The chlorine sting in her eyes and the cool evening air on her wet skin were the only real things. The rest—the tequila haze, the groping hands of the muscled stranger from the club, the hollow thrill of it all—was already fading into Los Santos' background noise. Megan paddled to the edge of the pool, heaved herself out, and grabbed a towel, rubbing it roughly through her tangled brunette hair. Another night, another nothing.
She was padding barefoot across the deck towards the glowing maw of the living room when the crunch of gravel on the driveway froze her. Dad's home late. A flicker of petty annoyance—maybe she could bum some cash off him before he passed out in front of the TV.
But the engine didn't sound like his. It was lower, darker. Curious, she ghosted along the side of the mansion, staying in the long shadows cast by the patio lights. Peering around a manicured hedge, she saw it: a black Baller, sleek and ominous, followed by a second SUV. Her breath hitched. This wasn't a social call.
Men in cheap suits spilled out, a practiced, threatening formation. Then, the rear door of the Baller opened. A man in a sharp navy suit emerged, and Megan's stomach did a slow, cold roll.
Oh, shit.
Martin Madrazo. The name clicked into place with a sickening familiarity. The expensive cologne, the cold, assessing eyes, the heavy gold rings. He'd been at some industry party months ago, surrounded by sycophants. She'd been bored, he'd been lavishly attentive, and the necklace he'd given her the next morning was currently tucked in her jewelry box—a tasteful, terrifying souvenir. He was in his fifties, a king in a realm she only glimpsed from the gutter of her own escapades. Instinctively, she shrank back deeper into the shadows, the damp towel clutched to her chest like a shield. This was not a man you made eye contact with by accident.
She watched as Madrazo confronted her father and some young black guy she didn't recognize. The air crackled with a tension different from the staged fights on Bullshark Testosterone. This was real, metallic fear. She saw it in the stiffness of her father's shoulders, heard it in the forced casualness of his "No!" when Madrazo demanded recognition.
The scene unfolded with a brutal, theatrical rhythm. The silver baseball bat appeared. Megan's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp as the thwack echoed across the drive, and her father crumpled to the concrete. The simultaneous click of multiple guns being aimed was the loudest sound she'd ever heard. She pressed herself against the cold stucco wall, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was about a house? A tennis coach? The absurdity of it was dwarfed by the sheer, visceral terror.
Then came the number.
"Two point five million range?"
Her father's immediate, subservient "Of course." It wasn't the amount—though that was astronomical—it was the tone. It was the sound of Michael De Santa, the grand patriarch, the master of his entitled universe, being broken. It was the sound of a man agreeing to his own bankruptcy, his own demise, just to make the scary man go away.
Madrazo left with a final insult, a spit from a woman named Natalia. The taillights vanished down the hill, leaving only Franklin helping a shaken Michael to his feet. The silence they left behind was deafening, heavier than before.
Megan didn't move until the front door closed. Then, on silent, trembling feet, she fled. She didn't go to the front, didn't run to her father. She skirted the edge of the property, a ghost in her own home, the cool grass sharp under her bare feet. She slipped inside through the back kitchen door, the familiar surroundings feeling alien and fragile.
In the sanctuary of her room, she locked the door. The towel, still damp, fell to the floor. She stared at her reflection in the dark window—a young woman with tribal ink and a racing heart, still in a bikini. The necklace from Madrazo felt like a brand in her mind. The world had just shifted on its axis. The gilded cage of Vinewood had always had invisible bars; now, she'd just seen the face of the real warden, and he was someone who knew the taste of her skin and the price of her father's head.
***
The morning sun sliced through the gaps in her blackout blinds, painting hot stripes across the rumpled sheets. Megan groaned, her head throbbing in time with a faint, phantom bassline from the Tequi-la-la. She fumbled blindly on the nightstand, her hand finding her phone. She squinted at the screen: 15%. Damn it. She'd collapsed into bed, hair still damp from the pool, and forgotten to plug it in. A flicker of irritation, then a shrug. It wasn't like she had a job to get to, or any pressing appointments. Her calendar was a void punctuated by race nights and parties, her bank account a passive extension of her father's.
The silence of the house felt loaded, a stark contrast to the screaming match that had pierced the night. After she'd hidden in her room, shaken from the Madrazo spectacle, her parents' war had erupted. The accusations flew through the floorboards: Tennis coach. In our bed. You broke the rule. The sacred, stupid rule. Megan understood the unspoken contract in a detached, cynical way. They both strayed; it was the family sport. But the house was supposed to be neutral territory, a stage for the performance of a normal family. Her mom had dragged the grimy reality right into the master bedroom, and for once, in the twisted logic of their marriage, her dad seemed to have the moral high ground. Not that it mattered. It was all just noise.
She unlocked her phone, the low battery warning a persistent blink. Lifeinvader. A notification from Amy: "Hope that hood dude wore a jimmy hat last night. He looked intense lol."
Megan smirked. A text of pure, vapid concern. She typed back a quick, "All good," and deleted the rest of her draft where she'd almost written the truth: No condom, but Plan B's a hell of a drug. She'd taken one this morning, washing it down with tap water at the sink. Followed by a long, scalding bath, as if she could scrub away the entire forgettable encounter. It was fine. It was always fine. This was just maintenance.
She tossed the phone onto the charger and swung her legs out of bed. The cool air hit her bare skin. She'd slept naked, as usual—one less thing to constrict her. Padding across the plush carpet to her dresser, she yanked open a drawer. Lace and silk spilled out. She selected a pair of black panties, intricate and barely there. A matching bra dangled from her fingers for a second before she tossed it back. Nah. She wasn't going anywhere. The freedom was a small, daily rebellion.
She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and paused, turning slightly. The morning light softened the edges of her tribal tattoos, the dagger on her calf looking almost decorative. She let her eyes travel over her own form—the generous curves, the solid waist, the powerful line of her thighs. A flicker of pride cut through the morning fog. She did eat like a pig—burgers, fries, beer, the greasy spoons of Los Santos were her pantries—and yet, it all settled… perfectly. It was a genetic jackpot, a body built for endurance, not for a magazine spread. Luck, or something like it.
Her gaze dropped lower, and she sighed. The upkeep. It was a chore. Shaving it all clean was a nightmare of ingrown hairs and phantom itches for days. Trimming was the compromise. A quick buzz later; good enough. The guys she brought home weren't exactly connoisseurs, and the last thing she needed on top of everything else was some infection from a razor cut down there. Her promiscuity was one thing; being stupid about it was another.
She pulled on the panties, then grabbed a worn, soft t-shirt from a band that broke up a decade ago. It swallowed her frame, the neckline slipping off one shoulder. A pair of tight, grey cotton shorts completed the look—comfort as armor.
The hallway was silent, the scene of last night's domestic battle now just a clean, expensive emptiness. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth with aggressive strokes, as if scrubbing away the taste of the night, then peed, watching the Plan B pill bottle on the counter with a detached stare.
The smell of coffee led her downstairs, but it was undercut by something sharper, more acidic. As she pushed into the kitchen's sterile gleam, she saw him.
Michael De Santa stood at the island, not with a coffee mug, but with a crystal tumbler. He poured a generous measure of amber whiskey from a decanter, the glug-glug-glug obscenely loud in the quiet. The morning light showed the puffiness around his eyes, the deep-set weariness, and the subtle, painful stiffness in his side where the baseball bat had connected.
He heard her approach and turned, forcing a fraction of a smile. "Morning, sweetheart."
The word landed like a physical blow. Sweetheart. After last night. After the spit on the driveway, the guns, the $2.5 million death sentence. After the betrayal in his own bedroom. The hypocrisy was so thick she could taste it.
She met his eyes for a fleeting second, seeing the haunted shadow behind the paternal facade. She could say it. I saw. I know. Who was that man? What did you do? The questions burned on her tongue.
Instead, she let her gaze slide away, moving toward the stainless-steel refrigerator with a noncommittal grunt. "Morning."
She pulled out a carton of orange juice, the cold condensation grounding her. She poured a glass, the sound of liquid filling the silence he'd left with his pet name. She said nothing about Martin Madrazo. She said nothing about the fear. She drank her juice, leaning against the counter, while her father downed his whiskey.