In a hotel room, right beside the countertop, lay the first volume of Eyeshield 21, one of the books that fit the American climate better than almost any other. After several revisions, the American football manga—with all its subtle nuances—was refined into a work that could seamlessly integrate into the U.S. model without trimming down its long, character-rich story. There were at least fifty characters, each carefully crafted. Billy used that as the basis to create a high school series that paved the way for college and professional football narratives. In terms of potential, it was the ideal foundation for a 500-episode series, without fillers. At least, that was what Billy hoped.
–Three chapters—no more than they expected. – said Anne, completely naked, wearing crescent-shaped reading glasses she handled with care. Her full breasts exposed, her hair tied back in a ponytail, and Billy’s fingerprints gently imprinted on her hips.
She crossed her legs, and Billy's eyes never left hers. What mattered was that everyone who looked at Anne only ever saw her as a professional. She was so strict with her time and words that the moment she stepped away from the public eye and into intimacy, she unshackled herself from her deeply ingrained chains. Her pulse, her breath—they were slower, deeper. Her smile became something effortless, escaping any attempt at restraint. She was utterly enchanting.
–Let them wait for the rest until the end of August. I’ve worked hard on the story, and I already have the next fifty chapters mapped out—at least that many—while I also work in parallel on Real, Bleach, and Hellsing, which is just thirty chapters away from finishing. It’s not hard to say we have sequels, side projects, and more writers knocking on my door asking for new assignments, or at the very least, that’s what they expect. – Billy said.
Even when he made mistakes, letting the stories continue was a good idea. When his hands couldn’t manage so many projects, they began building the studio initiative last year—reaching out to literature academies, screenwriters, moderately known authors, and passionate newcomers who followed Billy’s standards—at least in terms of structure and tone.
–We’ll need to invest more in the academy. – said Anne.
–I think we’ll need at least three or four more writers. – Billy replied, not yet fully tuned in to the academy’s details.
–The money... Raimon has good news! But something unexpected happened: apparently, some people from the big firms are bothered by how precise you’ve been. Between the two of you, there’s a good space to talk numbers. – Anne added.
–Then that settles it. – Billy replied, taking a breath. The scent of Anne, the faint trace of sweat –I don’t think I can deny you’re one of the most dangerous women I know. –
She laughed.
–You say that like it means something. – Anne responded, fully aware that he was exhausted. It was nearly midnight, and their day had started at five. She watched him endure twelve-hour days without rest, where work was synonymous with existence.
–I think we should get some sleep. – said Billy, taking a deep breath as he picked up his silk pajamas from the floor—fragile, flexible, high-quality, always pristine and exact.
Anne was about to leave.
–I want you to sleep with me. – said Billy.
She nodded, though visibly nervous, even aware of the challenges, of love, of time. A time of reason and perseverance that always surrounded those who came together in love, grounded in tenderness.
–Yes. –
It was a whisper, like a spark igniting within Anne’s chest as she walked—still naked—and slipped under the covers. The lights dimmed, time melted, and Billy held her close. Her body was soft, and that always surprised him about Anne. Monica was slim, but Anne’s legs were toned, her abdomen the same, and her arms proportional to her lean figure. Modeling had given her a strict diet, but countless rewards in form and lifestyle.
–I have to get up at seven tomorrow. – Anne said.
–No worries, I’ll wake up with you. – Billy replied, kissing her hair.
***
Monica was living art, a muse—a canvas in the flesh. She posed next to Cindy Crawford, both nearly naked, for Vogue. In the background stood Naomi Campbell, her rich brown skin like liquid chocolate, energizing any man on a beautiful morning. She was once hailed as an Italian beauty; now, she was among those who always expected a compliment. The very air she breathed was adored by men—she was the embodiment of desire.
–That’s a wrap, ladies. – said the photographer, a man who looked more like a woman than not.
Jim Wait was waiting for her, standing in the corner.
–Monica, I heard you got the Versace campaign. – said Cindy.
–Thanks, yes… but it’s been six months since I’ve had time for film. – Monica replied, lost in thought, carrying herself with that unique blend of composure and purpose. She loved both.
–You got a gift. – Cindy noted, eyeing the elegant arrangements in the distance—bouquets and a present that looked expensive, likely fine jewelry. A necklace, or maybe earrings. Her name was on a black card with golden trim. It wasn’t from Billy—that much was clear.
–We all got one. – said Naomi, dressed in deep black—darker still—with a sheer veil that left her silhouette exposed, open, and unbothered.
–Be right back. – Monica said, just in time to catch JimWaitt. She approached quickly, and he handed her two plane tickets bound for Sydney, Australia. Ten full days away, her calendar was packed until September 20. Two runway shows in Milan, Paris, and Lyon, plus two lingerie shoots for Victoria’s Secret.
–Billy sent me the extended schedule, but you’ve got a runway show in Milan. Still, I cleared your calendar from September 25 to October 10. I got the tickets so you two can take a trip to Switzerland—a beautiful place where you’ll find more privacy. – Jim Wait said, fully aware that in the coming days… Well, he knew enough. He was stressed. His body was holding up, though a slight belly had started to form. No doubt, things had been in motion for days now.
–Then good luck, Jim. I guess there’s no time to waste. – Monica replied with good energy. Her legs moved as she revealed a delicate silver necklace with a green gemstone pendant—an emerald, nestled in a silver bloom. A small gift sent to all of them, women in his circle, a place still unknown.
The women made their way to the dressing room, where privacy waited. Each one kept her movements minimal, cautious not to alert or disturb. As they shared their intimacy—their tastes, their loves, their lifestyles—Monica spoke of life with Billy.
...