moral geometry of that sentence.

“That’s... not cheating?”

Before Zara could answer — and she clearly had something locked and loaded — Kevin jumped in with a too-bright smile and a hand gesture that practically screamed please let this be salvageable.

“Why don’t we have a seat?” he said, motioning toward the chairs and praying the meeting hadn’t already driven off a cliff.

Chapter Two: Client #1: OpticDeck

Darren Fribble had the posture of someone who’d spent too much time pitching to investors and not enough time hearing the word no. His suit was expensive in the way off-the-rack sometimes almost pulled off — with tailoring, confidence, and a healthy delusion of grandeur. His face was drawn tight with stress, and his handshake was just firm enough to suggest he’d practiced it in the mirror that morning.

Zara knew the type. Tech founder by way of a liberal arts degree, originally overfunded by VCs who mistook confidence for competence, now circling the drain with a smile he couldn’t keep steady. She liked him immediately. Not personally — but professionally. Men like Darren made excellent clients. They didn’t want advice. They wanted escape routes.

He barely looked at her as they sat. His gaze pinged between Kevin, the table, and the frosted glass walls of the hotel meeting room — silently praying the SEC or his ex-wife actually would burst in with a subpoena and a camera crew, just to break the tension.

Kevin, for his part, was still trying to wrap his head around the conversation — a familiar, futile exercise.

Zara had that effect on people. She spoke in landmines, smiled through fallout, and made moral ambiguity feel like a branding strategy.

“So, you… um… fucked your way out of prison?” Darren asked, more bewildered than judgmental.

“I had an appeal,” Zara said with a shrug. “It was probably legit. But why leave it to chance?”

“You can’t argue with results,” Darren muttered, somewhere between impressed and unnerved.

“Exactly,” Kevin said, jumping on the opening like a man who’d finally found a foothold. “That’s the point. Zara gets results. At the end of the day, who cares how she gets there?”

Darren nodded slowly. His eyes were wary now, but no longer running. “And you can be discreet?”

Zara crossed one leg over the other — with the kind of grace that came from confidence, not permission.

“I’m discreet in the way bleach is discreet,” she said, voice calm, precise. “I leave no trace — but nothing’s ever quite the same afterward.”

That got a smile out of him. He was warming up.

Kevin cleared his throat. “Darren’s company is dealing with an internal—”

“We can’t talk until some NDAs get signed,” Darren interrupted, already reaching for his briefcase.

Without missing a beat, Zara reached into her tote and pulled out a single folded page. She set it on the table and slid it toward him.

“Here. Standard language. Modified by my lawyer to make sure no one ends up testifying about footnotes in federal court.”

Kevin frowned. “Your lawyer? I didn’t draft anything.”

“Not you. Lance.”

“Lance isn’t a real lawyer.”

“Just because he’s disbarred doesn’t mean he’s not real,” Zara replied, completely unbothered.

“No, but it does mean he’s not a lawyer,” Kevin muttered.

Zara waved a hand. “Relax. It’s a form. A first-year poli-sci major could’ve written it. It just sounds fancier when someone wears a tie.”

The two men hesitated, exchanged a look, then signed. Zara followed — precise, unhurried, and in complete control.

Something shifted. Darren sat back in his chair and exhaled, a little less tightly wound now that paperwork was in play.

“We’re called OpticDeck,” he said, with the weary cadence of someone who’d repeated the same pitch too many times. “Smart glasses. Augmented reality overlays. Biometric scanning for enhanced social interaction. You get it.”

“I assure you don’t,” Zara replied, deadpan. “But I’m sure someone does.”

He ignored the jab. “We’re bleeding,” he said. “Not just cash — stability. One of our top engineers, Nicolette Phan, walked out. Technically, she’s on sick leave, but people are starting to think maybe she isn’t coming back. We’re holding the line in HR, but the rumors are spreading. And if it gets out that she left because of harassment…”

He exhaled.

“Half the dev team walks.”

He let that hang, like a punchline he didn’t want to deliver.

Zara eyed him. “So it’s not a leak. It’s a dam about to burst.”

“She says she was cornered at a roll-out party for one of the new features — a programmer and a project manager, both a little too… entitled. Nothing violent, but enough to justify a confidential report to HR. A few days later, the rumors started. Maybe one of the guys talked. Or maybe… someone in HR let it slip.”

“What happened to the guys?” Zara asked.

“Both gone. Unrelated to this,” Darren said. “They were contractors — their terms ended the night of the roll-out.”

Zara studied him.

“And what do you think? Did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” he said, too quickly. Then tried again. “Maybe. I mean — we’ve got a culture, you know? It’s casual. We party. We move fast. I don’t exactly monitor how people flirt during launch week.”

Zara nodded once, slow and deliberate. “That sentence is going in the memoir.”

Kevin shot her a look that said please behave.

Darren pressed on.

“Now she’s threatening to go public. Press, social, maybe even Medium. She’s got emails. Slack messages. Probably screenshots. If it leaks, we’re dead. No investor touches us. No bridge funding. No Series C.”

Zara steepled her fingers, gaze unreadable. “What does a win look like to you?”

“No press. No lawsuit. No documents end up online.”

“Containment,” Zara said.

“And make it right.” Darren shifted in his chair. “We offered her a hundred grand to hand over the files and sign an NDA. She said no. Just—flat out, no. No counter, nothing. Who does that?”

He threw up his hands. “Who the hell doesn’t want money?”

Zara tilted her head, almost sympathetically. “Sweetie,” she said, her tone casual, but laced with experience, “as someone who used to get fucked for a living, let me tell you — it’s not always about what you’re offering. Sometimes it’s about how you offer it.”

The two men blinked at her in tandem, clearly trying to connect the dots between a failed payout and the pornographic wisdom she’d just dropped.

“She’ll take the money,” Zara continued, adjusting the cuff of her blouse like she was preparing for a board meeting or a blowjob. “But when you’re the male talent, it’s not about how you want to give it to her — it’s about giving it to her the way she wants it.”

Kevin’s smile returned, small but visible. Zara nailed it.

Darren nodded, slowly. “So… you’ll figure out how she wants it?” he said, the hesitation in his voice betraying that he wasn’t entirely sure what it was anymore.

“That’s what I do best,” Zara said. “I’ll make her feel like it’s what she wants. Not something being shoved down her throat.”

That landed. She saw the flicker in Darren’s eyes — that faint shift from doubt to belief. He understood now. Or at least, he understood enough.

“You can read more of my strategies,” she added smoothly, “in my upcoming book: Porn and the Art of Crisis Management.”

Darren exhaled. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but... you’re good. I didn’t expect this.”

Zara shrugged. “No one ever does,” she said, lips curling slightly. “That’s what makes it fun.”

An hour later, she was in the back of a town car — tablet in her lap, earbuds in, scrolling LinkedIn for the names of the contract employees and flagging potential HR suspects for Sadie to dig into.

If she could convince Nicolette to take the deal, none of this would matter. But for now, knowledge was power.

There was something oddly exhilarating about this part — the way chaos left fingerprints, if you knew where to look. She combed through tagged photos, watched demo reels, and traced hashtags until the company’s entire private Slack culture had practically unfolded in her lap.

It wasn’t hard. Tech boys loved leaving trails. Tech boys who thought they were fun left trails with emojis.

Her inbox pinged.

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Re: You Asked for Gossip

Nicolette’s main Twitter is clean, but I found her alt. That’s where the noise is coming from. She’s not calling anyone out directly — just dropping breadcrumbs only insiders would catch, then letting everyone else connect the dots and set the fire.

She’s angry. And smart.

If she wanted to burn the place down, it’d already be ashes. This feels more like leverage. Or maybe she just wants to feel heard — and watch them sweat.

PS – Careful with this one.

Zara smiled to herself. Gia was already useful.

She tapped the message away and pulled up Nicolette’s alt Twitter profile.

Nothing overt. Curated. Just barbed enough to make a junior comms team panic. Posts about structural bias in workplace culture. Retweets of viral HR horror stories. A few carefully worded comments about “no accountability for contract workers.”

No mention of a lawsuit. No names. Nothing about dropping a bomb to the press. Just momentum — a storm building in the dark.

Zara leaned back and closed her eyes.

Containment, she thought. That’s what I do.

Not clean up. Not fix.

Stop problems from becoming public ones.