But somewhere in the back of his mind, a festering little question gnawed like a maggot in a corpse: Why the fuck had he bothered explain to Maya at all?

Why had it felt so goddamn urgent to soothe her fretting little voice, like she was some fragile pet he'd accidentally kicked? He didn't owe her shit. She wasn't his keeper, his confessor, or his bloody conscience. Yet there he was, wasting breath on promises lunches, as if her disappointment might somehow bruise his ego—or worse, his thickening harem roster.

No answer came. He wasn't sure he wanted one. Some truths were better left rotting in the dark, where they couldn't stink up the present.

By evening, Sierra had made up her mind, sharp as a switchblade.

"I'm staying here."

Phei glanced up from his phone, surveillance feeds flickering—no fresh infernos, no suicides worth interrupting his wankfest for. "For dinner?"

"For the weekend."

"The weekend?"

"Maybe indefinitely, if you play your cards right." She was already hammering out texts, thumbs flying like she was signing execution orders. "Parents are off on another 'business trip'—code for shagging strangers in the Maldives while the lawyers hide the coke receipts. They won't notice I've vanished. They never do. And I'm not dragging my ass back to that echoing mausoleum pretending last night's deflowering was just a fever dream."

Trip, huh. Maddie had bleated the same excuse yesterday—parents conveniently absent, penthouse ripe for plundering. Did these two Legacy families synchronise their vocation fuck-offs like some elite swingers' calendar?

"Sierra—"

"Unless you're itching to shove me out the door." She looked up, and for a split second the Hell Bitch armour cracked—raw, orphan-like need bleeding through, the kind that whispered she'd been invisible so long she'd forgotten how to beg without sneering.

"If I'm cramping your space, fine. I'll fuck off. Just thought—"

"Stay."

"What?"

"Stay." He yanked her into his lap, kissed her forehead hard enough to leave a dent. "Stay until you're sick of me. Or until your ovaries revolt."

Fuck the rational voice droning in his skull—the cold calculator tallying risks, warning this was accelerating toward messy entanglement, that he should ration her like premium smack. A stunning girl wanted to infest his penthouse, wake up with her thighs bracketing his hips, play house like the world wasn't a meat grinder waiting to mince them both.

What kind of prick turns that down?

Not him.

"I'll need clothes," she said, snapping back to logistics like a general requisitioning ammo. "School shit. Toiletries. My vibrator collection, obviously."

"We can raid your place."

"Actually…" More texting. "Maid's delivering. Lorna's discreet. Ish."

"Ish?"

"She blabs to the other servants, but they're all too terrified of the pay cheque to whisper to Mummy and Daddy. Sorted."

An hour later, they loitered in the lobby like common criminals waiting for a dope drop. Lorna, her maid, rolled up in a sedan stuffed with designer body bags—uniforms, frocks, enough cosmetics to paint a brothel.

The maid was mid-forties, Filipina, built like a tank that fucked for fun, eyes sharp as broken bottles.

She dumped the haul at Phei's feet—he'd volunteered to lug it like the pack mule he was—and then froze, staring at him like he was a prime cut of veal dangling over a famine.

"Ma'am?" Nothing. Her gaze raked him head to toe. "This him? The boy?"

"Lorna, stow it."

Lorna circled him slow, predatory, prodding his bicep like she was checking livestock for slaughter yield. "Handsome devil. Arms like fuck-pillars. Jaw to crack walnuts. Eyes—ay, Dios, purple? Like devil sperm?"

"Lorna."

"You pick good, Miss Sierra. This one breed strong babies. Big cocks, healthy lungs. No weak seed."

"LORNA!"

Phei kept his face blank as a gravestone while Sierra manhandled the old bat back to the car, cheeks blazing like she'd been slapped with her own knickers.

"Piss off home. Lips sealed. I mean it."

"Of course, miss." Lorna shot Phei a lascivious wink over Sierra's shoulder. "Fuck her proper, pretty boy. She special. Deserve womb full of your spawn."

Phei nodded, solemn as a priest blessing a gangbang.

Lorna beamed, reversed, and vanished into the sodium glow.

Sierra clawed her face like she wanted to peel it off. "Kill me now. She has zero filter. Boundaries? Never heard of them."

"She's got vision," Phei said. "Spot-on taste in breeding stock."

Sierra walloped him with the makeup case.

The next evening's gym ritual—Sierra insisted on tagging along, because apparently 'watching her man sweat' trumped basic self-preservation.

"You don't have to," Phei said. "It's monotonous bollocks. Lifting heavy shit until your soul leaks out your pores."

"Precisely why I need the front-row seat to your 'routine'." She was kitted out for war: yoga pants vacuum-sealed to ass cheeks that could crack coconuts, sports bra straining like it was one deep breath from surrender, ponytail high and vicious.

"All this rutting counts as cardio, but I'd rather not balloon into a whale before you tire of porking me."

He didn't fight it. Her in spandex was a war crime against concentration, and Sierra in full steamroller mode was about as stoppable as terminal syphilis.

Elevator down? silent foreplay.

Gym floor? instant clusterfuck.

Because Valentina was there.

Looming by the cables like a bronzed Amazon sculpted for porn parodies—24, dark braid like a whipcord, sports bra and leggings painted on over abs that whispered eat me and thighs that promised death by snu-snu.

His main trainer had shunted him her way for back work—'specialisation', he'd bullshitted—and since then she'd been glued to him. Hands ghosting lats during form checks. Tits brushing pecs on 'adjustments'.

Staring at his crotch like it owed her rent money.

Phei had clocked it. Obviously. Valentina was a walking wet dream, flirting with all the subtlety of a glory hole queue. He'd banked it for later—savour the menu before gorging.

But now Sierra was here.

Valentina clocked Sierra.

Sierra atomised Valentina with a glare.

"Who," Sierra hissed, voice calm as a serial killer picking an axe, "the fuck is that?"

"My trainer. Assistant, technically. For my back and bis."

"She's eye-fucking you like you're sirloin and she's a starving vegan convert."

"Sierra—"

"Hi!" Valentina's chirp sliced the tension like a scalpel through hymen. She sauntered over, hips rolling with the arrogance of a woman who knew her ass could launch a thousand OnlyFans. "Phei! Didn't know you had company." Her gaze flicked over Sierra—measured, catalogued, dismissed as non-threat.

"Gym buddy? Spotter?"

"Girlfriend," Sierra spat, before Phei's tongue unjammed.

The word detonated in the air, heavy as a cumshot on a wedding veil.

Girlfriend.

No prior chit-chat. No 'what are we' bollocks. Just raw, territorial claim, hurled like a Molotov into enemy lines. Sierra Montgomery—Hell Bitch incarnate—had just branded herself his in front of this spandex-clad homewrecker-in-waiting.

Valentina's smile didn't crack. But her eyes sharpened, pupils dilating like a predator scenting blood.

The gym suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. And infinitely more dangerous.

Valentina's smile stayed welded in place, but her eyes honed to razor points. "How nice. I'm Valentina. I help Phei with his back training."

"I'm sure you fucking do."

"He's made incredible progress." Her hand landed on Phei's shoulder, fingers digging in like ownership papers, lingering long enough to file a formal claim. "Real definition in his traps now. You should feel them—rock hard."

"I've felt every inch of him, thanks. Multiple times. In positions your yoga certification probably doesn't cover."

"I bet." Valentina's grin grew fangs. "Shall we start? Deadlifts today. I'll need to check his form very closely."

Sierra's hand clamped onto Phei's other arm like a manacle forged from pure spite. "I'll be watching."

"Wonderful."

The stare-down lasted a solid fifteen seconds—fifteen seconds in which Phei weighed the pros and cons of simply dropping his shorts and letting them duel to the death over his cock like gladiators in heat.

Valentina broke first, but only because payroll demanded it.

"Let's warm up," she told Phei, voice syrupy. "Sierra can hop on a treadmill if she fancies pretending to exercise. They're… over there."

"I'll stay close," Sierra answered, saccharine enough to rot teeth. "Moral support."

What followed was less a training session and more a live-action territorial pissing contest with barbells as props.

Valentina remained technically professional. She counted reps. Adjusted weights. Offered pointers. But every correction came with a side of blatant foreplay.

Grip adjustment: her fingers stroking his like she was polishing a trophy.

Stance check: palm flat on his lower back, sliding south until it hovered just above the danger zone, thumb tracing the waistband of his shorts like she was reading Braille for "insert here."

Posture demo: pressing in behind him, tits squashed against his shoulder blades, breath hot on his neck as she "guided" his hips.

"Arch more," she purred. "I need to feel the tension in your glutes."

Sierra sat three feet away on a bench, looking like she was mentally rehearsing how to dispose of a body without leaving DNA.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.