My manager had booked a room for me in a ridiculously luxurious five-star hotel. It was supposed to be the kind of place where I could finally unwind, forget about work, and enjoy a l*ttle peace and quiet.

Unfortunately, it seemed I wasn't alone.

Apparently, a leg-obsessed ghost had taken up residence in my room.

And not just any ghost. This particular specter seemed to have an inexplicable fascination with female legs—especially strong, muscular calves. From the moment I arrived, he made it practically impossible for me to rest. Every time I tried to relax, I felt his invisible fingers teasing and tickling my legs.

I barely relaxed at all.

My manager, naturally, refused to believe me.

As far as he was concerned, I was simply s*ffering from insomnia. According to him, I was being my usual bossy, dramatic self and making a fuss over nothing.

But the ghost clearly had no intention of backing down.

He followed me out into the hotel's grand hall, where he continued his relentless love making with my legs, calves, and even my backside—apparently without the slightest concern for witnesses.

I tried to fight him. I really did.

But an invisible ghost is remarkably difficult to wrestle with.

In the struggle, he somehow managed to pull my dress down, leaving me standing c*mpletely exposed in the middle of the hotel hall.

And my manager?

He simply stood there as though absolutely nothing unusual was happening.

Not a flicker of concern. Not even a hint of embarrassment.

At that point, I was furious.

I was seriously beginning to wonder whether firing my manager would be the most sensible decision I'd made all year.

Meanwhile, hotel guests continued to drift through the hall, coming and going as if this were an ordinary evening. My greatest fear was that someone might recognize me. Being a famous fashion model has its advantages, but this was certainly not the kind of publicity I wanted.

One photograph could become a scandal overnight.

Someone could snap a picture, sell it to a publication, and turn my NUDITY into tomorrow's headline.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, a more disturbing thought began to take shape.

What if this wasn't an accident?

What if my manager had planned the entire bizarre spectacle as some kind of outrageous publicity stunt?

He had always believed that controversy created attention, and attention created fame. To him, another scandal surrounding my name meant more headlines, more followers, more opportunities—and, ultimately, more money.

He didn't seem to care about dignity.

He didn't seem to care about reputation.

He certainly didn't seem to care about moral standards.

As far as my manager was concerned, there was only one thing that mattered:

Money.

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Calves B*ndage Tickling Leg Obsessed Ghost Is After My Legs - ENF with C4s.com