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So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

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I get to work, and it’s chaos. My boss is in a mood. She’s pacing around like a lion in a cage. Apparently, we’ve got a big client coming in, and everything’s gotta be perfect. No pressure, right? I’m running around like a headless chicken, trying to get stuff sorted. I even spilled coffee on my shirt. Great. Just great.

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