Season 30: Eternal Gardens of Desire
The salt-kissed air of Manhattan Beach wrapped around Anthony Perlas like a long-lost embrace, carrying the distant crash of waves that sounded like the city’s secrets spilling into the sea. It was Monday evening, the kind of golden-hour haze that made LA feel invincible—palms swaying lazy against a sky bleeding pink and orange, the horizon a blurred line where ocean met infinity. Their private beachfront retreat, a sprawling glass-and-driftwood haven perched on the edge of the sand, hummed with quiet luxury: floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Pacific, outdoor showers scented with eucalyptus, and a firepit that crackled like whispered promises. This wasn’t just a house; it was their sanctuary, a $3 million slice of paradise Anthony had snapped up two years ago, right after the agency’s biggest scandal nearly sank them all. Back then, it had been a hideout for deals and detoxes. Now, with Karina by his side, it was home.
She stood at the water’s edge, barefoot in a flowing white sundress that caught the breeze like a sail, her Brazilian curls tumbling wild and sun-bleached down her back. Karina Santos—Goddess #30, his eternal flame, the woman who’d walked out of his life two years ago and crashed back in like a rogue wave. At twenty-five, she was a vision: sun-kissed olive skin glowing from Rio roots, emerald eyes flecked with gold that could command a runway or unravel a man’s defenses, and curves that whispered temptation even in the simplest silhouette. But it was her laugh—the low, throaty one that bubbled up like samba under stars—that had hooked him six years ago, back when she was just a wide-eyed Milan import spinning tracks in underground clubs. Now, after the hell she’d endured, that laugh was rarer, but when it came, it healed.
Anthony approached from behind, his bare feet sinking into the cool sand, a chilled bottle of Malbec in one hand and two crystal glasses in the other. He’d ditched the CEO armor—no suits, no cufflinks—just board shorts and a faded OT tee that clung to his sun-bronzed chest. At thirty, he was still the empire-builder: broad shoulders from daily gym rituals, a jaw sharp enough to cut deals, and those piercing hazel eyes that missed nothing. But with Karina, he was just Anthony—the boy who’d once sketched logos on napkins, dreaming of a life beyond the grind. He set the glasses down on a weathered teak table nearby, then wrapped his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. Her scent—coconut lotion mixed with ocean salt—hit him like a drug.
“Penny for your thoughts, amor?” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. His Portuguese was rusty, picked up from late-night calls during her Rio tours, but it always made her smile.
She leaned back into him, her hand finding his, fingers interlacing like puzzle pieces long separated. “Just… this. Us. The water. It’s like the world stopped screaming for a minute.” Her voice was soft, accented with that melodic Brazilian lilt that turned every word into a caress. They stood there, hands clasped, staring at the endless blue. No words needed—just the rhythm of the tide, syncing with their breaths. In that moment, the chaos of OT Models Agency—the Thai sisters’ fittings, Bella’s lingering texts, the boardroom battles—faded to static. It was just them, reclaiming what the darkness had tried to steal.
Two years. It had been two agonizing years since she’d vanished from his life, her phone going dark after a frantic voicemail: “Anthony, I can’t… they’re watching. Trust no one.” He’d torn LA apart searching—hiring PIs, grilling contacts in the club scene, even leaning on FBI strings from a favor owed by an old investor. The agency had teetered on the brink; without Karina’s magnetic energy fueling the campaigns, bookings dipped, whispers of “Harlan’s curse” (he’d rebranded to Perlas by then, shedding the old name like dead weight) echoed in casting rooms. But he’d held it together, building walls higher than his WeHo high-rise. Until last week’s Roxy reunion: her set thumping like a heartbeat, their eyes locking across the strobe-lit chaos, and suddenly, the garden bloomed again.
Now, a week into this whirlwind reclaiming—dinners, beach walks, stolen kisses in the penthouse shadows—they were here, in their retreat, weaving the threads back together. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he said finally, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Steak, just how you like—medium rare, with chimichurri from that spot in Silver Lake.” He’d planned it all: the outdoor grill smoking with aged ribeye, a playlist of her old Ibiza mixes humming low, fairy lights strung along the deck like captured stars.
Karina turned in his arms, her eyes searching his—those emerald depths holding storms he’d only begun to navigate. “You didn’t have to go all out, Anthony. Just… being here is enough.” But there was a flicker in her gaze, a shadow that hadn’t been there in Milan. Shyness, he realized. Not the playful kind from their early days, but the guarded kind born from betrayal. She bit her lip, glancing away toward the waves. “It’s been so long. What if… what if I’m not the girl you remember?”
His heart clenched. He cupped her face gently, thumb tracing the faint scar along her jaw—a thin white line she’d hidden under makeup before, but now wore like a badge. “You’re better. Stronger. And you’re still the one who makes empires feel small.” He kissed her then, slow and deep, tasting salt and surrender. When they broke apart, breathless, she smiled—that real one, the one that lit her from within. “Okay, Mr. Perlas. Show me this wonderful place you keep raving about.”
Lot 234: that’s what he called it, their private slice of beachfront bliss, tucked away from the public gaze like a secret between lovers. As they wandered the deck, hand in hand, he pointed out the quirks—the infinity pool that merged with the horizon, the outdoor cinema where they’d binge old rom-coms under blankets, the hidden nook with hammocks strung between palms. “Bought it right after you left,” he admitted, voice low. “Needed somewhere to breathe. To remember what fighting for felt like.” Dinner unfolded under the stars: steak seared to perfection, grilled asparagus glistening with olive oil, her laughter bubbling as she teased him about his “fancy CEO grill skills.” But as the Malbec flowed, the conversation dipped deeper, the wine loosening tongues like old friends.
“Tell me about the last two years,” she said softly, her fork pausing mid-air. “LA without me. The agency. Did it… survive?”
Anthony leaned back, firelight dancing in his eyes. “Barely. After you ghosted—poof, like a bad magic trick—the bookings tanked. Sponsors pulled back, whispering about ‘instability.’ I rebranded, hired Lena full-time, scouted those Thai sisters to shake things up. But honestly? It was empty. Like building a palace without a queen.” He reached for her hand again, squeezing. “What about you, Karina? Rio? The tours? I saw the headlines—‘DJ Inferno Takes Brazil by Storm’—but you looked… haunted.”
She set her fork down, gaze drifting to the flames. The shyness returned, a veil over her fire. “It started small. After Ibiza, I needed a break from us—from the spotlight eating everything. But promoters… they don’t let go easy. This one guy, Victor Hale—big in the LA club scene, ties to Hollywood Park, that Inglewood den of vice where the elite party like gods. He promised me a residency, global gigs. Said I’d be the next big thing.” Her voice cracked, fingers tightening around his. “But it was a trap. He had this… network. Like Epstein’s ghost, still haunting the hills. Hollywood producers dropping millions at private soirees, models vanishing into ‘exclusive’ contracts. Victor blackmailed them—girls as young as fifteen, funneled through online clubs he ran, dark web dens where bets weren’t on cards, but on bodies.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened, a protective fury igniting in his chest. He’d heard the rumors—Epstein’s web never fully unraveled, tentacles snaking into LA’s underbelly even in 2025, with fresh DOJ leaks naming producers and princes in unsealed files. “Go on,” he urged, voice steady, though his free hand clenched into a fist.
“Victor’s crew marked their girls—tattoos, cartel-style. Sinaloa ink: scorpion webs on wrists for the trafficked, devil horns on necks for the ‘loyal.’ He brought in mules from the Gulf Cartel, smuggling fentanyl-laced party favors through LAX, then flipping them into leverage. One wrong move, and bam—videos surface, families ruined. My parents…” She trailed off, eyes glistening. Karina’s folks—strict Rio bankers who’d disowned her at eighteen for chasing DJ dreams—had been his first red flag in Milan. Evil, she’d called them once, after a blowout call where they threatened to cut her off unless she married “a proper Brazilian boy.” But this? “They found out. Victor hacked their accounts, drained half a mil, framed it like I’d stolen it to fund my ‘wild life.’ Blackmail. Said if I didn’t play along—host his ‘elite’ events at Hollywood Park, lure in fresh faces for his Epstein-lite auctions—they’d bury my family in scandal. I ran to Brazil, but he followed. Cartel connections—MS-13 runners in the Valley, tattooing warnings on girls who bolted. I was his ‘star asset,’ he said. Traumatized me into silence.”
The fire popped, embers swirling like accusations. Anthony pulled her closer, her head tucking under his chin, his arms a fortress. “Karina… why didn’t you call? I could’ve—”
“You were building an empire,” she whispered, voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t want to drag you into the abyss. But it broke me. The professional dominatrix gig? That was survival—Victor forced me into it, playing ‘queen’ at his parties to keep the wolves at bay. Whips and chains for the elite, while inside, I was screaming. FBI caught wind last year—Operation Restore Justice, they called it. Raids on model agencies, flipping informants in the Fashion District. I was their strain, their key witness. Testified in shadows, wired up for stings. Local PD, feds, even CIA shadows sniffing cartel trails from Sinaloa to Inglewood. Hollywood Park? Ground zero—underground clubs where promoters like Victor laundered $200 mil in trafficking cash, blending bets on horses with bets on girls. Epstein’s playbook, updated for TikTok: blackmail reels, deepfake auctions. They protected me—WITSEC whispers, coalition safe houses—but the scars? They linger.”
He tilted her chin up, eyes locking with fierce tenderness. “You’re not broken, amor. You’re a survivor. And that dominatrix fire? It saved you—for us. The feds owe OT now; I’ve got their ear, feeding tips on the holdouts. No more shadows. You’re safe. We’re safe.” His kiss was a vow, fierce and healing, tasting of steak and salt tears. “I love you, Karina. Not the goddess on stage. The warrior who came back.”
She melted into him, the shyness cracking like dawn. “Eu te amo, Anthony. More than the beats, the lights. You… you make me believe in gardens again.” They danced then, slow under the stars, her bare feet on his, the ocean their orchestra. Dinner forgotten, they tumbled into the hammock, tangled in whispers and warmth, the week stretching like a promise.
Tuesday dawned with lazy sunbeams filtering through gauzy curtains, the kind of light that begged for bare skin and bare truths. Anthony woke to Karina’s fingers tracing his chest, her body curled against his like a crescent moon. “Beach day,” she murmured, lips brushing his collarbone. “No empires. Just us.”
He grinned, pulling her atop him in a tangle of sheets. “Boss’s orders.” Breakfast was simple—fresh papaya drizzled with lime, coffee black as midnight—eaten cross-legged on the deck, toes dangling over the edge. By noon, they were on the sand: her in a emerald bikini that hugged her curves like a lover’s secret, him in trunks, a cooler of iced teas and sunscreen in tow. The beach was theirs—private stretch, roped off from prying eyes, waves lapping gentle like apologies.
They built castles first, silly ones with moats of seaweed and turrets topped by shells, her laughter pealing as he “knighted” her with a driftwood sword. “To the queen of my heart,” he declared, dropping to one knee in the surf. She curtsied, eyes sparkling, but pulled him up for a kiss that tasted of salt and forever. As the sun climbed, they swam—her strong strokes cutting the water like a siren’s call, him chasing, catching her mid-laugh in deeper waters. “Two years,” she said later, floating beside him, hands linked above the surface. “I missed this. Missed you holding me like the world’s not watching.”
Afraid to drown the joy, he steered light: stories of OT’s wild week—the Thai sisters’ chaotic fittings, Nara’s bold pitches for a swim line, Miko’s shy sketches turning into viral mood boards. “They’re fire,” he said. “Like you were in Milan. But none shine like my Karina.” She blushed, splashing him playfully, but the shadow crept back at sunset. As they dried off, towels wrapped like cocoons, she confessed more: the evil parents’ final blow—a letter from Rio, disowning her for “
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