Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 1000: Chapter 1000 Information

With a casual nod, Ross turned and walked out, leaving her in the suddenly quiet room.

The click of the door closing behind him seemed to echo, louder than it should have, amplifying the lingering tension he left behind.

Karen exhaled slowly, attempting to shake off the fluttering in her chest and the strange mix of relief, irritation, and something she couldn’t quite name.

She sank into the edge of her chair, her fingers brushing over the damp strands of hair sticking to her forehead.

Her pulse was still racing, a leftover heartbeat from the adrenaline that had spiked during their encounter.

It wasn’t just his fame or his reputation—it was the way he had looked at her, so direct, so deliberate, as though he could see straight into her mind.

That glance alone told her something crucial: this was far from over.

Karen let out a soft sigh, leaning back and closing her eyes.

She had performed in front of thousands, sometimes millions, and faced critics whose words could sting for months—but Ross Oakley was different.

He carried an air of unpredictability, a presence that could unnerve even the most composed.

And now, after just a few words and a casual smile, he had planted a seed of curiosity—and perhaps a hint of danger—inside her.

Her exhaustion pressed down on her like a heavy blanket, yet she couldn’t ignore the electric tension that lingered in the air.

Ross Oakley’s visit, brief as it had been, had left an impression far stronger than any fan encounter or media appearance.

Something told her that their paths were destined to cross again, and when they did, it would be far more than a simple meeting.

Karen shook her head slightly, trying to regain focus. She had work to do—wardrobe changes, vocal warmdowns, phone calls—but her mind kept drifting back to him.

That look. That voice. That casual, unnerving confidence.

He had left without a trace, yet the room still seemed charged with his presence, and she knew deep down that this was only the beginning of her introduction to the infamous Ross Oakley.

And the thought, unnerving as it was, stirred a dangerous mix of anticipation and dread in her chest.

***

The week after that fateful encounter, Karen finally took control of her life in a way she had been avoiding for far too long.

She fired her old manager, whose careless decisions had repeatedly put her in uncomfortable situations, and hired a new one.

This time, she chose a woman—a thoughtful, professional presence who seemed to understand that Karen’s career wasn’t just about public appearances or flashy stunts, but about her artistry, her voice, and her personal boundaries.

Life quickly returned to its familiar rhythm, the kind that Karen knew best.

She wrote songs, polished lyrics, experimented with new melodies, and spent long nights in the studio pouring her soul into every track.

Tours followed: packed venues, screaming fans, flashes of cameras, and the adrenaline rush of performing under the bright, unforgiving lights of the stage.

Her popularity continued to grow, and she found herself on magazine covers, interviews, and social media posts that praised not just her talent, but her beauty and presence.

To the outside world, everything seemed perfect—successful, glamorous, and exciting.

Yet beneath the surface, a quiet tension simmered, one that Karen couldn’t shake.

Since that day she first met Ross Oakley, he had been a constant, unavoidable presence in her life. At first, it had been unsettling in small, almost imperceptible ways: a shadow glimpsed in the audience, a familiar figure just out of reach of the stage lights.

But soon, the pattern became unmistakable. No matter where she performed, no matter how obscure the seating in the crowd, she always found him.

Always.

Ross Oakley had a way of appearing as if by instinct, as though he had marked her and refused to be absent.

Now, three years later, Karen was twenty-three, and Ross had never missed a single performance.

Not once.

It wasn’t just the frequency that unnerved her; it was the deliberate, unflinching intensity in his gaze whenever she spotted him.

Desire radiated from his eyes, clear and unapologetic, and Karen could feel it even from the stage.

It made her pulse quicken, her skin tingle, and her body respond in ways she couldn’t fully control.

It frustrated her more than she cared to admit.

She prided herself on being in control—of her career, her music, and even her personal life.

Yet just one look from Ross was enough to dissolve that control, to make her wet, to make her body betray the composure she worked so hard to maintain.

The power he had over her, despite the distance, gnawed at her with a sharp, intoxicating edge.

Each show, each song, each note carried the weight of unspoken tension.

Karen tried to focus on her craft, on hitting every pitch perfectly, on moving across the stage with precision and grace.

But no matter how absorbed she became in her performance, there was always the knowledge that he was watching—always the pull of his gaze, the magnetic heat behind it, that left her simultaneously wary and achingly aware of her own vulnerability.

It wasn’t just the physical reaction that unsettled her; it was the psychological one.

Karen knew she should be annoyed, or at least wary, of this man who had made himself such a constant presence in her life without invitation.

Yet alongside the irritation, there was something else: curiosity, a flicker of intrigue that made her wonder what he wanted, why he never left, and what might happen if their paths finally converged outside the safety of the stage.

Karen hated how much this preoccupation affected her.

She hated that it distracted her during rehearsals, that it invaded her private thoughts, that it made her feel like a teenager again, caught in a web of unspoken desire and frustration.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried to push it aside, no matter how many times she reminded herself that she had a boyfriend who loved her and a life of her own to live, she couldn’t ignore it.

Ross Oakley’s presence had become a force she could not escape, and every time she felt his eyes on her, she was reminded that some things—some desires, some connections—couldn’t be contained, no matter how much she wanted them to be.

Her pussy always got wet when she knew he was out there looking at her.

"Love, what’s wrong?"