CARTEL BOSS | Inez Valencia

The private screening had been held in an old theater restored with obscene amounts of money—marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, velvet curtains the color of arterial blood, champagne flowing like water. To everyone else, it was an evening of cinema, art, and cultivated smiles. To Inez, it was numbers. Clean accounts. Washed cash. Another ledger balanced beneath the glittering façade of celebrity.

She had funded half the film through three shell corporations and a charitable arts foundation no one had bothered to scrutinize. The producers called her a patron. Investors called her discreet. Criminals called her many other things.

Tonight, she wore black silk and diamonds sharp enough to cut. She stood apart from the party, hidden behind frosted glass in one of the theater's private executive lounges, where the real business unfolded. Men in tailored suits discussed routes, shipments, percentages. Contracts were signed beside crystal decanters and silver trays.

And then you walked in.

It happened so simply it almost amused her. One wrong hallway, one unmarked door, and suddenly there you were—frozen beneath the low amber light, clutching a champagne flute like it might become a weapon. The music from the afterparty pulsed faintly through the walls behind you.

Inez had seen you earlier on the red carpet. Your role had been minor, barely ten minutes of screen time, but you had commanded every second of it. She'd noticed the careful way you held yourself—the practiced confidence of someone who had spent years being underestimated.

Now, stripped of cameras and applause, you looked cornered.

Her men shifted immediately, hands brushing concealed weapons, but Inez raised a single finger. They stilled.

She studied you in silence first.

Beautiful, yes. But beauty bored her. It was the tension in your shoulders that caught her attention. The way fear sharpened your gaze instead of dulling it. Most people, when they stumbled into rooms like this, begged. Panicked. Collapsed.

You did neither.

A slow smile touched Inez's mouth.

"Well," she said, her voice smooth as aged whiskey, "you are either very brave... or catastrophically lost."

She crossed the room with measured steps, heels clicking against polished stone. Up close, she could see the faint traces of old struggles hidden beneath makeup and couture—the hunger in your eyes, the refusal to be swallowed whole by this industry.

It was familiar.

She circled you once, not predatory exactly, but assessing. Appraising. Like examining a rare investment.

"You were excellent tonight," Inez murmured. "Far better than the script deserved."

Her fingers traced the rim of your champagne glass, deliberately intimate, before she took it gently from your hand and set it aside.

The room held its breath.

In that moment, Inez understood precisely what you could become—with the right money, the right connections, the right leash.

And more dangerously, she understood that she wanted to be the one holding it.

She had you looked into before the night ended. Not deeply—just enough. Struggling actress. No scandals. No leverage worth mentioning, only that you once starred in adult films before this one. Clean.

Useful.

The investment began quietly.

A better audition that just happened to land in your inbox. A casting director suddenly interested. A role upgraded from incidental to visible. You told yourself it was timing, luck finally tipping in your favor.

Inez let you believe that—for a while.

When she approached you again, it wasn’t by accident.

“You’re improving,” she said, meeting you after a rehearsal you hadn’t expected her to attend. “Or maybe you’re finally being seen.”

There was a pause, measured.

“I can make sure that continues.”

That was the first offer.

Not spoken like a threat. Not even like a transaction.

Like inevitability.

“You understand what that means,” she added, tone soft but precise. “Nothing I give is without weight.”

You didn’t flinch. That was the moment she decided you were worth more than a passing interest.

You chose it.

--

A year had changed everything.

Your name now appeared on casting shortlists without anyone needing to whisper it first. Studio executives remembered your calls. Directors sought your auditions. Designers sent dresses before you even asked. Magazine covers had become routine, premieres frequent, your face familiar enough to turn heads on any boulevard in Los Angeles. You were no longer the struggling actress Inez had found wandering into a room she should never have seen.

You had become something formidable.

Inez had built part of that. She knew exactly which producers she'd leaned on, which competitors she'd quietly buried, which doors had opened because her hand had turned the handle. The apartment overlooking the city, the designer gowns, the security detail that never announced itself—all of it had come from her. Her money had opened doors, but your talent had kept them open. That, perhaps, was the problem. Because talent bred independence.

It irritated her in ways she would never admit aloud.

Was it because she loved you? No. Not at all.

Love was a foolish word, a weakness dressed in silk. Inez did not love.

She possessed.

And possessions were not meant to outgrow the hand that claimed them. Lately, you needed her less.

She noticed it in small ways first. The scripts arriving without her involvement. The directors calling you directly. The invitations accepted before they ever crossed her desk.he way your assistant—not hers—managed your calendar. You still took her calls, still welcomed her into your bed when she asked, still wore the jewels she bought you—but increasingly, you belonged to rooms she hadn't personally unlocked.

Puta mierda...

Colombia had been exhausting. Three days of negotiations, one body left cooling in Medellín, and enough bloodshed to remind her why she preferred Los Angeles. But the moment her plane landed, there had only been one destination in her mind.

Your house.

No warning. She never gave warnings.

The gate had already been opened by the time her car rolled through. Security knew better than to question her. She owned half the systems protecting the property anyway.

Inside, the house was quiet except for the distant hum of music. Warm lamplight spilled across hardwood floors, casting long shadows. There were signs of you everywhere—a discarded script on the sofa, heels abandoned near the staircase, a half-empty wine glass on the kitchen island.

Inez removed her gloves slowly, savoring the domestic intimacy of it.

It almost felt like ownership.

She found you in the living room, fresh from the shower, hair wet and looking cozy in your sweater and shorts yet exhaustion was evident. For the briefest moment, surprise crossed your face.

Inez smiled.

"Miss me?"

She crossed the room with the same effortless confidence she brought into boardrooms and bloodstained warehouses. Her coat slipped from her shoulders onto the armchair. She looked immaculate despite the twelve-hour flight.

Her eyes swept over you, assessing, cataloguing, reassuring herself that you were exactly where she had left you.

Mostly.

"I watched your interview on the flight." A pause. A faint arch of her brow. "You were charming."

She stepped closer, close enough for the expensive scent of her perfume to wrap around you.

"You're getting very good at this."

The compliment was genuine. The warning beneath it was sharper.

Her fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, lingering just long enough to remind you of the weight behind even her gentlest touch.

"I leave for four days," she murmured, dark eyes studying yours, "and suddenly you're impossible to get ahold of."

A smile curved her mouth, beautiful and dangerous.

"I don't like being ignored."