The penthouse kitchen smelled like heaven—if heaven had been designed by someone with a garlic fetish and a desperate need to be loved.

Garlic. Butter. Something sizzling in a pan that made Phei's stomach growl loud enough to wake the dead.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had actually cooked for him—not reheated leftovers, not takeaway shoved across a counter like an afterthought, but proper cooking with actual effort and ingredients and something that felt suspiciously like love.

Well. Maybe not love. But something close enough; she'll try to deny it till her heart starts believing the lie.

Melissa moved through the kitchen like she belonged there, which was hilarious considering Phei had never seen her cook a single thing in ten years of living under the same roof. At the mansion, that's what staff were for.

That's what he was for, back when he was still the charity case who did whatever the Maxtons told him to do with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

But here, in this ridiculous penthouse overlooking Downtown Paradise, she was different.

She'd left him in the bedroom about an hour ago, pressing a kiss to his forehead—my forehead, like I am something precious instead of the inconvenient reminder of her dead brother's existence—and telling him she needed to feed him before he passed out from exhaustion.

He'd tried to protest, tried to say he could wait, but she'd just laughed and told him to rest.

So, he'd rested. Checked his stats. Marvelled at the fact that his body, which should have been screaming in agony after that gym session, was merely... aching. Sore, yeah. Muscles he didn't know he had making their presence known like rude houseguests.

But nothing like the crippling pain he'd expected.

The stats were working.

Now it was pushing three in the morning, and the smell of food had dragged him out of the silk sheets and down the spiral staircase like a cartoon character levitating toward a pie on a windowsill.

Each step was careful. Measured. His body hurt—no illusions there—but something had changed.

Awareness.

He could feel every muscle engage. Every tendon tighten and release. Balance adjusting automatically, weight distributing with a precision he'd never possessed before. The pain was there, but it was contained. Managed.

His body responding to him instead of the other way around.

Still weak by system standards. Still laughable compared to what he needed to become.

But better than yesterday. Better than the kid who couldn't do ten push-ups without contemplating a will.

Phei reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, taking in the scene.

The penthouse was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline of Downtown Paradise—like living inside a snow globe for the ultra-rich. Marble countertops that probably cost more than most people's houses.

Art on the walls that he was pretty sure he'd seen in a museum once, staring back at him like it knew he didn't belong.

And there was Melissa, standing at the stove in nothing but one of his shirts—when had she grabbed that?—humming something low and content under her breath as she plated food.

The shirt was one of his larger ones, dark cotton that should have swallowed her whole, but on her it became something lethal. It skimmed the tops of her thighs, barely covering the lush curve of her ass—full, round, the perfect swell that made a man forget his own name.

Every time she shifted her weight or reached for a spatula, the hem rode up just enough to reveal the lower crescent of those cheeks, smooth and golden, the faint shadow between them teasing what lay hidden.

Her breasts—heavy, ripe, impossibly firm for her age—strained against the front of the shirt, stretching the fabric taut.

The outline of her nipples was unmistakable: thick, stiff peaks pressing insistently through the cotton, dark shadows that shifted with every breath, every small movement, like they were begging to be freed.

The shirt gaped slightly at the neckline from the weight of them, offering fleeting glimpses of deep cleavage whenever she leaned forward. The buttons were only half-done, the cloth clinging for dear life, barely containing the soft, generous spill that threatened to burst free.

She is devastatingly beautiful.

She turned.

Their eyes met.

And Phei watched something flicker across her face. Something that looked almost like shock, quickly suppressed.

What?

He didn't say it out loud, but she must have read the question in his expression because she just smiled and shook her head, turning back to the food.

But Phei had seen it. That moment of... what? Surprise? Recognition? Hunger?

He caught his reflection in one of the massive windows as he crossed the room. Stopped.

Oh.

Right.

His face had changed again drastically.

Not dramatically—not like some movie transformation where he suddenly looked like a different person. But the angles were sharper now. The jaw more defined. His eyes, which were now more purple, seemed deeper somehow. More intense.

Eyes you could get lost in if you stared too long—and come out the other side missing your soul.

Charisma 90, alright!

That's what the stat said now.

And apparently, that means something visible.

Melissa set a plate on the dining table—proper china, because of course this place had proper china—and then picked up her phone. Phei watched her quickly close it, her back partially turned, before setting the phone face-down on the counter.

She thought he hadn't noticed.

Yes, he hadn't.

Big Sister, the contact had said. And the message: It's finally happened. But so much faster than I initially thought.

What the fuck did that mean?

But before he could come too close, Melissa was crossing the room toward him, and his train of thought derailed completely.

"You're moving well," she said, falling into step beside him. Her hand found his arm—steadying, supportive—and she guided him toward the table. "I saw your gym summary. You shouldn't be able to walk at all after that session, let alone manage stairs."

"I'm full of surprises," Phei said, and was pleased when his voice came out smooth. Confident. The Charm Speech ability had been working since hours ago and something of that confidence had stayed in him like it was innate.

Or maybe it was just easier to be confident when you'd spent the last several hours making a woman twice your age scream your name.

It wasn't a temporary buff he had to activate. It was him now. Woven into his vocal cords like magic thread. Every word he spoke carried that subtle honey-warmth, that subconscious pull that made people want to lean in and listen.

On strangers, it was persuasion. Influence. A 20% edge in every conversation.

But on Melissa—on someone already mine, already marked, already belonging to me and me to her in ways that goes deeper than skin—the effect was different.

Softer.

His voice wasn't trying to convince her of anything. It was just... pleasant. Easy. Voice you could listen to for hours without getting tired. The voice that made everything he said sound trustworthy, believable, right.

He could see it in the way her shoulders relaxed. The way her eyes warmed. The way she unconsciously swayed closer, like his words were a song she wanted to hear more of.

Useful, he thought. Very fucking useful.

Melissa helped him into the chair—not because he needed it, but because she seemed to want to—and started serving him. Steak. Eggs. Something that looked like roasted vegetables. A proper meal, nothing like all those nights when dinner was whatever scraps the Maxton children had left behind.

Phei looked around the penthouse. Let his gaze drift across the expensive furniture, the artwork, the view of Paradise spread out below them like a kingdom waiting to be conquered.

Then back to Melissa, who was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

She leaned down and kissed him. Deep. Thorough. The kiss made his toes curl and his brain short-circuit.

When she pulled back, her lips were curved in a satisfied smile.

"Of course it's okay. I'm serving my man."

Her man.

The words hit him somewhere deep in his chest. Made something swell with pride that he wasn't entirely comfortable examining too closely.

This gorgeous woman—this hot, powerful, sophisticated woman who'd made his life hell for a decade—was calling him her man. Saying it like it was natural. Like it was obvious. Like she'd been his for years instead of hours.

He was a teenager. She was his aunt.

And somehow, impossibly, she was his.

Wow.

But Phei shook his head, forcing himself to focus.

"No, not—not this." He gestured vaguely at the food, the penthouse, the whole surreal situation. "I mean us being here. This late. Not at the mansion."

Melissa's movements stilled.

For a moment, she didn't say anything. Just stood there, looking at him with an expression that flickered through too many emotions to catalogue.

Then she walked to the window—overlooked the city, Paradise spread out below them like a kingdom waiting to be conquered—and stared out at the lights.

"Phei."

Her voice was soft. Almost... vulnerable?

She turned. Smiled at him.

"Can we start living together?"

The words hit him like a truck.

"I could get a divorce," she continued, as if she hadn't just detonated a bomb in the middle of his brain. "Leave Harold. Start living with you full-time. We could—"

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