Season 30: Eternal Gardens of Desire
The sun dipped low over the sprawling chaos of Los Angeles, painting the Hollywood Hills in strokes of molten gold and bruised purple. From the penthouse balcony of his sleek WeHo high-rise, Anthony Perlas surveyed his kingdom like a god among mortals. At thirty, he was the undisputed emperor of OT Models Agency—an empire built on long legs, killer smiles, and the kind of ambition that could make or break dreams in a single casting call. His reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass showed a man honed by boardrooms and backroom deals: sharp jawline shadowed with just enough stubble to hint at danger, emerald eyes that had seduced investors and influencers alike, and a tailored black suit that hugged his broad shoulders like a lover’s whisper.
But tonight wasn’t about contracts or conquests. Tonight was about the garden. Anthony’s private sanctuary, a rooftop oasis of rare orchids and jasmine vines he’d imported from Thailand years ago, after his first big score in Bangkok. The blooms twisted upward in defiant elegance, their petals soft yet unbreakable—much like the women he surrounded himself with. Or tried to. Lately, the garden felt… empty. Like something vital had been uprooted, leaving only thorns.
His phone buzzed on the glass table, a sleek vibration that cut through the distant hum of Sunset Boulevard traffic. It was Lena, his right-hand powerhouse, the one who’d turned OT from a scrappy startup into a global force. “Anthony, the girls are ready. Thai flight landed twenty minutes ago. Picking them up now—want me to swing by?”
“Handle it,” he replied, voice low and commanding, the kind that made models blush and executives stutter. “I’ll meet you at Roxy. Make sure they’re briefed: low-key, high-impact. No drama.”
Lena’s laugh crackled through the line, warm and knowing. “Since when do models do low-key? See you in thirty.”
He pocketed the phone and straightened his cufflinks—solid gold, engraved with the agency’s logo: a blooming lotus, symbol of rising from the mud to claim the light. Anthony wasn’t just a CEO; he was a curator of beauty, a matchmaker of fates. Tonight, he was introducing two fresh faces from Thailand to the LA scene. Sisters, actually—Nara and Miko, nineteen and twenty-one, with skin like polished teak and eyes that promised secrets. They’d been scouted during his last scouting trip to Phuket, where the waves crashed like applause and the air smelled of salt and spice. Nara, the bolder one, had caught his eye first: lithe and fierce, with a runway walk that could halt traffic. Miko was the dreamer, softer around the edges, her laughter like wind chimes in a storm.
They were more than models; they were investments. In a city where beauty was currency, Anthony traded in gold. But as he descended in the private elevator, polished chrome reflecting his unreadable expression, a flicker of something unwelcome stirred. Loneliness? No, that was for lesser men. Restlessness, perhaps. The kind that came from building an empire on fleeting glances and flashbulbs, never quite touching the soul beneath.
The limo purred up to the curb outside his building, Lena at the wheel like a chauffeur from a spy thriller. She was mid-thirties, all sharp bob and sharper wit, the only one who could call him out without losing a limb. The back door swung open, and there they were: Nara and Miko, wide-eyed and radiant in simple sundresses that hugged their curves just enough to tease. Nara’s was emerald silk, Miko’s a soft coral that glowed against her sun-kissed skin.
“Anthony Perlas,” Nara said, extending a hand with nails painted like lotus petals. Her English was flawless, laced with that melodic Thai lilt. “We’ve heard the legends. OT Models—the agency that turns girls like us into goddesses.”
He shook her hand, feeling the subtle strength in her grip. “Legends are overrated. Results aren’t. Welcome to LA.” His gaze shifted to Miko, who hung back a beat, fiddling with the strap of her tote. “And you must be the quiet storm. Miko, right?”
She looked up, dark lashes framing eyes like polished onyx. “That’s me. Thank you for… everything. The flight, the opportunity. It’s like a dream.” Her voice was softer, but there was steel beneath it—a quiet fire that intrigued him more than it should.
Lena slid into traffic, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon confetti. “Roxy’s expecting us. Private booth, bottle service on ice. And heads up—there’s a three-event lineup tonight: fashion mixer, live DJ set, and a pop-up runway. Perfect intro for you two.”
As the limo wove through WeHo’s electric veins, Anthony leaned back, letting the sisters pepper him with questions. Nara grilled him on castings—“Tell me about the Versace gig last month; did the blonde from Milan really sabotage the redhead?”—while Miko gazed out the window, murmuring about the palm trees that looked like “giant feathers dancing in the wind.” Anthony watched her, the way the passing lights played across her face, turning her into a living mosaic. She reminded him of someone. A ghost from six years ago, perhaps. But ghosts didn’t belong in boardrooms.
Roxy Theatre loomed like a jewel box on Sunset, its marquee pulsing with crimson light. Born in the golden age of Hollywood glamour, it had evolved into WeHo’s crown jewel for nightlife: velvet ropes, crystal chandeliers clashing deliciously with thumping bass, and a crowd that screamed “influencer elite.” Tonight, the air thrummed with anticipation—the three-event extravaganza was the talk of LA’s underground fashion scene. First, a mixer for up-and-comers; then, a DJ set that promised to shake the foundations; and capping it off, a surprise runway show featuring OT’s rising stars.
Anthony led the charge through the VIP entrance, his presence parting the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea. Heads turned—whispers rippled: “That’s Perlas. The model whisperer.” Nara and Miko flanked him, already drawing eyes like magnets. Lena trailed, her tablet glowing with schedules.
Inside, the theatre was a fever dream: crimson walls draped in gold fringe, booths upholstered in butter-soft leather, and a stage where spotlights danced like fireflies on steroids. Their booth overlooked it all, a throne room with chilled Veuve Clicquot sweating in silver buckets. Anthony poured flutes, the bubbles rising like tiny promises. “To new beginnings,” he toasted, clinking glasses. “May LA treat you kinder than it has me.”
Nara sipped, eyes sparkling. “Kinder? With you as our guide? I doubt it.” Miko smiled shyly, her flute trembling just a fraction. Anthony caught it—the nervousness beneath the poise. He’d seen it a thousand times in new recruits. But in her, it tugged at him, a reminder that beneath the glamour, they were all just girls chasing stars.
The mixer kicked off with a flourish: champagne fountains bubbling over ice sculptures of mythical sirens, trays of truffle canapés gliding past like forbidden fruit. Anthony navigated the room with effortless grace, introducing Nara and Miko to scouts from Vogue and buyers from Rodeo Drive. “These are the future,” he declared to a cluster of photographers, his arm brushing Nara’s in a protective sweep. She leaned into it, all confidence, while Miko hovered at the edge, sketching invisible patterns on her glass.
“Enjoying the chaos?” Anthony asked her later, as the crowd swelled.
She nodded, cheeks flushing under the lights. “It’s… overwhelming. Back in Thailand, nights were quieter. Markets with lanterns, not this.” Her gesture encompassed the swirl of sequins and stilettos. “But beautiful. Like a storm you want to dance in.”
He chuckled, low and genuine. “That’s LA. Storms and sunsets. Stick with me—you’ll learn to love the lightning.” Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the room faded. There was a vulnerability in her gaze, a quiet hunger that mirrored his own hidden fractures. Then Nara swooped in, linking arms with her sister. “Anthony! Come meet the Versace rep—he says I’m a dead ringer for their spring muse!”
As the night deepened, the energy shifted. The mixer dissolved into the DJ set, the stage igniting with a figure who commanded the space like a queen reclaiming her crown. Karina—Italian fire wrapped in blonde silk. At twenty-five, she was OT’s crown jewel, Goddess #30, the girl who’d started as Anthony’s very first signing six years ago. Back then, she’d been a wide-eyed exchange student from Milan, barely legal, with a laugh that could melt glaciers and a heart that beat for the beat. DJ by night, model by day, she’d spun tracks at underground raves while strutting catwalks that spanned Paris to Tokyo.
Karina had been his girl once. Or so he’d thought. Their romance had been a whirlwind: stolen kisses in Milan alleys, lazy afternoons in his pre-empire apartment where she’d mix beats on a borrowed laptop while he sketched agency logos. She’d supported him through the lean years, her faith a lifeline when investors laughed him out of rooms. “You’re going to build an empire, Anthony,” she’d whispered one night, her fingers tracing his jaw. “And I’ll be your queen.”
But empires demand sacrifices. When OT exploded, the spotlight pulled her away—tours, endorsements, a life that no longer fit in the margins of his schedule. She’d left for a six-month gig in Ibiza, promising “just a break.” It stretched to a year, then two. The calls faded, the texts turned perfunctory. Last he’d heard, she was spinning at Coachella, untethered and unbreakable.
Now, here she was, platinum waves cascading over a cropped leather jacket, her set a fusion of deep house and Thai-inspired electronica—a nod, perhaps, to the night’s exotic arrivals. The bass thrummed through Anthony’s chest like a second heartbeat, her voice cutting through the speakers: sultry Italian lilt over lyrics about lost gardens and reclaimed hearts. The crowd surged, bodies moving in hypnotic waves. Nara and Miko dove in, Nara grinding against a handsome photographer, Miko swaying with tentative grace.
Anthony hung back in the booth, nursing his scotch, eyes locked on Karina. She felt his stare—always had—and midway through her set, their gazes collided across the chaos. Her lips curved in that signature smirk, the one that said I know you, Perlas. She dedicated the next track to “old flames who never quite burn out,” her eyes never leaving his. The room exploded, but for Anthony, it was just them: the girl who’d built his fire, now threatening to reignite it.
By the time her set wrapped, sweat glistened on her skin like diamonds, and the air crackled with afterglow. She sauntered offstage, mic in hand, straight to their booth. “Anthony Perlas,” she purred, sliding in beside him without invitation. Up close, she was even more devastating: full lips painted crimson, green eyes flecked with gold, the scent of vanilla and vinyl clinging to her like a signature. “Heard you brought fresh blood. Trying to replace me already?”
Nara and Miko paused their chatter, sensing the undercurrent. Lena arched a brow from across the table, ever the silent sentinel. Anthony met Karina’s gaze, unflinching. “Replace the irreplaceable? Never. Just expanding the empire. Nara, Miko—this is Karina. Goddess #30 to those who survive her.”
Introductions flew, laced with flirtation. Karina sized up the sisters with appraising eyes—professional, but tinged with something sharper. “Thailand, huh? Exotic. I did Phuket last summer. Waves that crash like heartbreak.” She turned to Anthony, her knee brushing his under the table. “Missed you at Coachella. Thought you’d show.”
“Work,” he said simply, though the word tasted like ash. Work had been his excuse then, his armor now. “You owned it, from what I hear. Tracks still in my rotation.”
Her laugh was a melody, low and inviting. “Liar. But I’ll take it. Dance with me, Anthony. For old times.” Before he could protest, she was pulling him to the floor, the crowd parting like they knew royalty when they saw it. Nara whooped, Miko watched with wide eyes, and Lena just shook her head, pouring another round.
The dance floor was a living entity, bodies pulsing under strobing lights. Karina pressed against him, her movements fluid, commanding. One hand on his chest, the other in his hair—she moved like she owned the rhythm, and him with it. “Remember Milan?” she murmured, lips grazing his ear. “That rooftop party? You promised me the stars.”
“I delivered an agency,” he countered, hands settling on her hips, the familiarity igniting like dry tinder. “Stars are for dreamers.”
She tilted her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. “And what are you now, Anthony? Still dreaming? Or just collecting pretty things?” Her words stung, laced with the truth they’d both avoided. Karina had always seen through him—the boy from nowhere who’d clawed his way up, leaving pieces behind.
The song shifted, slower, sultrier. Around them, the three-event crescendo built: whispers of the impending runway, models prepping backstage, the air thick with perfume and possibility. But Anthony’s world narrowed to her—the curve of her waist, the heat of her breath, the way her eyes dared him to remember what they’d lost.
Yet even as his pulse raced, doubt flickered. Nara and Miko were upstairs, wide-eyed innocents in a den of wolves. And Karina… she was fire, but fires burned out. Or left scars.
As the track faded, she pulled back just enough to search his face. “Lunch tomorrow? My treat. Catch up. For the girls’ sake.” Her smile was all innocence, but her eyes promised sin.
He nodded, the word slipping out before reason caught up. “Rocco’s. Noon.”
She beamed, planting a kiss on his cheek that lingered too long. “It’s a date.” Then she was gone, vanishing into the throng like smoke, leaving him adrift.
Back at the booth, Nara was buzzing. “She’s incredible! Like, actual goddess energy.” Miko nodded, but her expression was thoughtful, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “She looks at you like… like you’re her unfinished song.”
Anthony forced a laugh, signaling Lena for the check. “Old history. Let’s get you two settled—tomorrow’s a big day.” But as the limo hummed toward their hotel, the city lights streaking by, he couldn’t shake the echo of Karina’s touch. History had a way of rewriting itself in LA. And tomorrow? Tomorrow was a blank page, waiting for ink.
The next morning dawned crisp and golden, the kind of LA day that lied about winter ever coming. Anthony’s alarm chimed at 8 AM—a minimalist tone from his custom app, synced to his circadian rhythm. He silenced it with a swipe, rolling out of silk sheets that smelled faintly of last night’s cologne. The penthouse was silent, save for the distant coo of doves on the balcony. No Karina here, no sisters crashing his space. Just him, and the empire that never slept.
Shower first: scalding water cascading over taut muscles, steam fogging the glass as he replayed the night. Karina‘s laugh, echoing like a challenge. Nara’s bold energy, Miko’s quiet depth. It was a good haul—OT’s roster would thank him. But lunch loomed, a minefield disguised as pasta. Rocco’s in Westwood: old-school Italian charm, checkered tablecloths, and enough privacy booths to hide a mob boss. Neutral ground. Safe.
Dressed in slim chinos and a crisp white button-down—casual power—he descended to the garage, where his matte-black Range Rover waited like a loyal steed. Traffic was a beast, but Anthony navigated it with podcasts on leadership and the occasional call to Lena. “Schedule the Thai sisters for fittings this afternoon. And pull Karina‘s calendar—see if there’s overlap for a collab shoot.”
“Subtle, boss,” Lena teased. “Lunch going well?”
“Starts in ten. Wish me luck.”
Rocco’s was a time capsule: red-brick facade, twinkle lights strung like stars, the air rich with garlic and aged Chianti. Anthony arrived early, claiming their corner booth with a view of the bougainvillea-draped patio. He ordered an espresso, black as his mood, and waited. Five minutes. Ten. Karina was fashionably late—always had been.
At twelve sharp-plus-fifteen, she swept in: oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a slip dress in buttery yellow that skimmed her thighs, blonde waves tousled like she’d just stepped off a yacht. Heads turned—waiters fumbled trays, diners whispered. She was a force, Karina, and she wielded it like a wand.
“Sorry, darling,” she said, sliding into the booth and air-kissing his cheeks. “Traffic from the Valley—endless.” She shed her shades, revealing those green-gold eyes. “You look… edible.”
He smirked, signaling the waiter. “Flattery gets you wine. What’ll it be?”
“Prosecco. And the carbonara—extra guanciale.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in hands. “So, tell me everything. The agency’s a beast now. I saw the spread in Vogue last month—‘Perlas’s Pantheon of Perfection.’ Classy.”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “Clickbait. We’re launching a mentorship program next quarter. Empowering, not exploiting.”
Her brow arched. “Noble. Remember when it was just us, scraping by on ramen and rejection emails? You’d pace that tiny apartment, diagramming business plans on napkins. I believed in you then.” Her voice softened, a rare vulnerability cracking the facade. “Still do.”
The waiter arrived with drinks, bubbles fizzing like suppressed sparks. They ordered—lobster ravioli for him, her carbonara—and fell into easy rhythm: shop talk laced with nostalgia. She gushed about her latest EP, a blend of Euro-trance and LA trap. He shared war stories from Fashion Week, the near-disaster with a rogue zipper on the finale gown. Laughter flowed, genuine and unguarded, the kind they’d lost to distance.
But midway through her pasta, Karina‘s fork paused. “The new girls—Nara and Miko. They’re stunning. Remind me of us, back when. Fresh, hungry.” She twirled a strand around her fork, eyes distant. “You always had an eye for that fire.”
“They’re assets,” he said carefully. “Like you were.”
“Were?” She set her fork down, leaning in. The booth felt smaller, the air thicker. “Anthony, last night… that dance. It wasn’t just choreography.” Her hand found his across the table, fingers interlacing with a familiarity that sent heat racing up his arm. “I’ve spun tracks from Berlin to Bali, but every beat circles back to you. To us.”
He didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Her touch was memory made flesh: the Milan nights, the Ibiza sunrises, the promises whispered in hotel suites. “Karina, the agency’s my life now. Models, schedules—it’s a machine. You know that.”
She squeezed his hand, nails digging just enough to sting. “Then let me oil the gears. Collab with me—OT x Karina Beats. Runway shows with live sets. We’d be unstoppable.” Her eyes burned, not just with business, but with the old hunger. “Or… more. If you want.”
The check arrived like an intermission, but the tension lingered. They paid—her treat, as promised—and stepped into the blinding afternoon sun. Westwood’s streets buzzed with coeds and coffee runs, oblivious to the drama unfolding under the palms. “Walk with me?” she asked, looping her arm through his.
They strolled toward the pier, the ocean a shimmering tease in the distance. Conversation turned lighter: her disastrous blind date with a producer (“He talked crypto the whole time—z’s within ten minutes”), his latest acquisition (a Bangkok studio for scouting). But under it all simmered the unspoken—the what-ifs, the why-nots.
At the beach’s edge, where sand met sidewalk, Karina stopped, kicking off her espadrilles. “Tomorrow’s preview,” she said suddenly. “The OT pop-up at the pier. Flowers, fittings, the whole shebang. Bring the girls. I’ll DJ the afterparty.” Her smile was wicked. “And maybe… we finish what we started at Roxy.”
Anthony hesitated, the sea breeze ruffling his hair. Nara and Miko would love it—beach vibes, floral crowns, the LA dream in full bloom. But Karina? She was the wildcard, the bloom that could wilt or overrun the garden. “It’s a plan,” he said finally. “Noon sharp. Don’t be late this time.”
She rose on tiptoes, brushing her lips against his cheek—closer to his mouth than protocol allowed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Then she was gone, barefoot and bold, vanishing into the crowd like a melody unfinished.
Anthony stood there, salt air filling his lungs, heart pounding a rhythm he couldn’t name. The preview tomorrow: sun-drenched sands, exotic flowers airlifted from Thailand, models draped in silk sarongs. A perfect storm. And in the eye? Him, Karina, and the ghosts they couldn’t outrun.
Back at the agency by late afternoon, the office hummed with controlled frenzy. OT’s headquarters was a converted warehouse in Silver Lake: exposed brick, Warhol prints of iconic models, and a wall of Polaroids chronicling every success. Lena met him at the door, iPad in hand. “Thai sisters aced fittings. Nara’s pushing for a swimwear line; Miko’s shy but killer in editorial.”
“Good. Prep the beach preview—floral arches, Thai lanterns. And Karina’s confirmed for the afterparty.”
Lena’s eyes narrowed. “Karina? As in, the ex who ghosted for a world tour?”
“Ancient history.” But even as he said it, doubt gnawed. He headed to his corner office, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the reservoir, and sank into his leather chair. Files on Nara and Miko spread before him: headshots that screamed potential, bios hinting at hidden depths. Nara: aspiring actress, fluent in four languages, a tattoo of a phoenix on her ribcage. Miko: budding photographer, her portfolio filled with dreamy beachscapes from Phuket.
His phone lit up—a text from Karina: Can’t wait for tomorrow. Wear the black shirt—the one that makes you look dangerous. 💋
He smiled despite himself, typing back: Only if you promise not to steal the show.
Her reply was instant: Too late. Always do.
Evening fell soft, the city transitioning from hustle to hedonism. Anthony wrapped up calls—New York investors, Milan scouts—then headed to the rooftop garden. The orchids glowed under string lights, their petals unfurling like secrets. He poured a scotch, neat, and leaned against the railing, the reservoir a dark mirror below.
That’s when his mind wandered back—not to Karina, but to the sisters. Nara’s fire, Miko’s quiet storm. They were the future, unscarred by his past. Yet Karina’s return stirred the pot, threatening to boil over. Was this reunion a second chance, or a sabotage?
A knock echoed from the penthouse door—Lena, with takeout from their favorite Thai spot. Pad see ew steaming, spring rolls crisp. They ate on the balcony, debriefing the day. “The preview’s gold,” she said between bites. “Flowers arriving at dawn—frangipani, heliconia, the works. It’ll smell like paradise.”
“Paradise has thorns,” Anthony murmured, eyes on the horizon.
Lena paused, chopsticks mid-air. “Karina?”
He nodded. “She’s weaving back in. Collab potential, but… complications.”
She set her bowl down, all business. “You built this without her. Don’t let nostalgia rewrite the blueprint.”
Wise words. But as the stars pricked the sky, Anthony couldn’t shake the pull. Tomorrow: beach, blooms, beats. A preview of what could be—or what might shatter. In the game of empires and hearts, the first move was always the riskiest.
And Anthony Perlas? He played to win.
The beach preview dawned like a fever dream, the Pacific glittering under a cloudless vault. Will Rogers State Beach was transformed: white tents billowing like sails, floral arches dripping with Thai imports—heliconia flames in electric pink, frangipani leis cascading like waterfalls. OT’s team buzzed like bees: stylists pinning hair into beachy waves, photographers angling for golden-hour shots, assistants spritzing eco-friendly mists that smelled of coconut and ambition.
Anthony arrived at eleven, sleeves rolled, shades on, exuding that effortless command that made interns straighten spines. Nara and Miko were already there, transformed: Nara in a emerald bikini top and sarong skirt, lei around her neck like a warrior’s torque. Miko in coral linen, barefoot and beaming, a crown of orchids woven into her dark waves.
“You two look like you stepped out of a dream,” he said, handing them chilled coconuts with straws carved like lotus stems.
Nara struck a pose, hip cocked. “Your dream, boss? Or the runway’s?”
Miko blushed, sipping shyly. “It’s magical. Like home, but… brighter.”
The morning unfolded in a whirlwind: fittings under the tents, where silk sarongs whispered against skin; photo ops with the waves crashing as backdrop, salt spray catching the light like diamonds. Anthony oversaw it all, directing with quiet authority—“Tilt left, Nara; Miko, give me that wistful gaze”—while Lena handled logistics, her clipboard a shield.
By noon, the preview was in full swing: influencers milling, sipping lychee martinis from bamboo cups, snapping for the ‘Gram. Whispers spread: “OT’s Thai takeover—Perlas’s killing it again.” Karina arrived fashionably on time, for once: oversized sunhat, white linen romper that hugged her curves, a portable mixer slung over her shoulder like a designer bag.
“Paradise found,” she announced, air-kissing Anthony and the sisters. To Nara: “Love the energy—let’s sync on a track sometime.” To Miko: “That crown suits you. Queen material.”
The afterparty ignited as the sun kissed the horizon: Karina’s setup on a driftwood stage, beats pulsing through hidden speakers, the crowd—models, moguls, mischief-makers—swaying under fairy lights strung between palms. Frangipani petals rained from above, courtesy of a gentle breeze, sticking to sweat-damp skin like confetti from the gods.
Anthony found himself pulled into the fray: a slow dance with Nara, her laughter infectious as she spun under his arm; a quiet chat with Miko by the bonfire, where she confessed her fear of the spotlight—“It’s beautiful, but blinding.” He reassured her, hand on her shoulder, a spark of protectiveness flaring.
But Karina… Karina was the magnet. She cornered him during a lull, the music fading to a sultry remix of their old favorite—an Italian ballad about lost loves returning. “Dance with me, properly this time,” she commanded, tugging him to the water’s edge. Waves lapped at their ankles, cool and insistent.
Under the emerging stars, they moved—bodies syncing like they never stopped. Her head on his chest, his hands in her hair. “This could be us again,” she whispered. “The empire. You, me, building something unbreakable.”
He pulled back, searching her face. “What if it’s already broken?”
Her eyes flashed. “Then we fix it.” The kiss came fierce, salt-tanged, a collision of past and present. Fireworks—literal ones, courtesy of the preview’s grand finale—burst overhead, painting the sky in blooms of color.
But as the night waned, Anthony glimpsed Miko watching from the shadows, her expression unreadable. Nara clapped with the crowd, oblivious. And in that moment, the garden felt fuller—and far more tangled—than he’d ever imagined.
Tomorrow’s castings awaited. But tonight? Tonight was the real preview: of hearts entangled, secrets blooming, and a love story just beginning to unfurl.
End of Chapter 1
(Word count: ~2,850 – Approx. 10 full pages at 280-300 words/page in standard novel format. All names updated: Protagonist = Anthony Perlas; Goddess #30 = Karina. Ready for IG serialization, PDF export, or Mariners Church reading tomorrow at 6 PM! Print-friendly – copy-paste into Google Docs for 10-page layout.)
