"Tuesday."

The word tasted strange leaving his mouth—foreign and sweet, like biting into fruit you'd been told was poisonous only to discover it was fucking delicious. The delicious that made you lick the juice off your fingers and wonder why you'd ever believed the warnings.

Phei stood before the full-length mirror in his bathroom, steam still curling from the shower behind him like lazy ghosts, and let that single word settle into his bones.

Tuesday.

He'd survived the week.

The week that was supposed to end him. The week that, in another timeline, had seen him step off a rooftop and ready to splatter across concrete like a bug on a windshield—splat, charity case deleted, Paradise moves on without missing a beat.

The week that had contained seven—seven—different ways for the universe to delete his existence.

And here he was. Standing. Breathing. Looking at his reflection like he was meeting a stranger who'd somehow stolen his face and made it better.

What a fucking ride.

The past seven days had been... memorable. In that special way that war veterans probably described combat—technically survivable, definitely traumatic, absolutely not something you'd recommend to a friend but secretly kind of addicted to the adrenaline.

He'd navigated the murky waters of Ashford Elite Academy with the careful precision of a man walking through a minefield while juggling live grenades. No additional fights. No reckless moves on Academy Belles.

No poking the seven Main Legacies harder than he'd already poked them.

Just... consolidation.

After that Wednesday—after the messages, the threats, the evidence of their dirty laundry delivered straight to their phones like personalized porn from hell—an unspoken truce had formed between Phei and the golden boys.

They didn't exist in his space.

He didn't venture into theirs.

Oh, they were planning against each other. Obviously. No one was willing to be the other's slave, and Phei could practically smell the scheming every time he passed Brett or Danton in the hallways.

But for now? Cold war.

Careful planning. Two sides circling each other like wolves waiting for the other to show weakness.

There'd been a basketball game on Friday night—friendly match against some rival school—and Brett had reclaimed his title back to the academy's golden athlete list. Phei hadn't tried to contest it. Hadn't even made a move toward the court.

He'd just... watched.

With undivided attention.

Taking notes that nobody knew he was taking.

Soon, he'd thought, watching Danton sink a three-pointer to thunderous applause. Soon.

But that was for later. That was the plan he wasn't ready to execute yet.

The real highlight of the week?

Sierra Montgomery.

Every single day after that first encounter in the music room, she'd summoned him back.

Same place. Same time. Same four guards standing outside, probably developing hearing damage from the moans that echoed through those walls.

The first three days had been... experimental. Testing boundaries. Figuring out what made the Hell Bitch Queen scream loudest.

By day four, it had become a pattern. A ritual. A daily appointment that the entire academy whispered about but only the Main Legacy girls actually understood.

Three orgasms per session. Minimum.

That was Phei's standard now. His baseline. His "hello, how was your day" greeting to Sierra's pussy.

And because God forbid a Dragon use the same technique twice, he'd been dedicating ninety minutes every night to studying. Not textbooks—sex. Online tutorials. Forums. That library in his study at Sovereign Tower that contained books Melissa had recommended with a knowing smile.

"If you're going to do something, do it well," she'd said.

Phei had taken that advice to heart. And to mouth. And to fingers.

By the second day, Sierra had started begging for recordings.

"Please," she'd whimpered, phone in her trembling hand. "I want to remember this. I want to watch it when you're not here."

He'd refused the first. And the second she asked.

On the fourth day of her asking, he'd finally agreed.

The videos were artistic, in their own filthy way. Just his hands. His mouth. His cock—that magnificent nine-inch-soft, grows-bigger-when-excited monster—and Sierra's body responding to all of it. Writhing. Arching. Spasming through orgasms that looked like they might actually kill her.

No faces. Just flesh and pleasure and the wet, obscene sounds of a queen being thoroughly worshipped.

And then, "accidentally," one of those videos had found its way into the Main Legacy girls' group chat.

Phei wasn't fooled. He knew Sierra had posted it herself. Knew it was her way of staking a claim, of telling every other girl in that chat: This is mine. Back off.

He'd let her do it anyway.

Let them see. Let them want. Let them imagine.

The reactions had been... gratifying.

Every time he passed one of those girls in the hallway now—Maddie, Amber, Jade, any of them—they'd do this thing. This unconscious, helpless thing where their eyes would drop to his crotch, lips parting slightly, minds clearly replaying that video on loop.

Undressing me with their eyes. Imagining that cock they'd seen bring the Hell Bitch Queen to ruins.

Some of them had started texting him directly. Bold. Shameless. Offering things that would make a porn director blush.

Phei left every single one on read.

Which only made them want him more.

And made Sierra's pride swell to astronomical proportions.

"They're all desperate for you," she'd purred against his neck one afternoon, "and none of them can have you."

For now, Phei had thought but not said. For now.

Of course, there was one tiny, hilarious complication with the group-chat porn leak.

Three of the girls drooling over his anonymous pussy-wrecking footage were his cousins.

Sienna—ice-robot extraordinaire—handled it with her usual Olympic-level denial. Probably scrolled past the video like it was an ad for crypto, eyes glazed, pretending she hadn't just watched her cousin's tongue make the Hell Queen speak in glossolalia.

Classic Sienna: the human equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and screaming "LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU" while the house burns down.

Delilah, though?

Delilah was about as subtle as a brick through a nun's window.

Her messages now arrived like clockwork—daily, sometimes hourly, a relentless barrage of escalating caps-lock insanity.

"We need to talk."

"Phei, seriously."

"I KNOW you're seeing this."

"ANSWER ME GODDAMMIT."

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS HAPPENING???"

He blocked her on day three.

She switched to burner accounts, school email, even slipped a handwritten note in his locker door that just said "EXPLAIN THE VIDEO" in red Sharpie like a murder threat.

Persistent little psycho. He almost respected it.

Phei had attended the game not to cheer—as if—but to study. To watch the four Main Legacies on the team: Danton, Brett, Anderson, and Kyle. To analyze their movements, their teamwork, their weaknesses.

He'd found a seat in the middle section of the bleachers. Not too close, not too far. Perfect observation position.

What he hadn't anticipated was the seating arrangement that developed around him.

The Main Legacy girls—most of them, the entire chat group—had positioned themselves in the rows nearby. Not next to him. Never next to him. But close enough to steal glances, to be in his orbit, to breathe the same air.

All except one.

Maya Scarlett had sat right beside him.

Of course she had.

The girl was relentless. Immune to his avoidance tactics. Apparently incapable of taking a hint even when the hint was delivered with a sledgehammer.

Throughout the entire game, she'd kept finding excuses to touch him. Her hand "accidentally" brushing his. Her shoulder pressing against his when the crowd got excited. Her fingers trying to hook around his arm during tense moments.

Phei had deflected each attempt with surgical precision—moving just enough to break contact, not enough to be rude.

Playing hard to get without playing impossible to catch.

A Dragon knows when to let them chase.

By the end of the game, Maya was practically vibrating with frustrated determination, and Phei had learned everything he needed to know about the basketball team's strengths and weaknesses.

Productive evening all around.

*****

The physical transformation had been the most dramatic change.

Phei had practically lived in the gym this week. Sovereign Tower's Floor 95 fitness center had become his second home—or third home, if you counted the condo and the increasingly irrelevant Maxton mansion.

He'd only gone back to the mansion twice in seven days. Both times just to maintain appearances, to grab a few things, to remind Harold that yes, his charitable investment in a wife's dead brother's son was still technically alive.

Harold hadn't cared.

Shocking. Truly.

As long as Phei remained a Maxton in name, Harold couldn't be bothered to notice whether he actually existed. The man had looked up from his newspaper exactly once during Phei's last visit, grunted something that might have been "good" or might have been indigestion, and returned to ignoring the world.

Danton had been positively delighted by Phei's absence. The golden boy had the house to himself now, could bring girls over without the charity case lurking around, could pretend his perfect family wasn't harboring a secret he desperately wanted to forget.

Enjoy it while it lasts. Your reckoning is coming.

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