Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

"Shakira, how did you and Martin meet?" Vanessa asked again, her curiosity piqued.

Shakira reminisced, "It was 2010. I was in South Africa recording the World Cup anthem Waka Waka. I was rehearsing on stage when Martin showed up with some FIFA officials for a tour."

"I'd just broken up with my ex, Antonio—son of former Argentine President Fernando de la Rúa. This footballer named Piqué kept showing off his dribbling, pestering me."

"When Martin arrived, that Piqué guy lost control of the ball, and it flew straight at my face."

"Oh, I remember that vividly. The ball came so fast, nearly smacking me."

Her eyes flicked to Martin, a mix of emotions swirling. "Martin and the officials were right nearby. The officials gasped, but Martin just casually reached out and caught it—like it was nothing. Then he winked at me. His handsome features made my heart race."

Afterward, Shakira invited Martin for coffee a few times, even dinner. But just as she was warming up to something more, Charlize Theron appeared.

Facing a woman clearly involved with Martin—a "South African beauty"—Shakira backed off. They never reconnected.

Little did she know, if she'd pushed, she might've unlocked not just a first time with Martin but with Charlize too.

Martin wasn't averse to a threesome—in fact he loved it!

From then on, Martin became a lingering regret, even an obsession. That wink replayed in her mind on quiet nights, seeing her through the annoying phase of Piqué's pursuit.

Two years of failed relationships followed.

For some reason, after meeting Martin, other men seemed dull. She couldn't muster interest.

One glimpse of Martin, and a lifetime's missed, she lamented.

Shakira puzzled over her odd fixation but lacked the courage to reach out to the distant American, especially amid his tabloid scandals.

He's a playboy. I shouldn't dwell on him.

She tried convincing herself, but it only deepened the ache.

Time should've healed it—another failure.

As years passed, the mark Martin left grew sharper, impossible to erase.

Desperate, Shakira stopped fighting the "emotion," even embracing it recklessly. On sleepless nights, the Latin diva closed her eyes, letting Martin's image fill her mind, then…

She figured she'd live out this peculiar celibacy—not so bad, she rationalized.

Until fate—or Martin—brought him back into her path, closer than ever.

During the match, she'd nearly left the box multiple times to find him but held back, seeing him arm-in-arm with Vanessa, unashamed before cameras.

That damn playboy, womanizer, big pervert!

Cursing inwardly, she suppressed her urges, even losing interest in the game.

Post-match, seeing them head to the parking lot, Shakira couldn't contain herself anymore. She rushed over…

Leading to now—Martin and Vanessa at her home.

As Shakira recounted her meeting with Martin, regret gnawed at her: Damn it, what was I thinking? I shouldn't have invited them. I shouldn't have even said hi.

Now this weird feeling's even stronger.

Idiot, I must be crazy. I'm definitely crazy.

That bastard's so damn alluring. I just want to pin him on the couch…

Her thoughts spiraled, her gaze turning sultry.

Vanessa didn't notice, but Martin did, his magical senses picking up the shift.

We've only met a few times—why's she so hooked? My natural charm hitting her hard, messing with her head? is this Latin women's uninhibited La Passion?

He eyed the Latin queen appraisingly. At over 30, her skin was still smooth, Smooth white toes and her eyes adding mature allure and sensuality.

Her figure was impeccable—modest bust but striking, tiny waist under a short denim skirt revealing defined abs, like a compact motor. Her hips and ass, hugged by the shorts, were full and perky, like a ripe peach.

Everyone knew: ripe fruit was the sweetest.

Vanessa was sharing their "edited" story: "…So those guys tailing me got chased off by Martin's bodyguards. We've been together since."

Shakira fixated on Vanessa's lips, half-listening, her mind elsewhere: Why's Martin staring? What's he looking at?

Oh, my ass.

That big pervert!

But why am I so thrilled?

Wait, what's Vanessa saying?

She needs help!

Shakira shifted, inching closer to the sofa arm, crossing her legs.

Damn, what am I doing? Making it easier for that big pervert to ogle my ass?

I must be insane!!!