The taxi smelled like pine air freshener and broken dreams.

Phei settled into the cracked leather seat, letting the door swing shut behind him with a satisfying thunk. The driver—a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and the dead eyes of someone who'd seen too much Paradise bullshit to be surprised by anything—glanced at him through the rearview mirror.

"Where to?"

"Sovereign Tower, Downtown Paradise."

The driver's eyebrows twitched. Sovereign Tower. That name meant something in this town. Meant money. Meant tips. Meant shutting up and driving.

"You got it."

The engine rumbled to life.

Phei pulled out his old phone. The cracked iPhone 8 that looked like garbage and contained enough blackmail material to topple half the families in Paradise.

He opened his messages.

Found Brett's contact.

His thumbs moved across the screen.

Phei: Nice play today. You should've considered acting instead of basketball. Maybe you still can after I'm done with you.

Send.

Phei: From now on, you wait for my orders. You do what I say, when I say it. You smile when I tell you to smile. You bark when I tell you to bark.

Send.

Phei: And if you ever—EVER—get the bright idea to disobey me, the whole Academy and Paradise will know about you and Anderson. Not just the other stuff. ALL of it. Every "adventurous activity" you two have been up to when you thought no one was watching.

Send.

Phei: Reply with "Yes I understand" or "No."

Send.

Phei leaned back in his seat, watching the screen, a small smile playing at his lips.

The taxi pulled away from the curb, merging into the afternoon traffic of Downtown Paradise. Luxury cars everywhere. The occasional Lamborghini or Ferrari, because subtlety was a foreign concept to these people.

Three dots appeared on the screen.

Brett was typing.

The dots bounced. Stopped. Bounced again. Stopped.

Phei could practically see it—Brett staring at his phone with shaking hands, probably still nursing his bruised ego and his bruised balls, trying to figure out if there was any way out of this trap.

There wasn't.

The dots bounced one more time.

Then:

Brett: Yes, I understand

Phei's smile widened into something sharp and satisfied.

"Smart boy," he murmured, pocketing the old phone.

The taxi driver glanced at him through the mirror again, probably wondering what kind of teenager smiled like that while texting. The answer was: the kind you didn't ask questions about.

Phei pulled out his other phone. The new one. The sleek iPhone 17 Pro Max that Melissa had secured for him.

He opened his messages, scrolled to a contact saved as First Harem Member like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Because it was. For him. Now.

Phei: On my way to the house now.

Send.

He had the sudden urge to rewatch the videos she'd sent him last night. One of her in Harold's bed, touching herself while her husband snored beside her, biting her lip to keep quiet, eyes locked on the camera like she was performing just for him.

Or the sex they'd recorded.

His Dragon stirred at the memory.

Down, boy. Later.

Before he could decide whether to indulge, the three dots appeared. Melissa was typing.

Melissa: I won't be there when you arrive. Sorry baby.

Another message followed immediately:

Melissa: Adriana just called. Some emergency. She sounded upset. I have to go see her.

Phei laughed out loud.

The taxi driver definitely looked at him weird this time.

"Something funny?" the man asked, clearly against his better judgment.

"Just the universe," Phei said. "Being hilarious."

He typed back: Okay

Then pocketed the phone and let his head fall back against the seat, grin still plastered across his face.

The universe had a sense of humor darker than his own.

Adriana—Mrs. Castellano—calling Melissa in a panic after her precious son's public nut-shot and ego-execution.

And Melissa, ever the dutiful neighbor, rushing over to "comfort" her.

The information veins of Paradise worked fast. Adriana had already heard. Probably got a dozen calls and texts within minutes of the fight ending.

Did you see what happened?

Your son got destroyed!

The charity case SLAPPED him!

There's videos everywhere!

And now she'd called Melissa in a panic. Needed her best friend. Needed comfort. Needed someone to tell her that her precious Brett's reputation wasn't completely destroyed by her very best friend's Charity Case.

It was.

But that's what friends were for, right? Lying to each other about things that couldn't be fixed. Whispering sweet nothings like "It'll blow over" and "Kids are resilient" while the video of Brett getting slapped like a naughty puppy was already circulating Paradise's group chats faster than a bad rumor at a country club.

Phei leaned back, the cracked leather creaking under him, and let out a low, dark chuckle that made the driver glance in the mirror again.

The universe had impeccable timing.

Adrian—queen of passive-aggressive lattes, queen of making the help re-park her SUV for the third time because "it's not quite straight," queen of looking at Phei like he'd crawled out of a gutter and tracked mud on her marble floors—was about to spend the afternoon crying on Melissa's shoulder.

And Melissa—his Melissa—would pat her back, offer tissues, maybe pour wine, all while knowing exactly who had orchestrated the public castration.

And all the while, Melissa knowing exactly who that "little nobody" was now.

Knowing it was her boy who'd done it.

Knowing it was her Dragon who'd turned Brett into a meme.

The irony was so thick Phei could taste it. Dark, bitter, delicious.

He closed his eyes, let the city lights blur past the window, and imagined the scene:

Adriana pacing her pristine living room, mascara-streaked, voice shaking: "My son... my perfect son... humiliated by that... that nobody."

Melissa nodding sympathetically, hiding her smile behind a wine glass. "It's awful, darling. But boys are boys. It'll pass."

And all the while, the Dragon in Phei's veins purred at the thought of Adriana's perfect world cracking just a little wider.

Because the next time she saw him—whether in her driveway or at some Legacy function—she'd look at him differently.

Phei closed his eyes, letting the satisfaction wash over him in warm, vicious waves.

His plan had worked perfectly.

The whole fight—every dodge, every stumble, every perfectly-timed slap—had been orchestrated. A play he'd directed with Brett as his very unwilling lead actor.

All it had taken was leverage.

Phei had used maybe One percent of what he had on Brett. One percent.

Just enough to make it clear that disobedience meant total destruction. His reputation. His family's reputation. His future. Everything Brett had ever worked for, everything his mother had ever bragged about, gone in an instant if he didn't play along.

And Brett had played along beautifully.

Every punch that "missed" had been deliberately off-target. Every stumble had been choreographed. Every reaction to Phei's hits had been exaggerated just enough to sell it without being obvious.

The guy was actually a decent actor when his entire life depended on it. Who knew?

And the best part—the absolute cherry on top of this delicious revenge sundae—was that Phei had gotten to actually hit him.

What? Did you really think I knew how to fight?

Yeah... he knew no shit!

The slaps? Real. Brett's instructions had been to let them land, to sell the reaction, but the contact itself? One hundred percent genuine. Phei's palm meeting Brett's cheek with satisfying cracks that echoed across the parking lot.

The body shots? Real. Maybe not as powerful as they'd looked—Phei's Strength stat was still garbage—but Brett had been told to fold like he'd been hit by a truck.

The knee to the balls?

Very real.

That one hadn't been in the script. Phei had added it as a last-minute improvisation, and Brett's reaction had been entirely authentic. No acting required when someone's kneecap meets your testicles at speed.

Call it a director's flourish.

Brett had done to Phei what Phei had just done to him—slaps, humiliation, shots to the nuts—dozens of times over the years. In private. In hallways. In locker rooms. Always where teachers couldn't see, always where it was Phei's word against a Legacy kid's.

But today? Today had been in public. Recorded from every angle. Watched live by half the school and probably half of Paradise by now.

Every student who hadn't been there would watch the videos. Would replay the slaps. Would screenshot Brett's face as he crumpled holding his crotch. Would share and comment and meme it into oblivion.

The charity case had publicly destroyed Brett Castellano, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do about it.

Revenge couldn't get any sweeter.

And it hadn't even really begun yet.

The taxi rolled through Downtown Paradise, past the boutique shops and overpriced restaurants, past the private security checkpoints that kept the riffraff out, past the manicured lawns and the architectural monstrosities that rich people called homes.

Phei kept his eyes closed, savoring the feeling.

Today had been so fucking fruitful.

He'd avoided the Sierra trap. Dominated her instead. Turned her scheme into his stepping stone.

He'd won the fight against Brett. Publicly. Humiliatingly. With receipts that would follow Brett's name for years.

He'd gained leverage over his former bully. Turned the predator into a puppet.

And now he was heading to the new house. The one Melissa had set up for him. Filled with new clothes, new furniture, new everything. A space that was actually his, not a converted staff room next to the laundry.

Plus rewards waiting to be claimed. Basketball skills that would make him better than anyone at Ashford. Charm points that would push him closer to genuinely handsome. Power that was actually his, earned through his own scheming and suffering.

The day was about to get even better.

"We're here," the driver announced.

Phei opened his eyes.

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.