The door opened with the hush of deliberate grace.

Sierra Montgomery glided across the threshold as though the condo were a throne room and she its undisputed sovereign—chin lifted, shoulders regal, every step measured like a queen granting audience to a dangerous rival.

Yet the flicker in her eyes betrayed her: this was enemy territory, and she knew it.

Phei drank her in without mercy.

The gown was liquid midnight—black silk satin poured over her body by a master who understood worship.

It skimmed her collarbones, then plunged into a halter that crossed at the hollow of her throat in a perfect, cruel X, guiding the gaze downward to a panel of sheer obsidian lace so fine it was little more than suggestion.

Beneath it, the flawless curves of her breasts rose and fell with each controlled breath, the delicate floral embroidery doing nothing to conceal the pale rose of her skin or the faint, proud peaks beneath.

The satin resumed at her ribs, molding to the impossible cinch of her waist before flaring over hips that moved like poetry, the column falling to her ankles with the elegant severity of old royalty.

Her hair cascaded in a sleek, glossy river of chestnut silk, framing a face carved from porcelain and arrogance—high cheekbones, a mouth painted the deep crimson of spilled wine, eyes cool and luminous beneath wings of black liner.

A single, exquisite diamond pendant rested in the delicate notch at her throat, catching the city lights like captured starfire.

Slim gold cuffs encircled her wrists, chiming softly as she shifted the quilted Chanel clutch in her manicured fingers.

She had dressed not merely to kill, but to be revered—then ruined.

Every detail proclaimed it: the hours before a mirror, the refusal of anything less than perfection, the knowledge that tonight someone worthy would finally unwrap the gift she had always considered too precious for lesser hands.

And she has worn it for me.

The forgotten charity case. The ghost who had once knelt at her feet with toilet brush in hand. Now the man who owned the 98th floor of Sovereign Tower, dressed in quiet, lethal luxury, watching her as though she were the supplicant.

Phei remained at the window, city glittering behind him like scattered jewels at his feet. He let the silence stretch, thick and deliberate, forcing her to cross the expanse of marble toward him.

"You're early," he said at last, voice low, amused.

Sierra's chin lifted a fraction higher—an imperial reflex. "Traffic was merciful."

"You were eager."

"I was precise."

"You were eager." He turned fully, leaning against the glass, arms folded. "No more masks, princess. We're far beyond that."

She stood in the center of his domain, clutch held like a scepter she no longer knew how to wield.

The untouchable hell queen of Ashford Elite— years of flawless poise and cutting disdain—now poised on foreign ground, regal yet deliciously uncertain.

At school she had ruled. In the music room she had clung to familiar power. Here, in his territory, the rules were his alone.

And still, she had come.

"Impressive residence," she said, cool and crystalline. "One does wonder how the Maxton charity boy commands the penthouse of Sovereign Tower."

"Does the answer truly matter to you?"

Her lashes lowered, then rose again—slow, deliberate. "A queen is always curious about the rise of new kings."

Phei's mouth curved, dark and certain.

"Careful, Sierra. Some curiosity invites conquest."

"And satisfaction brought it back."

She arched one perfect brow, regal defiance flickering back into those storm-gray eyes. "What's the story? Rich sugar-mummy? Secret inheritance? Drug dealing?"

Phei's smile was slow, predatory. "Something like that."

He pushed off the window and stalked toward her—each step deliberate, unhurried, the quiet thud of expensive shoes on marble a countdown she felt in her bones.

She fought the instinct to retreat; Sierra Montgomery did not yield ground. Yet her pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat, a frantic bird beating against porcelain skin, and her breath came shallower, chest rising in quick, betraying swells that strained the sheer lace over her breasts.

He stopped close enough that the heat of his body licked at hers. Close enough for her perfume—frosted jasmine and something darker, sinful—to flood his senses. Close enough to watch her pupils blow wide.

"You know why you're here," he said, voice low, certain.

Sierra swallowed, the delicate line of her throat working. "We had an arrangement."

"We did. And you've been very obedient." His fingers lifted, tracing the sharp edge of her jaw with deliberate reverence.

She shivered—a full-body ripple that tightened her nipples to visible peaks beneath the lace.

"All those stolen sessions in the music room. My fingers buried deep in your royal cunt, my tongue lashing your clit until you soaked my chin—but never once giving you the cock you ached for."

"You were torturing me."

"I was preparing you." His thumb brushed her lower lip, parting it slightly. "Teaching that perfect, princessly pussy how empty it feels without me."

Her eyes flashed. "I'm not a dog."

"No." He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of her ear, breath hot against her skin. "You're a queen. And queens kneel beautifully when the right king finally claims them."

The sound that escaped her was soft, helpless—half gasp, half moan. Her manicured hands rose to his chest, palms spreading over hard muscle, fingers trembling as they confirmed the reality of him.

"Phei…"

"I know exactly what you need, princess. I've always known." He drew back just enough to hold her gaze—this untouchable heiress who'd ruled through fire and fear, who'd waited three chaste years for a boy too weak to take her.

"Question is: are you ready to stop pretending you don't want to surrender everything to me?"

The fire in her eyes cracked, fine cracks racing across the frozen surface.

"I've never—" She stopped, voice catching. "With anyone."

"I know."

"Marcus was supposed to—"

"Marcus is a child." His thumb swept over her trembling lip again, pressing just inside, feeling the wet heat of her mouth. "You don't need a boy, Sierra. You need a man who can ruin you properly. Split you open on a cock thick enough to brand every inch of that virgin cunt as mine."

A spark of defiance flared. "The charity case thinks he can break me?"

"He already has." The words landed like silk-wrapped steel.

"You're standing in my tower. You came the moment I summoned you. You wore that dress—" his gaze dragged down, deliberate and scorching, over the sheer lace barely concealing her breasts, the stiff, dusky peaks straining against it, down the satin clinging to the flare of her hips

—"because you wanted me starving for you. Because you've been dripping at the thought of me finally pinning you down and fucking you until you forget your own name."

Her breath hitched audibly, thighs pressing together beneath the gown as fresh heat flooded her.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

She couldn't.

"Tell me you haven't been touching yourself every night, fingers plunging into that soaked, aching pussy while you imagine it's me." He stepped closer, crowding her, backing her slowly toward the wall.

"Tell me you haven't been clenching around nothing in class, counting heartbeats until you could beg me to fill you."

Her back met the cool glass with a soft thud. Trapped.

"Tell me," he whispered, voice rough with hunger, "that you don't want to be completely, irrevocably mine."

Sierra stared up at him—walls crumbling, crown slipping—and the last shard of ice shattered.

"I can't," she breathed. "I can't tell you that."

"Why?"

"Because it would be a lie."

Phei's hand slid into the silk of her hair, fisted, tilted her head back with controlled possession.

"Good girl," he growled.

And then he claimed her mouth.

This was no calculated tease like the music room. This was raw conquest—lips bruising, tongue invading, teeth nipping her lower lip until she opened on a desperate moan.

He devoured her, pouring weeks of pent-up hunger into the kiss, his free hand sliding down to grip her hip and drag her flush against the hard, thick ridge of his cock straining behind his trousers—letting her feel exactly what her surrender had earned.

She melted against him, princess turned supplicant, body arching instinctively to press her lace-covered breasts to his chest, thighs parting just enough for him to step between them and grind that merciless length against her aching core.

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