Travis sat at the inner table, surrounded by his family. His parents, Scott and Virginia, were at the head of the table, with his niece, Emily, and her younger brother, Christopher, flanking him. His grandmother, Granny May, was seated at the far end, her eyes twinkling with amusement. His baby sister Vanessa was away on a business trip somewhere in South Carolina with her husband Leo.
Vanessa had always been the business brain—sharp, focused, and eager to lead. Even as a kid, she'd been more invested in board meetings than Barbie dolls, while Travis chased basketball dreams like they were gold. He'd been just an overzealous teenage boy who believed the NBA would be his kingdom—until a dislocated arm robbed him of a shot with the Chicago Bulls.
But that fall pushed him. Made him build his own empire straight out of college.
"So, Trav, what's cooking?" Virginia asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
Travis shrugged with a crooked grin. "Not much, Mom. Just grinding through this new project. Trying to carve out my own corner of the world."
Scott leaned in, elbows on the polished table. "Corner? Feels like you're gunning for the whole damn skyline, son."
Travis chuckled. "Maybe just the east side of Manhattan—for now."
Granny May scoffed playfully from the end. "Oh please, the only thing you're carving is stress lines into your forehead with all those contracts."
Travis raised his glass toward her with a wink. "Gotta earn my stripes, Granny."
Scott smirked, clapping a firm hand on Travis's back. "You're doing it, kid. Proud of you."
Travis nodded. "Thanks, Pops. You taught me how to play the long game."
His niece Emily rolled her eyes with a teasing smile. "You're such a goofball, Uncle Travis."
Christopher, her younger brother, chuckled from the other side of the table. "Yeah, and you're the dork who thinks he's too cool for family game night."
Travis leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Hey, every family needs a dork. Might as well be the one with good hair."
Laughter filled the room, light and genuine. The conversation flowed easily from work updates to favorite shows, to who was still secretly watching old reruns of The Fresh Prince. It was these moments—this comfort—that reminded Travis why he loved them, even if he rarely said it out loud.
As the plates were cleared and dessert sat half-finished, Virginia looked over at her son. "So, Travis," she said, folding her napkin. "Have you thought about coming down to Georgia for a bit? Just to breathe?"
Travis hesitated, running a hand over his jaw. "I've got a full plate right now, Mom. This expansion project's not going to manage itself."
Scott leaned forward, arms crossed casually. "Son, the work's always going to be there. Doesn't mean you should let it swallow you."
Travis gave a dry smile. "Is this one of those fatherly wisdom talks?"
Scott smirked. "Nope. Just a man who's seen what burnout looks like."
Travis chuckled, then raised a brow. "You mean that thing where y'all lure me down with promises of rest but fatten me up with fried catfish and biscuits?"
That got the whole table laughing again.
"Well, maybe that too," Scott admitted with a grin.
Travis glanced around at their faces—his people—and gave in. "Alright, fine. I'll come down soon. Just don't act surprised when I nap through the whole visit."
Cheers and clapping broke out like they'd just won a bet.
When breakfast wrapped up the next morning, Travis saw them off with private flights back to Georgia. They had come to California three days earlier to oversee operations in a few of the family's companies—Vanessa's territory now. She ran the business like a general: sharp, fierce, and always two steps ahead.
Travis could've easily taken over one of those companies himself. But he hadn't. He'd built something of his own—his own name, his own empire. He still showed up when Vanessa asked, stepped in when things got tight. Not because he loved corporate life. But because it was family. And he owed them that much.
At least.
On a Saturday night, Travis walked into his usual spot with his manly charms. He was a regular at Casa Grande.
The lights of the nightclub pulsed and flashed, casting a strobe-like effect on the crowd of revelers. The air was thick with the smell of champagne and the distant hum of bass. Amidst the chaos, a figure stood out—Travis Scott, dressed in a crisp, white dress shirt left boldly unbuttoned at the top, revealing a glimpse of toned chest and a subtle glint of silver chain resting against his skin.
A pair of oversized silver-framed sunglasses sat on his head, pushing back soft, tousled curls. His trimmed beard, kissed with just the right amount of stubble, framed his strong jawline, while a few messy strands fell over his forehead with the sort of effortlessness that could drive someone mad.
He moved like a man who had nothing to prove—and that was exactly what made people look twice.
As Travis strode into the room, eyes turned. He scanned the club slowly, not searching, just observing—until he saw her.
She was magnetic.
A ravishing beauty, with raven-black hair cascading down her back, piercing green eyes, and a bold red dress that clung to her figure like it was stitched to her very skin. She looked like a warning and a promise all at once. A living flame.
This petite enchantress was no ordinary woman—she was the type that spoke in glances and left men speechless. And yet, tonight, she found herself the one caught in a gaze.
Travis didn't rush. He let the space between them build. Let her feel him approaching before she even saw him.
"Hi, I'm Travis Scott," he said smoothly, stopping just close enough that her perfume mixed with his cologne in the air between them. His smile? Lethal. Measured. All confidence and no pressure.
The woman turned, lips curving with a spark of amusement. "Clarabelle Belmont," she replied. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise." He let his gaze settle on her lips for a second longer than necessary. "You have a way of making red look... dangerous."
She raised a brow. "You have a way of walking in like you own the place."
He chuckled, low and soft. "Only until someone takes it from me."
She laughed, biting her lip—and he knew. He knew she was hooked. That delicate mix of curiosity and challenge danced in her eyes.
"Would you like to join me for a drink?" he offered, voice dipped in velvet.
Clara nodded, her chin tilted in confidence. She followed him, heels clicking, hips swaying—but Travis? He wasn't in a hurry.
They found a secluded corner by the balcony, where the cool night air whispered through. He handed her a glass, barely touching hers when they clinked, watching her over the rim as she sipped.
Their conversation flowed, full of playful digs and sizzling tension. But just when her voice softened, just when she leaned closer—he pulled back.
"I should probably head out," he said, setting down his glass.
Her smile faltered. "Leaving so soon?"
He leaned in just enough to let his breath brush her cheek. "You'll think about me longer this way."
And before she could respond, Travis turned with that devilish smirk, slipping into the crowd like smoke—gone.
But not forgotten.
Monday morning of Travis was always spectacle. As the sun rose over the city, casting a warm glow over the concrete. Travis, stirred in his opulent penthouse suite. His personal assistant, Rachel, had already prepared his morning coffee, just the way he liked it - strong and black.
Travis stretched his arms above his head, feeling the softness of his silk sheets and the gentle hum of his private elevator system in the background. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, revealing a pair of tailored pajamas that seemed to be designed specifically for him.
As he made his way to the kitchen, Travis couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the life he had built. From a basketball player to becoming one of the richest men in the world, he had worked tirelessly to achieve his goals. And now, as he sipped his coffee and surveyed the breathtaking view of the city below, he felt like he had earned every moment of it.
Rachel greeted him with a warm smile as she expertly prepared his morning routine. "Good morning, sir. Shall I have your car brought around?"
Travis glanced toward the rooftop. "Actually, make it the chopper. I want to beat traffic and be downtown before the city wakes up."
"Understood," she replied, already tapping on her tablet. "Also, Austin confirmed for 12 p.m."
Within an hour, Travis was suited up—crisp, clean, commanding—and headed to the rooftop helipad. The helicopter waited, its blades already humming in rhythm with his pulse. Sliding into the plush leather seat, he barely noticed the lift-off. He was focused. Hungry. Ready.
As the skyline fell away beneath him, Travis gazed out over the city with a sense of awe and ownership. His empire. His creation. His battlefield.
The chopper landed smoothly atop his downtown headquarters. Kendra met him the moment he stepped out, heels clicking on concrete.
"Sir, your meeting with the execs is in fifteen minutes," she said, handing him a folder.
Travis skimmed the front page. "Noted. Let's make it sharp. I've got a second meeting right after."
Inside the conference room, Travis took his seat, cool and composed. The executives straightened up the moment he walked in.
"So, Travis," one said, extending a hand. "What do you think of our latest proposal?"
Travis barely glanced up. "Not good enough. I need a 20% return or I'm walking."
A few exchanged looks—nervous, calculating.
"We can try to push the numbers," one offered, "but we'd be toeing the edge."
Travis didn't flinch. "That's your problem. I want it revised—on my desk by close of business."
The meeting adjourned with quiet nods and stiff handshakes. As Travis stepped out, he felt that familiar pulse of satisfaction. He wasn't just a businessman—he was the boardroom lion. And his rule was simple: you either deal or disappear.
By 10 a.m., Travis Scott, flashing his charming smile, walked into the luxurious conference room at his headquarters with his personal assistant close behind. Today's agenda was clear—finalizing a deal that could shift the tides for his company's next expansion. Seated across the polished oak table was Phoebe, his sharp-minded business partner, dressed in a sleek navy-blue dress that commanded both attention and respect.
"So, Mr. Travis," Phoebe began, sliding a set of documents toward him, "what do you propose we do to seal this deal?"
Travis leaned back with an easy confidence, his southern drawl as smooth as aged whiskey. "Well, Phoebe, I'd say we've done most of the heavy lifting. Just need to fine-tune a few numbers, and we're right where we need to be."
She nodded, then leaned over the table to point out a specific projection—her finger gliding across the paper as she explained. "Right here—this is where I think we can increase the margin by at least 3%, if we cut the rollout cost in Phase Two."
As she bent forward, intent on the figures, Travis's gaze flicked briefly toward her neckline, which the motion happened to reveal with just enough subtle grace. He caught himself and looked back at the numbers, but the trace of a grin curved his lips.
His eyes had momentarily drifted to the curve Phoebe was unintentionally showcasing, but he quickly returned to the spreadsheets—as if it never happened. Still, the distraction was noted… and appreciated.
"Smart move," he said smoothly, tapping the page where her finger rested. "Exactly why I like working with you—sharp with numbers and never missing the fine print."
Phoebe raised an eyebrow, a playful flicker in her eyes. "And here I thought it was my excellent coffee recommendations."
Travis chuckled. "Well, that too. But your spreadsheets are much more distracting."
Their eyes met across the table for just a second too long.
Then, like clockwork, they both looked back at the deal.
All business. For now.
Wednesday evening swept in with elegance and glitter, and the city's elite gathered beneath chandeliers and camera flashes for one of the season's most talked-about events—a charity gala hosted in the heart of downtown. The venue shimmered with gold accents and fresh roses, while the scent of expensive perfume and ambition floated in the air.
A sleek black limousine eased to a stop at the curb, drawing the attention of photographers clustered by the entrance. The door swung open, and Travis Scott stepped out, every inch the mogul—tailored tuxedo, sharp jawline, and that unmistakable aura of someone who owned every room he walked into.
He adjusted his cufflinks and took a long look at the red carpet ahead, already buzzing with champagne-fueled chatter and laughter. With the grace of someone who'd done this a hundred times before, he moved through the crowd, greeting familiar faces, nodding at rivals, shaking hands with board members who used to underestimate him.
Near the bar, he spotted two familiar figures—Austin and Jamie—already sipping champagne and talking too loud, as usual.
"Y'all look like trouble," Travis said as he approached, his voice low and teasing.
Austin turned with a grin. "We are trouble. Rich trouble tonight."
Jamie lifted her glass. "Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence."
Travis smirked. "Had to close a few million-dollar gaps first. You know how it is."
"Don't be humble," Jamie rolled her eyes. "He's here now, which means somebody's about to fall in love with him for the night."
Jamie raised her glass. "To big wins and billion-dollar playboys."
Austin chuckled, lifting his own champagne flute. "To Travis, the same dude who once begged Coach Lewis to bench him so he could flirt with the cheer captain—and now he's out here running the world."
Travis laughed, clinking both their glasses. "Some things change. Some things just evolve with a better suit."
As their glasses clinked and laughter circled between them, Travis's eyes wandered past the glittering crowd. And then he saw her—that blonde. A vision in satin, poised mid-laugh, holding a martini glass like it was an accessory to her elegance.
His smile faltered for half a second, not from nerves, but that kind of arresting curiosity that always came just before the chase.
"Will be right back," he said casually, eyes still locked on the woman. He gave Jamie a pat on the back and barely saw her roll her eyes.
"Oh no," Jamie groaned. "Not again."
Austin followed Travis's gaze and let out a knowing laugh. "Damn. Here we go. This man's about to make headlines again."
"Oh lord," Jamie rolled her eyes. "Travis, you're so predictable. Spot a pretty woman and suddenly you're Casanova in a suit."
"Shut it, Jamie. I just want to talk."
"Sure you do. Just another notch, right?"
"I'm not that bad," Travis defended. "I've had serious relationships."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "You mean the supermodel from Paris? The one who dumped you mid-vacation?"
"Okay... maybe not that one."
He looked toward the woman again. "But this one... she's different."
Jamie scoffed. "Right. And you're just going to flash that billion-dollar smile and sweep her off her feet?"
"That's the plan."
"You're a walking headline, Travis."
He grinned, raising his glass. "And yet, you still like me."
"I tolerate you," she said, clinking her glass with his.
As Travis made his way toward the blonde, They both shook their heads. Same old Travis. Charming. Dangerous. Unstoppable.
Travis stepped into his luxurious mansion, surrounded by exquisite decor and expensive artwork. He was a man who loved the finer things in life—and made no effort to hide it.
As he walked through the foyer, he spotted his assistant, Rachel, waiting in the living room. She was beautiful, with long, thick hair and captivating eyes that always seemed to hold a secret. Travis had hired her a few months ago and, though he tried to keep it professional, he couldn't deny a growing fascination.
"Hi, Mr. Travis," Rachel said with a smile. "I've got papers for you to sign—the new real estate development."
He took them with a nod. "Thanks, Rachel. I'll get to them later."
Their eyes met. The tension lingered. Travis read her body language easily—if he wanted to cross that line, he could. But he wouldn't. Not now.
He flashed her one of his signature smiles and headed upstairs, feeling her gaze linger behind him.
Women, he thought. Not such a hard nut to crack. In his eyes, they were predictable—give them money, luxury, attention, and good sex, and they'd follow. Most of them, anyway.