The transition from fantasy to reality was a silent, seismic shift. The first week, Tobi was the picture of professional deference. He arrived each morning at 7:45 AM sharp, standing beside the sleek, obsidian-black town car parked in the penthouse’s private underground bay. He wore a simple, well-tailored black suit that somehow made his shoulders look even broader. He’d open the rear door with a quiet, “Good morning, Mrs. Stroud,” his eyes never quite meeting hers, his voice a formal baritone that held none of the club’s rasp.“Good morning, Tobi,” Maya would reply, sliding into the cool, leather-scented interior, feeling like an imposter in her own life.The car became a new world, a moving capsule suspended between the gilded prison of her penthouse and the beautiful, demanding cage of her restaurant. It was a space of enforced proximity and deafening quiet. For days, the only sounds were the purr of the engine, the soft jazz from the speakers, and the rustle of Maya’s paperwork
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