The taxi crossed into Downtown Paradise, and the world transformed.

Phei knew this place. Knew it better than most of the Legacy kids who actually came here to enjoy themselves.

They came to race their daddy's Ferraris down the strip at 2 AM, engines screaming like spoiled children demanding attention.

They came to blow thousands at the exclusive clubs that didn't card if your last name was on the right list, snorting lines off mirrored tables while pretending they were adults.

They came to buy escorts from the high-end agencies that operated out of penthouses with views that cost more than houses, because nothing said I'm important like paying five figures to fuck someone who pretended to like you.

Phei came to watch.

To record.

To collect.

Four years of shadowing the shadows had made him an expert on Downtown Paradise. Every corner. Every alley. Every back entrance to every club where Legacy kids thought they were being discreet.

He knew which hotels rented rooms by the hour for private meetings Which parking garages had blind spots where drug deals went down. Which rooftop bars had VIP sections where married men brought women who weren't their wives.

The child of shadows had mapped this kingdom thoroughly.

And now he was driving through it in daylight, actually allowed to enjoy what he saw instead of skulking in darkness.

The taxi rolled past the first wave of mansions—if you could call them that. These were the modest ones. The starter homes for families who'd only been rich for a generation or two.

Ten thousand square feet of marble and glass, infinity pools catching the late afternoon sun, gardens maintained by armies of landscapers who probably made more than teachers and still got treated like dirt.

Phei watched them pass with mild interest.

Cute.

The road curved, and the real wealth began to show itself.

Estates sprawled across manicured acres, each one trying to outdo its neighbours in architectural audacity. A neo-classical monstrosity with columns that would make ancient Greeks weep. A ultra-modern cube of glass and steel that looked like a spaceship had landed in Paradise.

A Mediterranean villa so aggressively Tuscan it practically sweated olive oil.

Old money. New money. Fuck-you money.

All of it on display like a peacock convention where the peacocks were also sociopaths.

The taxi driver whistled low. "Some neighbourhood."

"You have no idea," Phei murmured.

They passed the Paradise Grand Hotel—forty stories of luxury where rooms started at five thousand a night and the penthouse suite had hosted more affairs than a soap opera. Phei had photos from that penthouse.

Several prominent businessmen would pay handsomely to keep them private. Or they'd pay handsomely to have them leaked.

Either way, Phei won.

Next came the Velvet Lounge—the club where Danton had snorted his first line of coke off a stripper's ass at fifteen. Phei had that on video too. Birthday present for later, maybe. Or a Christmas card. "Merry Christmas, cousin. Thought you'd like a reminder of your first 'big boy' moment."

Then the Aurora—the escort agency that operated behind the facade of a "luxury concierge service." Half the married men in Paradise had accounts there. Including, if Phei's records were accurate, dear Uncle Harold.

Something to explore later.

The buildings grew taller as they approached the heart of Downtown.

Luxury condominiums rose like glass fingers reaching for the sky. The Celestine—fifty floors of "exclusive residences" starting at ten million.

The Apex—sixty floors with a rooftop infinity pool that had been the site of at least three near-drownings during wild parties. The Obsidian—seventy-five floors of black glass that looked like a villain's lair and housed at least four actual villains that Phei knew of.

Each building was impressive. Each one screamed wealth and status and the kind of success that normal people could only dream about.

And then.

And then.

The taxi rounded the final curve, and Phei saw it.

Rising above everything else like a monument to excess—a towering fuck-you to the skyline, black and gold glass catching the dying sunlight like a dragon hoarding treasure. Multiple terraces cascaded down its facade like hanging gardens for the obscenely wealthy, a curved top sweeping toward the sky as if trying to pierce heaven itself just to prove it could.

The Sovereign Tower.

One hundred floors of architectural arrogance. The tallest residential building in Downtown Paradise by a margin that wasn't accidental. Rooftop gardens visible even from street level, private pools on multiple floors, a design that managed to be both sleek and imposing—beautiful the way a predator was beautiful.

Beautiful the way a knife was beautiful: elegant, sharp, and perfectly willing to gut you if you got too close.

Phei started laughing.

The taxi driver glanced at him through the mirror. "You okay back there?"

"Perfect," Phei said, still laughing. "Absolutely perfect."

Because of course.

Of fucking course.

Melissa—operating under her alias Madaline, the identity she used for purchases she didn't want traced back to the Maxton name—hadn't just bought him a condo.

She'd bought him a throne.

The tallest, most impressive, most aggressively dominant building in all of Downtown Paradise. Projecting superiority over the low souls below.

Even with no one to witness it but herself.

That was Melissa through and through. Couldn't just do something nice—had to make it a statement. Couldn't just provide shelter—had to provide a palace. The woman was pathologically incapable of subtlety, and for once, Phei was grateful for it.

"The Sovereign Tower," he told the driver. "Main entrance."

"That's where you're going, not just near?" The driver's voice had shifted. More respect now. The address alone communicated things that words couldn't.

"That's where I live."

The words felt strange in his mouth. Good strange. The kind of strange that came with saying something true that shouldn't have been possible.

The taxi pulled up to the entrance—a sweeping driveway of polished stone, lined with palm trees that had probably been imported from somewhere exotic, leading to glass doors that looked like they cost more than cars.

A doorman in a uniform nicer than anything Phei had ever owned moved toward the taxi with practiced efficiency.

Phei paid the driver—generous tip, because why not, the universe was feeling generous today—and stepped out into the warm evening air.

The Sovereign Tower loomed above him.

One hundred floors of glass and gold and absolute audacity.

His home.

His.

The doorman approached with a professional smile. "Good evening, sir. Are you visiting a resident, or...?"

Phei reached into his bag, pulled out the documents Melissa had given him along with the keycard. The ownership papers, the access credentials, everything he needed to prove this wasn't some fever dream.

"Floor 98, Unit A," he said simply.

The doorman's eyebrows rose. Almost imperceptibly, but Phei caught it. The top floors of the Sovereign Tower weren't just expensive—they were legendary.

The 98th, 99th, and 100th floors were a single three-story condo unit. Private elevator for each unit. Rooftop terrace with a pool that overlooked the entire city.

"Of course, sir." The professional smile became considerably warmer. "Right this way. I'll escort you to the private lift."

Phei followed him through the lobby—all marble and modern art and the kind of hushed elegance that came from everyone knowing exactly how much money surrounded them—and tried not to grin like an idiot.

The child of shadows.

The charity case.

The boy who'd slept in a converted staff room next to the laundry for ten years.

Walking into his condo.

In the tallest building in Paradise.

One hundred floors of glass and gold and absolute audacity, and he owned the top three.

The universe, Phei thought, has a fucking sense of humour after all.

The private elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

Phei stepped inside, pressed the button for the top floor, and let himself smile.

Today had been fruitful.

Tonight was going to be even better.

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