His phone buzzed during third period.

Phei glanced at the screen under his desk, face carefully blank while the teacher droned on about equations he'd solved in his head weeks ago.

Delilah: Meet me. East gardens. Fire pit lounge. Now.

Another message landed before he could pocket the phone.

Delilah: Don't bring Sienna or Maddie. Come alone.

He stared at the words longer than necessary.

Three weeks ago, a summons like this would have twisted his gut with dread. What fresh humiliation had she engineered? Would Danton be lurking with his fists ready, or would it be something more surgical—some perfectly staged scene to remind him he was still the outsider, still tolerated at best?

Now?

Now he was simply curious.

Delilah had been orbiting him for weeks; and his observations confirmed it: she was at full activation.

Three positive impressions.

That is all it took.

The first had been accidental. He'd held a door for her in the east wing, back when he was still calibrating how his new face affected people. She'd frozen mid-step, stared like he'd sprouted wings, and smacked straight into the doorframe. He hadn't even spoken. Just held the door and watched her short-circuit.

The second came at one of the last family dinners after he came back briefly. She'd asked for the salt without looking—still treating him like furniture—and when their fingers brushed and she finally met his eyes, the shaker slipped from her hand. Salt everywhere. She'd blamed the table's uneven legs while her cheeks burned crimson.

The third had been deliberate.

He'd seen her coming down the crowded hallway, surrounded by her usual court, laughing at something trivial, every inch the untouchable Maxton princess. The old Phei would have flattened himself against the wall and prayed she didn't notice.

The new Phei walked straight toward her.

Their paths converged. No deviation. As they passed—close enough for shoulders to almost brush—he looked directly into her eyes and smiled. Not a smirk. Not a challenge. A real smile—soft, warm, the kind that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners, the kind you gave someone you actually saw.

And just as the moment slipped past, just as it might have ended, he murmured, low enough for only her to hear:

"Hey, Delilah."

Two words. Intimate. Like a secret shared in the dark.

She stopped dead.

Her friends walked three full steps before realizing she wasn't with them. When they turned, Delilah stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, hand pressed to her chest, staring at empty air with an expression bordering on devastation.

"Delilah? You okay?"

"I… he…"

"Who? What happened?"

"He smiled at me." The words came out dazed. Almost reverent. "He said my name."

Her friends exchanged glances—the kind that asked if they should call someone.

"That's… normal? People say names. He does that to his fans too." Even to us. One whispered that last sentence trying to not feel envious.

"You don't understand." She was still staring at the spot where he'd been. "He smiled. At me. Like he actually… like I mattered... like I..."

She never finished the thought.

Later, the Paradise Princesses group chat apparently exploded for an hour. Something about Delilah having a "breakdown in the east wing" and locking herself in a bathroom stall for twenty minutes.

Three impressions. Full activation.

And now she was texting him to meet her alone.

Interesting.

Phei raised his hand.

"Sir? Bathroom."

The teacher opened his mouth—probably to protest timing or protocol.

He never got the words out.

Thirty-seven heads swiveled. Thirty-seven pairs of eyes—mostly female—fixed on the teacher with expressions that promised ruin.

The man froze.

He felt it, Phei realized. The sudden, collective weight of attention from the richest, most connected students the country can offer. Ready to destroy a career over one wrong word.

The teacher deflated.

"Go ahead," he muttered.

Phei stood.

And thirty-seven murderous glares melted into warm smiles, little waves, one girl actually blowing him a kiss—like they hadn't been prepared to end a man's life seconds earlier.

Terrifying.

Also deeply convenient.

He walked out without looking back.

The east gardens were obscene in their perfection.

Stone paths wound through manicured forest, every tree shaped like a sculpture, every bloom placed with surgical intent. Nature, but only the version money could buy—tamed, curated, owned.

The fire pit lounge appeared around a bend: circular stone seating around an eternal flame that burned year-round because someone had decided fire should be decorative. Warm amber lights. Cushions thicker than most mattresses.

And there, perched on the curved bench like a queen waiting for tribute, sat Delilah Maxton.

That was the first thing Phei noticed. She wasn't in her regular uniform—she'd changed.

She had dressed for war.

Not the uniform.

A cashmere sweater that probably cost more than his monthly food budget back when he lived at the mansion, fitted perfectly to emphasize curves she'd inherited from the Ryujin Tiamat side of the family.

The girls were all built the same way—Melissa, Victoria, Delilah.

Something in that bloodline produced bodies that belonged in renaissance paintings or ancient temples.

Curves, proportions that seemed designed by someone with very specific tastes and no understanding of human anatomy. Only Sienna had escaped it somehow, built leaner, sharper, more athletic than voluptuous.

But Delilah? Delilah had it all.

The cashmere molded to her body like it had been knitted around her. It clung to the outrageous swell of her breasts—full, high, impossibly round, the tits looked sculpted by a horny god who'd never heard the word "gravity".

The fabric stretched so tight across them that the faint outline of her lace bra was visible beneath. Every breath made the sweater ride the heavy curves, the neckline dipping just low enough to show the soft upper swell where skin met lace.

Her waist was criminal—a dramatic, corseted cinch that looked too narrow to be real, flaring out into hips that the tiny pleated skirt barely pretended to cover.

The skirt stopped mid-thigh, riding high enough to expose the full length of her endless legs—toned, smooth, lightly tanned; legs built for wrapping around a man's waist and not letting go.

Her thighs pressed together tightly, a subtle tremor running through them, as if she was fighting the urge to part them right there.

Her hair fell in perfect, glossy waves of warm chestnut, catching the amber glow of the fire pit like liquid silk, framing a face that was pure, aristocratic perfection—heart-shaped, porcelain skin flushed deep rose across her cheekbones, full lips painted soft pink and already swollen from nervous biting.

She'd prepared.

For him.

Phei let the silence stretch as he closed the distance. No hurry. Let her look her fill.

And she did.

God, she devoured him with her eyes.

Her gaze tracked every step, hungry and helpless, trying desperately to maintain the mask of casual confidence and failing spectacularly. Chest rising faster, sweater stretching with each shallow breath. Thighs pressed together, a subtle squeeze, like something between them was already aching.

She looked like a woman starving in front of a feast she wasn't allowed to touch.

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