The lobby of the Sovereign Tower was exactly what Phei expected from a building that existed solely to remind everyone else they were poor.

Marble floors polished to such a shine he could see up his own nostrils if he looked down. Modern art installations that probably cost more than organs on the black market—abstract chrome shapes that looked like a robot had sneezed and someone had framed it.

Subtle lighting that made everything glow like heaven's waiting room, if heaven had a velvet rope and a net worth requirement.

The kind of hushed elegance that whispered you don't belong here to anyone who didn't have at least eight figures in their bank account.

Good thing Phei had documents that said otherwise.

He approached the reception desk, bag slung over one shoulder, actively fighting the urge to gawk like a peasant visiting the castle.

Play it cool. You live here now. Act like you've seen marble before.

He had seen marble before. At the Maxton house. Where he wasn't allowed to walk on certain floors without taking his shoes off first.

The woman behind the counter looked up as he approached, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh no, she's hot.

Not regular hot. Not pretty girl at school hot. This was weapons-grade attractiveness. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, with cheekbones that could cut glass and lips painted a shade of red that probably had a pretentious name like Crimson Seduction or Fuck You Money.

Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail so sleek it looked aerodynamic. Eyes that assessed him with the warmth of a tax auditor.

Her uniform—crisp white blouse, fitted blazer—did absolutely nothing to hide a figure that would've caused car accidents on a public street.

Phei felt his Dominance Aura pulse outward. His Cool Aura radiated like he was the protagonist of his own anime.

She didn't react.

Not a flicker. Not a glance. Not even the subtle shift that every other woman seemed to have around him lately.

Nothing.

Well. Okay then. Apparently, my supernatural rizz has limits, and those limits are receptionists who deal with billionaires daily.

Fair enough.

If he had to look at rich arseholes all day, he'd probably develop immunity to everything too.

"Good evening," she said, voice smooth as expensive whiskey. "How may I assist you?"

By giving me your number? No, wait, focus.

Phei pulled the documents from his bag—the ownership papers, the access credentials, everything Melissa had given him—and slid them across the marble counter like he was making a drug deal in a very fancy bathroom.

"Floor 98, Unit A."

One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose exactly three millimeters. The most emotion she'd probably shown all week.

She picked up the documents, began reviewing them with the efficiency of someone who'd done this ten thousand times and was bored by all of them.

Her eyes scanned the papers. Stopped. Scanned again.

"Mr... Ryujin Tiamat?"

Hearing the name out loud was like getting slapped with a memory he'd forgotten he had.

Phei Ryujin Tiamat.

Not Phei Maxton. Not the charity case wearing a borrowed surname like an ill-fitting coat. His actual family name—the one his father had carried with pride; the one Melissa had been born with before she'd traded it for Harold's like exchanging a katana for a butter knife.

Ryujin. Dragon god in Japanese. His father used to joke about it when Phei was small, before the accident turned everything to shit.

"We come from dragons, son. Never forget that."

Phei had forgotten. Or rather, he'd been forced to forget by a family that thought Japanese names were "too cringe" for polite American society.

And Tiamat. He was fuzzier on that one. Some kind of Dragon Goddess? Mesopotamian mythology? His mother had mentioned it once, something about primordial chaos, Dragons and serpents, but the details had faded along with everything else from before.

The Ryujin Tiamat family had actual roots in Japan—not the appropriated aesthetic that rich wankers adopted because they'd watched too much anime. Melissa, his father, and apparently some mystery aunt he'd never met had all been born there.

Spoke the language. Carried the culture.

Then they'd yeeted themselves to America and decided their heritage was embarrassing.

Melissa dropped her name faster than a hot potato when she married Harold. His father had been the stubborn one, the only one who'd insisted on keeping it, on making sure Phei knew where he came from.

And then his father had died.

And Harold had made the executive decision that Phei didn't need those weird foreign names anymore. Had enrolled him in school as Phei Maxton. Had erased the Ryujin Tiamat from every document like he was redacting classified information.

Without asking.

Without a single fucking conversation.

Phei felt something shift in his chest—hot, sharp, and very, very old.

Phei had been seven. Drowning in grief. In no position to fight a custody battle over his own surname.

And by the time he was old enough to understand what had been stolen, it was too late. He was the Maxton charity case, and his dragon heritage had been buried in a shallow grave of American assimilation.

The thing that really ground his gears? He'd never said he didn't like his roots. Never said he wanted to abandon his heritage for the privilege of being a discount Maxton. Others had made that call for him, and he'd just... swallowed it.

Like everything else.

Until now.

Melissa had put his real name on these documents. Whether out of sentiment or strategy—probably strategy, since Ryujin Tiamat was completely untraceable to the Maxton empire—she'd accidentally given him back something he hadn't realized he'd been mourning.

Thanks, Aunt Melissa. You, manipulative, horny, surprisingly thoughtful woman.

"Yes," Phei said, meeting the ice queen's eyes. "That's me."

She studied his face for a moment, comparing it to whatever photo was in the system. Probably checking if he was a very confident identity thief.

He wasn't. Just a very confused teenager who'd recently discovered he had a dragon dick and a real name.

Apparently satisfied that he wasn't committing fraud, she nodded.

"Everything appears to be in order, Mr. Ryujin Tiamat. Welcome to the Sovereign Tower." She produced a sleek black keycard from beneath the counter like a magician revealing a really boring trick. "This is your permanent access card. It will grant you entry to all residential areas, the shared facilities on Floor 95, and your private elevator."

"Thank you."

"Someone will escort you to your unit shortly."

She pressed a button and returned to ignoring his existence with professional dedication.

Phei stepped back from the counter, trying not to feel rejected by a receptionist who probably made more money than most doctors.

It's fine. Can't win them all. Some people are just immune to supernatural charisma. Probably a survival mechanism for working in places like this—where rich assholes are basically the daily commute, and the only thing more exhausting than their demands is pretending to care about their problems. He laughed at that.

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