A/N: Guys, this chapter is to take us in our next orgy soooo.....

It was already late by the time we dragged ourselves back.

The bags, the receipts, the gawking looks from every store clerk in the city—they were behind us now. The girls were half-asleep in the van, heads tilted, shopping bags like trophies around their feet. The Miami ones especially looked dead on their feet; they'd been flying, walking, living on adrenaline for days. Their laughter had burned out into soft, contented silence.

I'd had other plans for the night—more places to hit, more chaos to chase—but I shelved them. They'd earned their rest. Tonight, sleep was the most expensive gift I could give them.

Me? My blood was still fizzing like champagne in the veins. The thrill hadn't faded—it was still burning through me, a sweet kind of delirium that hummed between every heartbeat.

Eighty. Million. Dollars.

In one day.

On shopping.

Nobody did that. Nobody sane, at least. But I did.

When the system first chose me, I swore I'd do something like this one day—not out of greed, not for survival or investment, but for spite. For rebellion. To spit in the face of logic, of restraint, of every small-minded critic who mistook frugality for virtue. I remember saying it to myself: One day, I'll spend a hundred million in a single day. Just to prove I can.

Didn't hit a hundred. Eighty instead.

Close enough to call it divine.

Most of it wasn't even on them—it was on my toys. Cars. Watches. Architecture of excess. Sins carved in steel, stitched in leather, ticking in platinum. But watching my women drift through boutiques like empresses reborn, getting whatever they want, watching disbelief turn into laughter, watching exhaustion melt into wonder—that was the true purchase.

That was the point.

Criticism can go to hell. Call me reckless. Call me insane. Call me what you want—I built my life so no opinion could afford me.

I grew up counting coins, weighing dreams against price tags. Now I count heartbeats and spend money like vengeance. Because the world once told me I couldn't have it—so now I take it, break it, and hand it to the ones I love like an apology from the universe.

As long as they're smiling, as long as I'm laughing, as long as this madness feels like freedom clawing at my ribs—then every cent was worth it.

**

The bedroom wasn't just a room. It was a kingdom with sheets.

The kind of place that made five-star hotel suites look like Airbnbs run by broke influencers. The first thing that hit you wasn't the chandelier dripping from the ceiling like molten gold, or the walls wrapped in velvet darker than midnight sin—it was the bed.

Not a bed. A monument to temptation.

A fortress of silk and shadow, broad enough to host a small rebellion—or twenty bodies, depending on what kind of night you were planning. The platform beneath it was carved black marble, edges pulsing with soft amber light like the heartbeat of something ancient. The glow kissed the sheets and made them look alive, a throne disguised as a resting place.

Silk sheets the color of spilled wine tangled with snow-white fur throws. The pillows weren't scattered; they were strategically deployed, like an army trained to catch every sigh, every cry, every surrender.

The room didn't just stretch wide—it commanded space. You could waltz, you could scheme, you could stage a coup d'état and still have room for champagne service. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to the city below, tinted so only he could look out while everyone else saw nothing but themselves—a one-way mirror for voyeurs who deserved punishment.

The curtains? Crimson, heavy, unapologetic. A single pull, and the world ceased to exist. Darkness swallowed everything, leaving only the obsidian fireplace alive—its flame low and controlled, like it knew better than to burn without permission.

This wasn't a bedroom. It was a manifestation of control. Every thread, every reflection, every glimmer existed because he allowed it to.

If power had a scent, it would be this room—expensive, dangerous, and faintly sweet with the promise of ruin.

At the far end, a mirrored wall stretched from floor to ceiling, gilded in arrogance. Every movement, every kiss, every arch of the body was caught and multiplied—sin refracted into art. Across from it, a raised lounge wrapped in black leather and gold trim waited for the bold or the broken, a throne for spectators too afraid to play but too weak to look away.

The air was alive. Perfume of indulgence—sandalwood, faint tobacco, and something darker that couldn't be bottled. The vents whispered, exhaling cool air laced with pheromones tuned to his will. The room didn't just smell of desire—it obeyed it.

This wasn't a bedroom. It was a sanctuary for the damned, a cathedral built not for prayer, but for worship of flesh and power. Luxury was the camouflage. Sin was the sermon.

And at its center—the bed. Waiting like a black hole in silk. Calling. Promising. Hungry enough to consume gods and still ask for seconds.

I stood there, shirtless, just skin and pulse beneath the low amber light. The night pressed against the glass, jealous and uninvited. Floor-to-ceiling windows turned me into my own reflection—half man, half myth, something the world had created and now couldn't unmake.

Beyond the glass, the forest bowed in silence. No city lights, no noise—just the hum of power surrounding the estate. My kingdom didn't need the world's attention. It demanded distance.

It glowed anyway. A fortress carved from darkness, standing alone like the last secret of a man who'd already taken everything else worth owning.

The forest rolled out in a black tide, its breath brushing against the glass, whispering secrets I already owned. At the far end, across the trimmed line of trees, the guest house flickered warm. Margaret's place.

She said the main mansion was too heavy for her, too full of memories she wanted to bury instead of sleep beside. I didn't push. People cling to their own ghosts in their own ways.

This room—my room—had no ghosts.

Only fire and flesh.

Behind me stretched a chamber built to swallow sin whole. A bed so enormous it didn't look like furniture but a stage, silk and fur thrown across it like offerings to a god of excess. The mirrored wall, the velvet drapes, the amber-lit marble platform—all of it pointed back here, to this spot at the window where I stood, half-dressed and already king of a world that didn't even know how to crown me.

The forest outside was quiet. The guest house lights steady. But the air in here hummed, low and dangerous, like it remembered every moan, every scream, every prayer for mercy that had slipped between these walls.

And me? I just stood there, staring out, breathing slow, knowing this was mine. Every tree. Every light. Every soul that dared step inside.

The room suddenly dimmed until only molten golden light bled across the marble platform, staining the air like spilled honey. Then came the smoke—not a fog, but a living thing. It bloomed in shades of bruised rose and amethyst, spilling across the floor, curling like phantom tongues around the sheets, thickening the air into a dream.

A bell tonged like a church bell.

A signal.

A summons.

And then… Isabella.

She didn't enter. She manifested. Draped in black lace over her cave that clung like a lover's curse on outside was a nun robe, but it was a nun's robe in name only. The front gaped open, a scandalous invitation. The lace stopped just below her collarbone, leaving the slopes of her breasts—full, pale, nipples taut and flushed from the cool air—utterly exposed.

Below, the robe fell open to her navel, revealing the flat, planes of her stomach.

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